Tell Me a Story

Tell Me a Story
Stories from the Waldorf Early Childhood
Association of North America

Edited by Louise deForest

Illustrations by Deborah Grieder and Jo Valens
Tell Me a Story: Stories from the Waldorf Early Childhood Association of North America
First English Edition
© 2013 Waldorf Early Childhood Association of North America
ISBN: 978-1-936849-19-2
Editor: Louise deForest
Cover Design: Deborah Grieder and Lory Widmer
Illustrations: Deborah Grieder and Jo Valens
Copy editing and graphic design: Lory Widmer
We are grateful to all who contributed stories to this collection.
Please see page 255 for information about the stories and their tellers.

This publication was made possible by a grant

from the Waldorf Curriculum Fund.

Waldorf Early Childhood Association of North America

285 Hungry Hollow Rd.
Spring Valley, NY 10977
845-352-1690
info@waldorfearlychildhood.org
www.waldorfearlychildhood.org

For a complete book catalog, contact WECAN or visit our online store:
store.waldorfearlychildhood.org
 Contents
INTRODUCTION • ix

SIMPLE STORIES TO START WITH

Good Morning, Mr. Jay • 3
Rimple and Dimple • 4
The Hungry Bunny • 6
Mister Grieder’s Farm • 7
And the Little One Said. . . • 16
The Lost Jewel • 19
Good Night, Baby Bear • 21

NATURE TALES
The Harvest Mouse • 25
Autumn Bear • 27
The Snowflake and the Leaf • 29
The Snowdrop • 31
The Oriole’s Journey • 33
Small Cloud • 36
The Story of a Butterfly • 38
Mother Spider • 40

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 STORIES FOR SEASONS AND FESTIVALS
Michael and the Dragon • 45
The Boy Who Spoke the Truth • 48
The Golden Star Flowers • 51
Mother Earth and the Leaves • 56
The Old Owl on the Farm • 58
Winifred Witch and Her Golden Cat • 61
The Big Red Apple • 64
The Harvest Gift • 68
Squirrel Nutkin’s Thanksgiving • 71
Hugin and the Shooting Stars • 73
Fiochetto Bianco • 75
The Golden Lantern • 78
Hugin’s Lantern • 80
Mother Earth’s Children • 82
Silvercap, King of the Frost Fairies • 85
The Crystal Cave • 88
The Child of Light • 91
Holy Nights • 93
The Polar Bear • 96
A Million Valentines • 98
Leprechaun’s Gold • 100
Lady Spring Arrives • 103
The Mud Muffins • 105
The Little Pine Tree • 107
The Old Woman and the Tulips • 109
Grandfather Tomten and the Easter Surprise • 112
Golden Rabbit and the Rainbow Eggs • 114
The Caterpillar’s Journey • 116
Corn Child and the Queen of the Night • 120
Jimmy Acorn Stories • 122

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 WORKING AND HELPING
The Little Girl Who Would Not Work • 131
The Legend of the Woodpecker • 133
Little Squirrel and the Mysterious Knocking • 135
The New Red Dress • 138
The Sheep and the Pig • 141
The Silent Maiden • 143
The Farmer Prince • 146
The Shining Loaf • 152
The Dragonfly’s Tale • 155
The Fisherman and the Quiltmaker • 158
Do What You Can • 165

JOURNEYS AND WONDERS

The Story of the Mountain Pears • 169
The Sun’s Sisters • 172
The Golden Pine Cones • 176
Peter, Paul, and Espen • 179
The Magic Lake at the End of the World • 183
The Dragon’s Gate • 187
Hans and the Wonderful Flower • 190
Hidden Waters • 193
The Sword of a True Knight • 196
Wild Goose Lake • 201
Scarface • 206

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 HEALING STORIES FOR SPECIAL SITUATIONS
The Little Seed’s Journey • 213
Two Friends • 216
Knock, Knock • 218
Mouse Goes Looking for a House • 220
For Anastasia and Her Dear Grandmother • 222
Shuna, Teller of Tales • 225
The Wise Woman and the Magical Garden • 228
The Golden Fish • 231
Little Birds and Big Birds • 234

ENDING WITH LAUGHTER

The Travels of a Fox • 239
Little Half-Chick • 242
The Boy Who Tried to Fool His Father • 245
The Red Sheep • 248
Gecko’s Complaint • 251
How to Break a Bad Habit • 253

ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS • 255

ABOUT WECAN • 263

viii
Introduction
LOUISE DEFOREST

W herever there are children, the cry of “Tell me a story. . .” is heard.

Almost any kind of story will do: fairy tales, stories of when we were
young, nature stories, folktales; all of them are deeply satisfying to a child.
But it is the personal element that I think is the most important and most
satisfying. The word “tale” comes from the Anglo-Saxon, TALU, which
means speech, and indeed it is this human contact, this “from my mouth to
your ear,” as some storytellers start their tales, that makes storytelling one
of the most ancient and beloved of all art forms.
What is it that attracts all ages to hearing a story? It could be many things.
Certainly we get a sense of history in stories; in “when I was a little girl”
stories, not only do we get the highly amusing (and slightly ludicrous)
thought that our parents were once our age, but we also hear of life being
lived differently, of challenges and blessings that are inconceivable today
but were true in their own time. Fairy tales, with their deep spiritual truths
and archetypes, guide us through the paths of our lives and reassure us that
there is objective justice. In these stories, every obstacle in our path will
give rise to a gift and human behavior is always in accordance with a higher
ideal. Nature stories teach us the laws of nature and that every creature, no
matter how small or insignificant, has a place on this good earth and a task
all its own.
Stories orient us into our family, our culture, our language and even
onto this earth, helping us belong to where we were born. The beautiful
language and rhythms in some of the older stories carry us back to

ix
 another time, when language had a life of its own and all the images were
connected to daily life as it was lived. Most importantly, stories give us a
first-hand experience of the evolution of consciousness; from the dreamy
world of “once upon a time” to the cleverness in so many much-loved
folktales to the grandeur of myths and legends—in each one we are taken
on a trip to discover our own human history. Stories are an introduction to
our own humanity, to our shared human condition with all its foibles and
nobility. Through stories we come to realize that the emotions we feel—
the sorrow and joy, cowardice and courage, the awe and wonder—are not
unique to us but form part of the universal experience of being human.
Through stories, we are welcomed into the human family, accompanied
through life with the assurance that we are not alone.
Today, however, this oral tradition is becoming lost. Images on screens are
replacing the inner pictures of the storyteller, and the stories shown on
those screens are most often constructed out of clever marketing strategies
and adult agendas. Such images are problematic for young children. When
listening to a story, a child is able to create inner pictures appropriate to
his or her age and maturity and rarely does he or she go beyond what is
digestible. With images seen on screens, however, not only is the capacity
to make inner pictures eroded, but the images themselves are indigestible
and very often frightening, and create after-images that can haunt a child
for days. Further, research has shown that young children who are exposed
to high levels of electronically-transmitted speech can show problems not
only with speech and hearing, but also motor and sensory development
(See Rainer Patzlaff, Childhood Falls Silent, 2007, available from WECAN).
Living human speech is an indispensable element for healthy growth in
body, soul, and spirit, and so storytelling can be a true “medicine” for our
times.
Fortunately, each one of us has the power to bring this joyful and healing
activity back into our lives. It requires no special skill or equipment, only
the intention and will to begin. In Waldorf education, the oral tradition
of storytelling is an integral (and often favorite) part of each day. Children
gather around their teacher, a candle is lit, a song is sung and a story

x
unfolds in the circle, taking each child (and often the teller, too) as far as
each one wants to go. And stories are repeated, day after day and week
after week; the same words, the same gestures, with nothing added to
distract from the content. Someone once told me to let a story flow
through me like a woodland stream flowing over moss and very often I have
felt as if I, too, were listening to, rather than telling, the story.
The stories in this book have been generously contributed by Waldorf
early childhood educators from far and wide out of their own storytelling
practice. Many are original creations, while others have been gathered from
the treasures of the past. You will find many seasonal and festival stories
to mark the rhythms of the year, from the gathering of the harvest to the
movements of the stars in the bright heavens. Some stories have been
created by loving teachers for difficult moments in the life of a child: a birth
or death or taking a step into uncharted waters. There are stories for the
littlest children (though our big children love them just as much!), full of
the goodness of the world—who among us would not like to spend some
time on Mr. Grieder’s farm? Stories of the everyday activities that nourish
us, as well as magical journeys and wondrous adventures—and a touch of
laughter—remind us of the breadth and depth of human experience.
What all these stories have in common is that, with few exceptions, they
have been created or selected by dedicated teachers wanting to give
something authentic to the children in their care. Out of our endless
capacity as creative beings, these stories have been born to nourish and
sustain the next generation of human beings. So draw the curtains and light
the candle, close out the outer world and open the door to the mysteries
of the inner world, and, letting it flow like a woodland stream slipping over
moss, tell a story. . .

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Simple Stories
to Start With
Good Morning, Mr. Jay
WENDY WEINRICH

O NCE THERE WAS A BLUE JAY that lived on the edge of a forest. Every
morning he would wake the other birds and animals with his loud cries.
His flash of brilliant blue would swoop from tree to tree as he called out,
“Wake up! wake up! The sun is rising, the day has begun, time to look
around, time to begin again.”
The sleepy young squirrels opened their eyes and slowly began to play
chase with one another; faster and faster they would leap and scurry from
tree branch to tree branch.
The raven opened his wings wide as he resettled himself high on the top of
the pine tree, and his “CAW, CAW, CAW” rang out in answer to the blue
jay’s morning cries.
Inside the house that stood near the edge of the forest, a little boy and his
sister were also waking up.
The fire, which their father had built in the stove, crackled softly and
warmed the whole house.
Their mother was making hot tea and porridge for their breakfast.
Soon they all sat down together at the big round table and ate their sweet
porridge.
Good morning, Mr. Jay
Good morning, little squirrels
Good morning, Sir Raven
Good morning, Mama and Papa
Good morning, sister and brother.

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 Rimple and Dimple
SACHA ETZEL

T his is the story of Rimple and Dimple. Now, Rimple loves things just so.
He likes to have his things neat and tidy and to know exactly where they
are. He wakes up each day greeting the sun! “Good morning dear sun, good
morning to you, good morning dear sun, good morning to me!”
He jumps out of bed, washes his face and drinks a nice big glass of water.
He puts on his clothes—warm layers I see; short sleeve, long sleeve, and
sweater too! Pulling on his woolies, warm pants too; wiggle, wiggle, wiggle,
look what he can do. In go his toes into their warm, warm house: one foot,
two feet, hop, hop, hop! Down the stairs he goes to fill his belly full with a
warm bowl of oats.
Now, Dimple is his friend. Sometimes Dimple gets things mixed up! He
rolls out of bed in his red and white pajamas and, half asleep, out the door
he goes with his bare, bare feet. Oh, my dear Dimple, it’s a cold, cold day, I
must say. . . you may catch a cold on your bare, bare toes! Or perhaps even
on your nose! Oh it’s cold indeed! Dimple runs back inside, puts on his
boots, and off he goes—where, nobody knows.
Here comes his friend Rimple, ready to play on this cool autumn day.
Rimple is all bundled up with his coat zipped, his mittens on, round, round
and round his scarf so warm, and a hat on his head. Behind him follows his
cat.
“Good morning, dear Dimple,” says Rimple.
Dimple gives him a big hug. “Hello, Rimple, let’s go play!”

4
Rimple says to his dear friend Dimple, “Dimple, you have your pajamas on,
and you are going to get cold, cold, cold.”
“No I’m not!” says Dimple, and off he runs so fast he splashes right into a
puddle. He is so happy to see his friend he forgets all about not having his
warm layers on: no mittens, no coat, no socks, even, and not a scarf around
and around and around his neck to keep him warm. Dimple just splashes
and splashes and splashes and splashes until he is all wet and shivering and
cold. He quickly runs, runs, runs back home and goes straight to bed with a
warm cup of chamomile tea and with a great big sneeze.
Oh, Dimple doesn’t get to play for the rest of the day! “Dear Dimple,” says
Rimple, “I wanted to play, play, play on this cool autumn day. Maybe the
next day! Goodbye, dear Dimple.”
“Goodbye dear Rimple! Aaaaachew!” says Dimple.
So Rimple goes back home, takes off his warm, warm, warm layers and finds
his finger knitting, and guess who wants to play? His cat! And together they
play all afternoon.

5
 The Hungry Bunny
NANCY FORER

In a meadow under a tree

Some little bunnies peek out at me.
Out of their hole, they hop – hop – hop.
They run through the grass; they hardly stop.
Then back to their home they go for their rest
inside the warm and cozy nest.
But one little bunny is hungry for lunch.
He hops to the garden to see what to munch.
Sweet peas are hanging down from a vine.
Bunny eats many, so sweet and fine.
Then on to the red and rosy, round beets;
Mmmmmmmm, their flavor is such a treat!
The radishes growing so spicy and hot,
Bunny gobbles and gobbles up quite a lot.
Then on to the carrots deep in the ground;
They are his favorites. . . the best around!
Now, dear bunny has a very full tummy.
My, how the garden is ever so yummy!
Then hippity-hoppity, he goes to the nest;
Back home with the others for his rest.

6
Mister Grieder’s Farm
CAROL GRIEDER-BRANDENBERGER

AUTHOR’S NOTE: These stories, often shared at the nursery snack table, are based on my
husband’s memories of working and growing up on his parents’ farm in Switzerland.

Mister Grieder’s Barnyard

M ister Grieder’s barnyard was home to many animals: there were

sheep and goats, chickens and roosters, ducks and geese. There was
also a donkey and a pig and they were the best of friends. And they all lived
very happily together on the farm on the hillside, just outside of town.
Mister Grieder loved all his animals and cared well for them. Every morning,
he went to the barn to milk the goats and the sheep, to scatter corn for the
chickens and roosters and hay for the donkey. After each animal was fed,
he would open wide the big barn doors so the animals could go outside.
Every evening, he came back to the barnyard, to clean the stable, feed and
milk the animals and then open the great barn doors once again so the
animals could step back into the barn. After his work, Mister Grieder would
sit on the bench beside the barn. His friend the donkey would put his front
legs on the lap of Mister Grieder and together they would watch the sun
set over the far-off hills.
Sometimes, in the dark of night, Mister Grieder would play his cello in the
barn. The animals would come to the doors of their stalls and would look
with sleepy eyes at Mister Grieder. They would stand very quietly and listen
to the music and, one by one, they would go back to sleep. All was well on
the farm.

7
 The Donkey and the Plum Pie

O ne day, the farmer’s wife baked a big plum pie. Her kitchen was right
next to the barnyard, and out of the kitchen window the smell of fresh
plum pie streamed into the yard. Anyone walking by knew that a fine baker
must have been at work. The farmer’s wife set the hot pie on the kitchen
table to cool, closed the door and walked to town.
The donkey in the barnyard had also smelled the plum pie. Donkeys usually
cannot climb steps, but this was no ordinary donkey. He carefully climbed
up the stairs to the kitchen door. He held the door handle in his mouth and
slowly moved it up and down, up and down, until the door swung open.
He walked into the kitchen and ate the plum pie off the dish on the table,
leaving not even a crumb behind. When he had eaten it all up, he went back
outside, carefully stepping down the steps to the barnyard and leaving the
kitchen door open behind him.
It was not long before the farmer’s wife came home. She was thinking how
good it would be to have a piece of that plum pie. When she saw the open
door, she wondered, “Did I forget to close the door?” But when she saw
the dirty floor and the empty pie plate she was very surprised. She called
Mister Grieder and said, “Mister Grieder, you must come here right away.
Someone has been in my kitchen and has eaten my plum pie all up!”
When Mister Grieder stepped into her kitchen and saw the prints on the
floor and the empty pie plate, he knew just what had happened. “I must
apologize for my donkey,” he said to the farmer’s wife. “Next time you bake
a plum pie, please lock the kitchen door behind you.”
And that is what she did. From that day on, whenever she baked a plum pie,
she placed it on her table and took the large old key out of her apron pocket
and carefully locked the kitchen door. Now the donkey would not be able
to eat up the plum pie, which smelled so good and tasted even better.

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Mister Grieder and the Wild Duck

I n Mister Grieder’s barnyard all was peaceful. The animals were all
friends and they enjoyed their days out in the meadow or in the barnyard.
But one day all that changed. A wild duck had flown into the barnyard, and
he was eating up all the food and even chasing the other ducks and pulling
out their feathers! Oh, what a commotion there was in the barnyard! For
several days, Mister Grieder watched this and he was not happy. “This
fighting will not do in my barnyard,” he said. “I must find a way to stop it.”
So, the next morning he placed a cage on the ground in the barnyard. He
walked very carefully up behind the wild duck, so the wild duck would not
see him. Then slowly, slowly, he put out his hands, picked up the duck and
placed him in the cage. The duck looked out of the cage in surprise. What
was happening to him? Mister Grieder took the cage and tied it firmly onto
his bicycle. He stepped onto his bicycle and rode all the way down to the
lake. He rode past many farms and through several villages, as the lake was
very far away from the barnyard. When he reached the lake, he was happy;
the waves glistened in the sunlight and all around was peaceful. “Surely the
duck will be happy here,” he thought to himself.
Mister Grieder opened the cage door and out flew the duck. He landed on
the waters of the lake and paddled out to the center of the lake, looking back
at Mister Grieder. Mister Grieder waved good-by to the duck and stepped
back on his bicycle. Up the hill he went, through the villages and past the
farms. It was a long way to his barnyard but Mister Grieder was happy, for
he thought that now the
fighting in his barnyard
would be over. But
when he returned to
the barnyard, can you
imagine who had already
returned? It was the wild
duck! He had spread his
wings and flown back to
the barnyard. And there

9
 he was again, eating all the food and plucking out the feathers of the other
ducks. Mister Grieder was surprised, and he said to the duck, “You must really
like it here in my barnyard. Perhaps this is where you belong.”
As time passed, the wild duck learned his barnyard manners. He started
to share the food and rarely plucked out any feathers. And it wasn’t long
before you could not even tell which one of the ducks was the wild duck,
for they had all become the dearest of friends.
The Roosters Who Crowed at Night

I n Mister Grieder’s barnyard there were many chickens, but there

were also several proud and handsome roosters. They had feathers that
glistened in the sun and they had strong, loud voices that could be heard
throughout the village. But there was a problem with the roosters: the
roosters in Mister Grieder’s barnyard did not only crow in the morning, to
greet the sun, or during the day, like most roosters. No, they also crowed at
night. At all hours of the night the roosters could be heard!
And every morning the phone rang in Mister Grieder’s house. It was one of
his neighbors who said, “Mister Grieder, I could not sleep all night because
of your roosters!” Mister Grieder began to dread the early morning phone
calls, and one morning, with a heavy heart, he took a large cage, picked up
all his noisy roosters, and placed them in the cage. He placed the cage on
his tractor and tied it well, so it would not fall off.
He then drove them to a far-away farm and asked his friend, the farmer,
“Could you give my roosters a home?” The farmer was willing, and so Mister
Grieder opened the cage door, and the roosters flew out into their new
barnyard home, looking back in surprise at their master. Mister Grieder’s
heart was sad as he drove back home on his tractor. When he came to his
barnyard, all was quiet without his roosters.
Now much to his surprise, the very next morning the phone rang again in
Mister Grieder’s house! It was the neighbor, and he said, “Mister Grieder, I
could not sleep all night!” Mister Grieder paused for a moment. “That is
surprising,” he said, “since my roosters have not been home.” Mister Grieder
did not need time to think this over. He sat on his tractor and rode all the

10
way to the far-away farm. There, he picked up all his noisy roosters, placed
them into the cage, and drove them home again.
The roosters were not quiet immediately. But as time passed, they crowed
more during the day, and less at night, and the phone in Mister Grieder’s
house finally stopped ringing.
The Donkey, the Pig, and the Two Trains

O ne afternoon, Mister
Grieder’s phone rang. It was
the policeman. “Mister Grieder,”
said the policeman, “we have
a problem. There is a pig and a
donkey on the train tracks. The
trains can’t pass by and the pig
and the donkey refuse to move.”
Quickly, Mister Grieder jumped
onto his bicycle and rode to the
train tracks below his barnyard.
Sure enough, he saw his donkey
and his pig standing on the train
tracks. And he saw two trains; on
one side stood the little red train and on the other side stood the little blue
train. The train drivers and all the passengers were looking out the windows,
wondering what was happening.
A policeman was on the tracks, as well. He was trying to pull the donkey off
the tracks by holding him by his mane and pulling. But the donkey did not
budge; he dug his feet into the ground and the harder the policeman pulled,
the harder the donkey pulled back. This is what donkeys do sometimes;
they dig their feet into the soil and do not move. And if the donkey was not
moving, his good friend the pig was also not going to move.
Mister Grieder did not hesitate. He ran to the donkey, took hold of him
and, speaking gently, he led him off the tracks and up the hill, and the
pig followed along behind. The passengers cheered and the conductors

11
 laughed. The little red train and the little blue train started driving again—
one up the hill and the other down the hill. The passengers waved to the
donkey and the pig as the trains moved on their way.
Mister Grieder led the donkey and the pig up the hill to his barnyard. He
opened the gate and led them into their yard. Then he closed the gate,
took a rope and tied it carefully around the gate and the fence, too, just to
be sure that the donkey and the pig would not be able to escape again. And
guess what: they almost never did.
The Bucket of Milk

E very morning and every evening, the goats and sheep had to be
milked. In the barn stood a special stool where the milking took place
and that is where Mister Grieder would sit every morning and every evening
to milk the sheep and the goats. This milk tasted very, very good and sweet,
especially when it was still warm.
Mister Grieder and his family loved this good, sweet milk, but the donkey and
the pig also loved this milk and that was a problem. Every day at milking time,
the donkey and the pig would wait to see if they were going to get a taste of
this good milk. And the goat knew how much the donkey and the pig loved
her milk, so she always tried to save some of her good milk for them. The
goat would stand very still during milking time, but at the very last minute,
she would put her foot—plunk!—right in the milk bucket! Now the family
could not drink this milk. . . but the donkey and the pig could! Mister Grieder
sighed and poured this milk into a bowl for the donkey and the pig.
Mister Grieder learned to be very careful and only rarely did the goat step
into the milk. But one day she did put her foot in the bucket and Mister
Grieder sadly poured the milk into a bowl for the patiently waiting donkey
and pig. As soon as they saw the milk in the bowl, they became so greedy
that they both put their heads in the bowl at the same time. They knocked
their heads together and they became cross with one another. Each
one pushed the other out of the way, hoping to get all the good milk for
themselves. They were so angry that the pig pulled his head out of the bowl
and bit his best friend on the ear! And the donkey bit the pig back, right

12
on his tail. The pig squealed and the donkey brayed, the milk spilled, and
Mister Grieder called out, “This will not do!” He took the donkey and the
pig, led them to their separate pens in the barn and closed the latches.
And as Mister Grieder swept and cleaned the barn, the donkey and the pig
looked on sadly. After a while, Mister Grieder looked up at them. He looked
at their faces and he looked in their eyes, and he smiled. “Are you both
ready to come out and be together?” he asked them. And it seemed to him
that they were nodding. And so he opened the latches and out they ran,
the two best friends: donkey and pig.
The Donkey Who Loved Fires

A s you can imagine, there is always work to be done on a farm. In

the springtime the garden is prepared, seeds are sown, the ground is
watered and the weeds are pulled. As summer approaches, the grass is cut
and the hay is brought into the barn, to feed the animals over the cold and
long winter months. Wood is brought in from the forest to heat the house
and cook the food in the great kitchen stove. And chicks and lambs and
baby goats are tended and watched over.
And every spring, the blacksmith comes. Did you know that donkeys wear
shoes? The blacksmith comes each spring to put shoes on the donkey’s feet.
But the donkey does not like to wear shoes and will not stand still for the
blacksmith. Finally one day the blacksmith said to Mister Grieder, “Donkeys
love fires; this donkey will stand still if he can watch a fire.” So Mister Grieder
built a cozy fire in the outside fire pit. Soon it was burning happily. And sure
enough, when the donkey saw the fire, he stood quietly watching the flames
and the blacksmith had no trouble putting shoes on the donkey’s feet.
But that was not the only time that the donkey liked to watch the fire. Often
Mister Grieder went out into the woods to collect firewood. He brought the
donkey and a wagon to help him bring the wood home again. While he was
working in the forest, he often let the donkey roam around. But he always
had to keep an eye on him, so he would not roam too far away.
One cool autumn afternoon, Mister Grieder made a little fire to warm
his hands as he cut the firewood. And much to his surprise, that day the

13
 donkey did not wander off into the woods. He stayed by the fire and
watched the flames dancing in the crisp air. All afternoon, the donkey stood
near the cozy fire. And all afternoon, Mister Grieder chopped the wood and
filled the wagon.
From that day on, if Mister Grieder went to work in the forest, he always
made a little fire, because he knew that his donkey would like to stand near
the fire and watch the flames.
The Lady with the Fancy Coat

M ister Grieder’s donkey was a rather naughty donkey; yes, one can say
that about him, even if Mister Grieder loved him dearly. And so one day,
when Mister Grieder let him out into the barnyard and forgot to tie the rope
around the barnyard gate, the donkey opened the gate and walked out of the
barnyard and down the path he went. At that same moment, a lady dressed
in a warm and very fancy coat came walking up the path. She had decided
that today was a perfect day to take a quiet walk up into the hills.
We do not know why the donkey did as he did; perhaps he wanted to have
visitors that day or perhaps he was playing a little trick on this lady. What
we do know is that the donkey, upon seeing this lady, trotted over to her
and grabbed her sleeve with his big teeth, turned around and pulled her
quickly up the path, and he did not stop until he had
brought her right to the barn, where Mister Grieder
was hard at work.
The lady was quite out of breath and surprised
and just a bit angry and scared, as well. This had
never happened to her before! “I am so sorry
for the behavior of my donkey,” said Mister
Grieder. “Please give me your coat and I will have
it cleaned.” The lady looked at the donkey, and
she looked at Mister Grieder. And then she smiled.
“I will have it cleaned myself,” she said, “but please
make sure your donkey stays in the barnyard when
I am taking my walk.” Mister Grieder tried to do that.
And he almost always succeeded.

14
A Sleigh Ride with the Donkey

I n the winter, when the nights were dark and quiet and the moon and
stars were shining brightly over the snowy hills, Mister Grieder would
arrive early at the barnyard to tend the animals in the barn. He wanted to
make sure that all the chickens and ducks, goats, sheep and geese, and the
donkey and the pig could come into the warm barn before nightfall. As he
was working in the warmly lit barn, humming a happy tune, a visitor arrived!
It was a farmer friend from a distant farm.
The farmer had brought a gift for Mister Grieder. “This old sleigh has been
waiting in my barn for someone to use it,” he said. “It is a sleigh just the
right size for your donkey to pull. Would you like to have it?”
Of course Mister Grieder would like to have it! He brought the donkey
outdoors, and together with the farmer, they hitched him to the sleigh. The
farmer was pleased. He sat on the sleigh to see how it would feel. Just then,
the donkey began to walk off, pulling the sleigh behind him. First he just
walked, then he trotted, and then he began to gallop. Down the path he
ran, and over the meadow and soon he vanished in the moonlit night. Only
the farmer’s voice could be heard, calling, “Help! Help!”
Mister Grieder did not know what to do. So he waited by the barn, and
after a long time, in the silence of the wintry night, he could hear footsteps
trotting through the snow, coming towards the barn. Slowly the donkey
drew near, pulling the sleigh behind him, and on the sleigh, safe and sound,
sat the farmer. He stepped off the sleigh, smiling. “Thank you for the ride,”
he said to the donkey and to Mister Grieder. “But one ride on the sleigh is
enough for me.” And though he came to visit the barnyard often, he never
again stepped up on the sleigh.
That night, in the stable, the donkey, who was quite hungry after his
adventure, and the pig, the geese, ducks and chickens and roosters all
happily ate their food. The moon smiled down on the barnyard, and the
stars twinkled in the silence of the winter night.

15
 And the Little One Said. . .
MEG FISHER

AUTHOR’S NOTE: When I was a child, my mother read a story to my brothers and me
about a little chick who said Caduckit! That line is the only line I remember from that story.
I decided to make a puppet show based on that line. The puppet I use for this story is a
wonderful Mama Hen with two wing-pockets that contain four yellow chicks. If you wish to
sing the verses, feel free to make up your own tune.

Mama Hen sat with her chicks in the hay

On a bright and sunny spring time day.
Let’s take a walk in this fine weather.
Now remember little chicks let’s all stay together.
First little chick said, “Cheep, cheep, cheep.”
Second little chick said, “Cheep, cheep, cheep.”
Third little chick said, “Cheep, cheep, cheep,”
But the little one said, “Caduckit!”
Out she came from the cozy barn
Out into the sunshine breezy and warm.
Out behind her the chicks did go
Following, following in a row.
First little chick said, “Cheep, cheep, cheep.”
Second little chick said, “Cheep, cheep, cheep.”
Third little chick said, “Cheep, cheep, cheep,”
But the little one said, “Caduckit!”

16
 Now here’s some nice grain for you to eat,
Fresh from the farmer and oh so sweet,
Peck a little here and peck a little there,
Peck a little, peck a little, everywhere!
First little chick said, “Peck, peck, peck.”
Second little chick said, “Peck, peck, peck.”
Third little chick said, “Peck, peck, peck.”
But the little one said, “Caduckit!”
Then over the bridge Mama Hen did go,
Little ones following all in a row,
Over went the bigger chicks, one, two, three,
But the little one said, “Please carry me!”
Mama Hen comes back and carries the little one in her wing-pocket over the bridge, then he
hops out and joins the others. At this point I sing the syllables, “Bum, ba-ba-bum-bum, Bum-
bum-bum. . .”
Down she went to the shallow pool
Down where the grass grew tall and cool.
Down behind her the chicks did go
Following, following in a row.
Down came the bigger chicks one, two, three,
But the little one said, “Please carry me!”
Again Mama Hen returns and carries him down to the water where he joins the others.
All of a sudden the sky grew dark,
Rain fell down and the wind blew hard.
Come, little chicks, Mama Hen did say,
Under this bush til the storm blows away.

17
 Up came the bigger chicks one, two, three. . .
But the little one splashed in the puddles.
The chicks were tired and began to cheep.
Come now, little ones, it’s time to sleep.
Three chicks snuggled in her feathers so warm,
But the little one stayed up to watch the storm.
At this point, all three bigger chicks are in her wing-pockets. Purple storm silk blows back
and forth on a stick, while I sing “Bum, ba-ba-bum-bum…”
When at last the storm blew away,
Home we go, Mama Hen did say.
Come, little chick, jump up on top
But the littlest chick went hop, hop, hop. . .
Hop, hop, hop, hop, hop-hop-hop. . . He hops all the way back home, over the bridge, with
his Mama following.
Now, wasn’t that a nice walk, said Mama Hen
When all of her children were home again.
First little chick said, “Cheep, cheep, cheep.”
Second little chick said, “Cheep, cheep, cheep.”
Third little chick said, “Cheep, cheep, cheep,”
But the littlest chick was fast a-sleep!

18
The Lost Jewel
JO VALENS

O nce upon a time there was a beautiful queen. She was a queen of
many riches, but most precious of all to her was her clear-eyed jewel.
This jewel had belonged to her grandmother and to her grandmother’s
grandmother before that. One day, when the queen had been busy doing
this and doing that, she discovered that her clear-eyed jewel was missing.
Where could it be? She looked all around for it; she looked here and she
looked there—she looked everywhere. But nowhere was her jewel to be
found. She was so very sad. That night, before going to bed, she went to
the window and looked up to see the first star appearing. And the queen
made a wish:
Star light, Star bright, first star I see this night,
I wish I may, I wish I might,
Have the wish I wish tonight.
When she had said these words, a star fairy appeared before her. “What is it
that you wish for, my beautiful queen?”
“Oh,” said the queen, “I have lost my clear-eyed jewel. I wish that it would
come back to me.”
“Ah,” said the star fairy, “don’t you know what you must do when something
is lost?”
“No,” said the queen. “What must I do?”
“You must sing for it.”

19
 “Sing for it?”
“Yes; when you sing, the little gnomes will hear you, and the gnomes always
know where all the lost things are, and they will show you where to find it.”
“Thank you, good fairy,” said the queen. And before she fell asleep she sang
for her jewel:
Jewel, jewel, where have you gone?
Jewel, jewel, come back home.
Jewel, jewel, hear my song.
And then the queen lay down on her bed and fell fast asleep. In the night,
while she was sleeping. . . a little gnome placed the clear-eyed jewel under
her pillow.
If this story is presented as a puppet play, omit the last phrase. Humming “Twinkle, twinkle
little star,” a little gnome appears with the clear-eyed jewel and places it under the queen’s
pillow.
When the queen awoke the next morning, she felt fresh and new.
Humming her lost jewel song, she continued looking for her clear-eyed
jewel. And what do you think she found? Right there, beneath her pillow,
was the clear-eyed jewel! How happy was she!
“Thank you,” she whispered up to the stars, even though they had already
gone to their beds.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star;
how I wonder what you are.
Up above the world so high,
like a diamond in the sky!
Twinkle, twinkle, little star;
how I wonder what you are.

20
Good Night, Baby Bear
JOE ROBERTSON

O nce upon a time, the great forest was still asleep under a blanket of
snow. Atop the icy mountain, in their snug cave, lived three bears;
Mommy Bear, Daddy Bear and Baby Bear.
One day, the Mommy Bear and the Daddy Bear ventured out to gather
food. Daddy and Mommy Bear lumbered away into the forest. They went
up hills and down hills. Their big, leathery paws slid on ice and overturned
craggy rocks. They dug in the frozen earth. They dug and dug and dug.
Both climbed up trees to the tippy top, and both climbed down again. They
had found plenty to eat. It was time to make their way home. Again they
went up hills and down hills.
All the while, in the cave, Baby Bear rolled and played, and wondered,
“Where are my Mommy and Daddy?” Just then Mommy Bear and Daddy
Bear arrived home. How happy they were to be together again!
It was time for dinner. They all ate together. They ate until their tummies
were full.
Baby Bear was sleepy. Mommy tucked Baby Bear in tight. A kiss goodnight
and to bed.
Mommy Bear was sleepy. Daddy Bear was sleepy. A kiss goodnight and to
bed. All were fed and warm and together.
The great forest was quiet and still.

21
Nature Tales
The Harvest Mouse
DENISE KILSHAW

O ne clear cool night in autumn, the Harvest Mouse scurried through

the rustling grain, quickly gathering her dinner, chewing, nibbling and
gnawing upon the sweet corn that the Farmer had left for her. When she
finished the good corn, she left her little nest on the ground, and climbed
up, up, up the tall grasses and reeds, searching for the perfect place to
make her home, a home for her wee ones to live and to grow.
The wind blew softly in the moonlight, shaking the reeds where the wee
Harvest Mouse was clinging with her little paws. “Squeak!” she called
out, her strong tail held fast as she swayed in the breeze on the reed. The
Harvest Mouse chewed and chewed upon the long slender reed with her
strong front teeth and she began to bend and pull the pieces of reed all
round the stem, weaving and weaving them into a ball.
Whoo–Whoo; whooo–whoo! The Harvest Mouse scurried down, down,
down the reed quickly into her little home on the ground, for Mr. Owl was
flying in the night sky, searching for a tender morsel. Mother Mouse sat
quiet as can be until the great winged owl left her to her task.
Up, up, up again she went to make a grassy home, a home for her wee ones
to live and to grow. She rustled in the new fallen leaves, choosing the finest
and softest to line the house she would make for a mouse.
Suddenly she heard a voice speak from the branch of the tree near her field.
“Whatever are you doing, Harvest Mouse?” She looked up to see a face with
ears like her own, hanging upside down! Oh, it was only Brown Bat with his

25
 curious and clever questions. “I am making a house, Brown Bat,” she replied.
Brown Bat flew silently around the reed as the Harvest Mouse chewed
leaves and lined her ball of a home. Brown Bat came winging close to
Mother Mouse, “Here,” he said, “Here is a feather to soften your home for
your wee baby mice.” Ever gracious, the Harvest Mouse said, “Thank you,
Brown Bat,” as he flew off towards the pond to hunt for mosquitoes to eat.
For many a night the Harvest Mouse worked and carried the best she could
find for her wee little mice. With courage, each night she hid from the owl,
and the wind blew and buffeted her about, but she did not give up.
At last her home was ready. “Ahhh,” sighed the Harvest Mouse as she lay
down to rest and wait for her baby mice to be born. Sure enough, her baby
mice came, so tiny and pink and new. Mother Mouse washed and fed her
children in the cozy home made on the tall reed. “Squeak, squeak, squeak,”
came the muffled sounds of the baby mice. They drank their mother’s milk
and soon were crawling about.
The baby mice grew and grew and grew. There came a day when the mice
were big enough to go with Mother Mouse out into the grain field. There
were many mice living all around the grain field, for nibbling grain is what
mice like best. “Come, children,” said the Harvest Mouse in her gentle voice,
“come and nibble, nibble, nibble.” And so they did, and the little mice grew
and grew and grew.
“Squeak, squeak, squeak!”

26
Autumn Bear
SUZANNE DOWN

I t was autumn in the mountain valley where grandma lived. On the

forest hill behind her farm there were trees and rocks, bushes, and grassy
clumps. Animals made their home in that forest. Every year when the leaves
have fallen to the ground, Bear comes into the forest. He walks through the
woods, rumble, bumble, heavy are his feet on the ground.
He walks by Raven’s tree, rumble, bumble, shaking the ground as he goes
by. He nods at Raven, Raven squawks and flies away.
Bear goes down the trail, rumble, bumble, past Raccoon, who hides in a
hollow log.
Further along, Rabbit hops by, stops and hears a sound. . . rumble, bumble,
sounds like Bear, and Rabbit scurries down her hole in the ground.
In the trees stands Deer, quiet, listening. Rumble, bumble, Deer flicks her
tail and stamps her feet. Swiftly she leaps away before Bear comes.
Rumble, bumble, Bear looks up. Owl is in the tree, “Whoo, whoo,” greeting
Bear as he walks by.
Fox stands on the rocks, sniffing the air. Smells like Bear, and she crouches
behind the big rock as he passes, rumble, bumble, around the rock and up
the path to the top of the highest cliff.
Bear looks over the land. There below is grandma’s farm, smoke comes out
the chimney. The people are warm in their home. Bear finds his cave where
he curls up snug, with his thick fur against the rock wall of the cave. Ah, he

27
 fits just right. Outside, the first snow begins to fall. Bear is already asleep,
and he will sleep deep all winter long. The forest is quiet now.

28
The Snowflake and the Leaf
HELEN PREBLE

T he big sky above the hard frozen ground was dark. The little stars
had hidden their winking, yellow eyes, and the round old moon had
forgotten to shine. Big, black clouds were hurrying past each other, back
and forth, from east to west.
Up on the old oak tree, at the corner of the lane, a little leaf still clung. She
was very tiny, very brown, and very much wrinkled; but still she kept a tight
hold on the stiff old branch where she had lived all her life.
“Ugh!” she said, as she shivered, and clung still closer, “it’s going to rain
again. I’m sure I felt a drop just now.”
But it was not a drop of rain, but a soft, cold something else, which nestled
down among the brown wrinkles. The leaf stirred, and then shivered again.
“What is the matter?” asked a sweet voice.
“I’m very cold,” said the leaf.
“Are you? What makes you cold?” asked the voice.
“I think it’s—you,” said the leaf, slowly, for she did not want to hurt anyone’s
feelings.
“Oh, no; I’m sure it’s not I, because I’m not cold; and if I made you cold I
would be cold, too, wouldn’t I?”
“I suppose you would,” said the leaf, thoughtfully. “But, anyway, I’m not as
warm as I am in the summertime. I’m lonesome, too, up here alone—that is,
I am when you are not here,” she added politely.

29
 “What is summer?” asked the snowflake. “I never heard about it.”
“It is a very nice time,” said the leaf, hugging the old tree, and drawing her
tight edges closer. “It’s the time when one is green and soft—and warm,”
she added, with a sigh.
“I don’t believe we have it, then, up where I live,” said the snowflake; “for I
never remember being green.”
“It is very pleasant in summer,” went on the leaf. “The birds perch upon
the branches here, and sing so sweetly. Once a robin built a beautiful nest
just here, where we are now. It was a large nest made of hay and threads,
woven carefully together. One day, after the nest was built, and the mother
bird had been staying on it nearly all the time, I saw four tiny birds, with
great big mouths, wide open. It seemed to me they were always calling
to be fed, and the mother and father were busy from morning to night
fetching worms for those hungry little ones. But before long they learned to
fly, and, one by one, they left the nest and flew out into the world.
“I am never alone in the summer, for the tree is full of leaves, but they have
all fallen off until only I am left. Every time the wind blows, I expect to go,
too.”
“Where will you go?” asked the snowflake, with much interest.
“Oh, I shall drop to the ground below, and grow smaller and smaller. Then I
shall sink down underneath, where the new grass is getting ready to sprout
in the spring and the violets are waiting for the sun to bid them unfold their
buds.”
“Is it nice down there, in the dark?” asked the snowflake.
“Oh, yes,” said the leaf. “It is very warm and sweet and not a bit lonely, for
the worms and the bugs and roots and seeds are all busy, getting ready for
the spring.”
Just then a heavy gust of wind shook the old oak tree, and down fell the
little brown leaf and the snowflake, too. The snowflake melted at once,
but the little leaf waited happily there until she should reach the busy little
world under the ground.

30
The Snowdrop
ADAPTED BY CAROLYN S. BAILEY FROM A STORY BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

T he snow lay deep, for it was winter time. The winter winds blew cold,
but there was one house where all was snug and warm. And in the house
lay a little flower; in its bulb it lay, under the earth and snow.
One day the rain fell and it trickled through the ice and snow down into
the ground. And presently a sunbeam, pointed and slender, pierced down
through the ground and tapped on the bulb.
“Come in,” said the flower.
“I can’t do that,” said the sunbeam; “I’m not strong enough to lift the latch. I
shall be stronger when springtime comes.”
“When will spring come?” asked the flower of every little sunbeam that
rapped on its door, but for a long time it was winter. The ground was still
covered with snow, and every night there was ice on the water. The flower
grew quite tired of waiting.
“How long it is,” it said. “I feel quite cramped. I must stretch myself and rise
up a little. I must lift the latch, and look out, and say ‘good morning’ to the
spring.”
So the flower pushed and pushed. The walls were softened by the rain and
warmed by the little sunbeams, so the flower shot up from under the snow,
with a pale green bud on its stalk and some long, narrow leaves on either
side. But it was still winter on the earth.
“You are a little too early,” said the Wind, and the Weather, but every

31
 sunbeam sang, “Welcome!” and the flower raised its head from the snow,
and unfolded itself—pure and white, and decked with green stripes. It was
cold enough to freeze it to pieces—such a delicate little flower—but it was
stronger than anyone knew. It stood in its white dress in the white snow,
bowing its head when the snowflakes fell and raising it again to smile at the
sunbeams. And every day it grew stronger and sweeter. And the little flower
knew that winter was almost over.
“Oh,” shouted the children, as they ran into the garden, “see the snowdrop!
There it stands so pretty, so beautiful—the first one! Soon springtime will
be here!”

32
The Oriole’s Journey
FRANCES BLISS GILLESPY

F ar away in the Southland, two orioles had built a nest in an orange

tree. The nest was a beautiful little grey basket hung far out on a forked
bough, where the warm winds rocked it gently to and fro. It was just the
place for a home, there among the sweet orange blossoms and the gay
oranges. The people in the house nearby said that the orioles and the
oranges must have been made to go together, because they matched so
well.
Mr. and Mrs. Oriole led a very happy life, with never a care or a worry; and
they chirped and sang to each other until it made one happy just to be near
them. But one day Mrs. Oriole was quiet and sad. She did not sing so gaily,
or seem so happy in the nest. Every little while, she would fly to the top
branch of the tree and look far away. At last Mr. Oriole said: “What is it, my
dear? Why do you seem so sad?”
“I can’t quite tell,” said Mrs. Oriole, “but I think I want to fly away. Do you
remember the place where we built our first nest?”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” chirped Mr. Oriole. “It was in the Northland, and we built
it in the apple tree close by the orchard gate.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Oriole; “and do you remember how happy we were that
year? The brook under the tree sang to us, and the bees and butterflies
called on us—oh, the dear orchard! Shall we ever have such a home again?”
So they chirped and twittered until the sun went to bed, and then they
tucked their heads under their wings and went to bed, too.

33
 The next day Mr. and Mrs. Oriole were astir early, and out for a little flight.
“Listen,” said Mr. Oriole, “the children in the house are singing a song about
an orchard, and I heard their mother say that tomorrow they are to start
North. It makes me want to go, too.”
“Why should we not?” said Mrs. Oriole. “I long for our old home. Let us go
back to the North.”
“When?” asked Mr. Oriole. “Today?”
“Why not at once?” said Mrs. Oriole. “We must get an early start.”
“Tweet, tweet,” said Mr. Oriole. “You are right. Let us start at once, after we
have said good-by to our winter home.”
Back to the nest they flew, and around and around the tree, calling good-
bye to all their friends. Then they spread their wings and started on their
long journey to the North. They flew fast, but the sun was down before
they caught a glimpse of their dear old orchard. There were plenty of trees
on the way, though, and they flew into one and spent the night with their
heads tucked under their wings.
As soon as the sun peeped over the hills, they were up and away. It was a
merry journey. Every now and then they would light on a swaying bough
and sing the song of home.
“Do you know our orchard?” they sang to the broad river they passed and
the river said, “When I was only a brook I ran through it.”
“Do you know our orchard?” they called down to a spotted toad. The toad
only blinked at them in the sunshine, and croaked. “I know my stone, and
the meadow grass. Stay here and I’ll show you how to be comfortable.”
But they thanked him and hurried on. “Do you know our meadow?” they
asked of a wandering breeze.
“Hush, hush; listen, listen,” sang the breeze. “I stole through there two days
ago, and I whispered to the buds on the apple trees that it was time to
awaken. It is a beautiful place, but far from here.”
“Then we must fly the faster,” said the orioles, and on they sped. Several

34
days passed, and still they journeyed on, asking news of the orchard of all
they met. At last, one evening, as the sun was dropping to rest in a soft
cloud, Mrs. Oriole twittered: “I see the orchard, the dear old orchard.”
And as the gray twilight was creeping down, two happy orioles flew back to
the apple tree by the orchard gate.

35
 Small Cloud
ARIANE BURDICK

I n the beginning there was Small Cloud’s mother, Singing River, and her
father, Big Sun.
One day, Singing River called to Big Sun.
Big Sun smiled and warmed the heart of Singing River.
Singing River danced in the warmth, and a mist rose slowly into the air.
One drop at a time, Small Cloud was born.
When she was grown, she called to Singing River, “I want to go over the
mountain.”
“Yes,” Singing River sighed. “If Whistling Wind will help you, and if your
father, Big Sun, will watch over you, I will wait for you.”
“What lies beyond the mountain?” Small Cloud asked.
“The world,” Big Sun told her.
“What is the world?” Small Cloud asked.
“Come,” said Whistling Wind, “I will show you.”
And he lifted Small Cloud up over the mountain and into the valley.
“Here corn grows,” Whistling Wind told her. “Someday you may help it.”
Small Cloud’s shadow swooped down over another mountain to a desert.
Whistling Wind blew her across the hot earth. “Go quickly,” Big Sun urged
her. “Here there is no one to help.”

36
Small Cloud sped over the desert and came to a lake where other small
clouds played.
“They are just like me!” Small Cloud exclaimed.
“Go to them,” said Whistling Wind. “They will play with you.”
Small Cloud and her friends chased each other above the lake. Then with
a great gust, Whistling Wind lifted them high over the mountains and into
another valley. “The corn is dry and the creatures are sad,” said Whistling
Wind. “The earth needs rain.”
Small Cloud and her friends moved across the sky and into each other.
Together, they became one great cloud, and rain began to fall.
Drop by drop, Small Cloud and her friends gave themselves to the earth.
When the earth was full and the corn satisfied, Small Cloud gave her last
raindrop to a river.
As Small Cloud disappeared, she heard Singing River call out, “Big Sun!
Small Cloud has come home.”
Big Sun smiled and warmed the heart of Singing River.
Singing River danced in the warmth, and a mist rose slowly in the air.
One drop at a time, Small Cloud was born again.

37
 The Story of a Butterfly
JO VALENS

AUTHOR’S NOTE: At the beginning of the school year I look to find milkweed stalks with
Monarch caterpillars on them. I collect a few and bring them into the classroom. This is a
story I’ve told to the children after they’d experienced seeing the caterpillars emerge from their
sleeping bags and fly away. My sense is that the story helps to anchor the experience for the
children. When I tell this story I don’t use puppets but I do use my fingers, arms and hands to
create the caterpillar, milkweed and butterfly, making a little gesture dance.

O nce upon a time, there was a little caterpillar; he was very hungry. He
crawled along a milkweed leaf, eating as he went. Nibble, nibble, nibble.
He made holes in the milkweed leaves as he filled up his tummy. He ate and
he ate and he ate. At last, he had enough.
And now he began to climb. He climbed up and up until he found just the
right spot to hang upside down. Oh my! Didn’t the world look different this
way!
He curled himself just a little and then began to spin for himself a little
blanket, a beautiful green blanket with a thin little thread of gold at the
bottom. And then he went to sleep.
Now the little caterpillar dreamed himself a beautiful dream, a dream of blue
sky and sweet wind. And as he dreamed, something remarkable began to
happen. . .
When at last he awoke, he climbed out from his green blanket. But he was
no longer a caterpillar! Yes; he was a butterfly! And what beautiful wings!
First, he had to dry them and then to stretch them. He opened and closed

38
them; opened and closed them. He walked a bit and played with his wings
some more.
At last he was ready! He lifted up off his branch and took to the sky! He
wasn’t ready to fly very far yet, so he flew just a little, from one branch to
the next. . . And now a little further and a little further, taking sips of nectar
along the way. At last he was ready; he had a long journey ahead of him,
but his wings were strong and he was full of good food. Off he took, up
into the beautiful blue sky, heading to the Southlands far away, where the
breezes blow warm even in winter.
Good-bye, little butterfly, good-bye!

39
 Mother Spider
FRANCES BLISS GILLESPY

I t was a beautiful day in midsummer. The meadow was alive with

busy little creatures astir in the bright sunlight. A long line of ants came
crawling down the path, carrying food to their home under the elm tree;
and an old toad came hopping down through the grass, blinking in the
warm sun. Just a little higher up, the bees were droning drowsily as they
flew from flower to flower; and above them all a robin was calling to his
mate.
Pretty soon Mrs. Spider came down the path. She seemed to be in a great
hurry. She looked neither to the right nor to the left, but kept straight
ahead, holding tightly to a little, white bag which she carried in her mouth.
She was just rushing past Mr. Toad when a big, black beetle came bumping
by, stumbling against Mrs. Spider and knocking the bag out of her mouth.
In an instant Mrs. Spider pounced down upon him, and, though he was so
much bigger than she, he tumbled over on his back. While he was trying to
kick himself right side up once more, Mrs. Spider made a quick little dash,
took up her bag, and scuttled off through the grass.
“Well, I never,” said Grasshopper Green, who was playing see-saw on a blade
of grass.
“No, nor I,” grumbled Mr. Beetle, as he wriggled back to his feet. “I didn’t
want her bag. She needn’t have made such a fuss.”
“She must have had something very fine in that bag,” said Grasshopper
Green, “for she was so frightened when she dropped it. I wonder what it

40
was”—and he balanced himself on his grass blade until a stray breeze blew
him off, and then he straightway forgot about Mrs. Spider altogether.
Two weeks after this, Grasshopper Green started out for a little exercise
before breakfast. Just as he reached the edge of the brook, he saw Mrs.
Spider coming towards him. She was moving quite slowly, and no longer
carried the little, white bag. As she came nearer, he could see that she had
something on her back.
“Good morning, neighbor,” called Grasshopper Green; “can I help you carry
your things?”
“Thank you,” she said, “but they wouldn’t stay with you, even if they could
stay on when you give such great jumps.”
“They?” said Grasshopper Green. And then, as he came nearer, he saw that
the things on Mrs. Spider’s back were wee, little baby spiders.
“Aren’t they pretty children!” she said, proudly. “I was so afraid that
something would happen to my eggs that I never let go of the bag once,
except when that clumsy Mr. Beetle knocked it out of my mouth.”
“O-ho,” said Grasshopper Green, “so that was what frightened you so! Your
bag was full of eggs! And, now, you are going to carry all these children on
your back? Doesn’t it tire you dreadfully?”
“I don’t mind that a bit,” said Mrs. Spider, “if only the children are well
and safe. In a little while, you know, they will be able to run about by
themselves, and then we shall be so happy here in the meadow grass. Oh,
it’s well worth the trouble, neighbor Grasshopper.”
“Yes,” said Grasshopper Green, “I have a dozen wee boys of my own at
home; and that reminds me that it is time to go home to breakfast! Good-
bye, neighbor. I hope the children will soon be running about with you. You
certainly are taking good care of them. Good-bye!”
Then home he went; and proud happy Mrs. Spider went on her way to hunt
for a breakfast for the babies she loved so well.

41
 Stories for
Seasons and
Festivals
Michael and the Dragon
BARBARA KLOCEK

O nce upon a time there lived in the countryside a farmer, his wife and
their son, George. George was a good lad, kind and hardworking. He
helped his parents as they gathered eggs, milked the cow and cared for the
cat and dog. They planted seeds and tended their crops until harvest time. 
They sang as they worked for they knew when the leaves turned gold and
red, and the cool winds came, their harvest would be rich and plentiful.
We turn the earth, we plant the seeds,
And help the sprouting plants
Grow tall and strong in golden sun
 And ripe at harvest time.
However, one crisp autumn night as they slept and dreamed, a dragon
came into their kingdom.
Next morning when they went out, they found their carefully tended fields
had been trampled and burned and much of their work undone. They were
greatly troubled so the farmer and his wife sent their son to ask for the help
of the King. When George arrived at the castle, he was led before the King
and Queen and their lovely daughter, the Princess.
“Dear King,” said George,
The dragon brings distress and dread,
He wrecks our fields, destroys our bread.
Oh, help us against his evil might,
Thy knights send forth to guard and fight.

45
 The King was a wise and just ruler. Upon hearing George’s tale, he called for
his strongest and bravest knights.
Approach ye knights, attend my word,
Yourselves with sword and shield now gird.
Conquer the dragon, fiery and rude,
Protect our farmers and our food.
The knights were brave and strong, but alas! were no match for the dragon. 
He soon overcame them and drove them back to the castle.
The dragon approached the castle and called,
All have seen with dreadful fright,
No one can withstand my might.
The king’s daughter give me to take,
Or town and tree and barn I’ll break.
The King and Queen said, “No, never!” But the Princess did not want to see
the kingdom trampled so she said calmly, “I will go to help my people and
the land.” She walked courageously out of the castle and went with the
dragon to his cave.
All of the kingdom was filled with sadness at the loss of the their Princess. 
Now George, the farmer’s son, would have gladly risked his life to save the
Princess and the kingdom, but he did not feel strong enough to meet the
dragon. So that night, before he went to sleep, he asked in his prayers for
help.
During the night the Archangel Michael, gleaming golden and bright, came
to him and said,
Now listen, George, to what I say,
The dragon you shall fight today.
I know your heart is brave and true,
Courageous, strong, in all you do.
I shall be standing by your side
When you against the dragon ride.
I give to you a cape of light
To give you courage, strength and might.

46
 Seek the sword you will need
From gnomes of old who will lead
You to an ancient cave below
Where a sword of gold does glow.
George arose and went at once to the King to tell him this news. The King
gave his blessing and told him where to seek the gnomes in the mountains
by following the falling stars. George found the cave and asked the gnomes
for their help. The gnomes asked him, “Are you good?”
“Oh, yes,” said George.
“Are you noble and brave?”
“Oh, yes,” said George.
“And do you hear the singing of the stars?”
“Oh, yes!”  said George.
Then the gnomes brought forth a sword that they had forged from the iron
of the stars and the iron of the earth. It was glowing as they gave it to him. 
Thanking them, George took the sword and went to the dragon’s cave.
There the dragon appeared with flashing eyes and fiery breath. For a
moment George trembled, but the Archangel Michael, gleaming like the
sun, came above him, and with their golden swords George and Michael
conquered the dragon. The Princess was set free. The whole kingdom came
rejoicing and singing,
Come approach the golden door.
Michael, he stands before,
With his golden sword in hand,
He journeys ’round to every land.
There was never again seen a dragon in that land. And if things have not
changed, then they are still the same today.

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 The Boy Who Spoke the Truth
CELIA RIAHI

O nce there was a village where the people lived happily. The farmer
would sow his seeds to grow food for his neighbors. The woodcutter
would chop wood so the people could build their houses and make fires to
keep themselves warm.
At the end of the village lane, close to the forest, lived a family. They had
one son, George, who was especially kind and good. He always spoke the
truth. He and his friend Astra helped his neighbors in the village and so
he and his family never went hungry. In the late summer the two children
would go into the farthest field to gather the last shooting starlight that
fell to the earth. They would bring it to the blacksmith so he could make
horseshoes for the ponies. Those that wore the shoes of starlight always
ran the fastest. George hoped that when he grew up he would get to ride
one of them.
Sometimes the children would take the tiniest bits of the last shooting
stars and put them in their pockets and then when they went home their
mothers gave them some soft colored wool to wrap around the starlight
to make a ball. When George and Astra played catch with their shooting
star balls they twinkled and shimmered in the light. When there were no
shooting stars left they would help the farmer or the woodcutter. Their
families were always warm and had enough food to eat.
One windy stormy night as the autumn leaves swirled and whirled about
the trees, George heard a terrible noise and when he looked out of his
window he saw the sky light up like fire. In the morning all of the farmer’s

48
corn was gone. Something had trampled and crampled it all up—but no
one saw a thing.
That night George asked Astra to stay with him. As the autumn leaves
swirled and whirled about the trees, George and Astra heard a terrible
noise in the night and when they looked out of the window they saw the
sky light up like fire. The next morning all of the farmer’s wheat was gone.
Something had trampled and crampled it all up—but no one saw a thing.
“Whatever shall we do?” cried all the villagers. “Soon we shall have no food
left to eat! Our land is being trampled! And no one saw a thing.” George
told everyone what they had heard and seen from the window. “I will stay
awake for the next three nights to see what or who has trampled our land.”
The first night came and went; George was tired and fell asleep and did not
see a thing. On the second night he said his prayers to help him stay awake.
Just before midnight he heard a terrible noise but he did not see a thing.
On the third night he watched and watched and just before dawn a great
green and red dragon appeared. He ate all that he wished and when he was
satisfied he went back to his home in the mountains.
In the morning George told the villagers what he had seen. “We must slay
the dragon,” they all cried, but none were brave enough to try.
That night George had a dream. A shining angel came to him and said,
The shooting stars make known their worth
Mix them well with water and earth
That the blacksmith may forge a sword of light
You will tame the dragon with your might.
My shining wings will guide your way
To the dragon’s lair, at the end of this day.
My light will fill you with courage deep
This promise I make and promise to keep.
And so in the morning light George went into the far field to gather the last
of the shooting stars. He brought them to the blacksmith as the angel bade
him. When the blacksmith finished forging the sword of starlight, he gave it
to George.

49
 As night fell, George watched. The sky began to darken and the golden light
of his angel shone above. It sent him courage deep in his heart.
Just before dawn the dragon went out to eat the harvest of the field. He
saw the boy and they had a terrible fight. George had great courage and
strength and then as he touched the sword to the dragon’s heart, the
dragon stopped moving, fell to the earth, and was tamed. All of the villagers
were very grateful to George. They promised to plant one field just for the
Dragon and they gathered together for a celebration; they ate Dragon
Bread, crackers and cheese, apples, pumpkin cake and raspberries and
plums and each year ever after they celebrated with the same feast. Forever
after it was known as the Day of the Taming of the Dragon, by George, the
boy who always spoke the truth.

50
The Golden Star Flowers
KIRSTEN HASCUP

T here were once two children who lived in a village at the edge of a
big wood. They were the best of friends. In the winter, they played in
the snow, shaking the snow off the heavy branches, and letting it plop on
their heads. In the springtime they gathered daffodils in the meadow and
brought them home to their mothers. They lay down in the tall grass and
watched the baby bunnies hop by. In the summer they splashed in the
stream and made mud pies and played hide and seek in the shade of the
dark woods. In the autumn they collected great piles of acorns and nuts,
and made leaf crowns, and flew kites. No matter the season, they had great
fun and adventures together, and loved each other dearly.
One brisk autumn day, the girl ran through the flying leaves and knocked
at her friend’s door. But he did not answer. Instead, his mother came. She
looked worried. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Your friend cannot play today. He is
quite ill.”
Each day the girl went to knock on her friend’s door, but it was always the
same. His illness became more and more severe and she was not allowed to
visit him. She even heard the grownups whispering that they were afraid he
would not get well.
Now this was a long time ago, in the days when many small villages did not
have doctors or the kind of medicine we have today. So the boy’s parents
called the Old Wise Woman who lived in the woods. This Wise Woman
had a garden of special herbs that she tended, and she knew all about the
healing plants that grow in the woods. She came to the village to visit the

51
 sick boy. She was wrapped in a shawl the color of the earth and carried a
covered basket over her arm. The girl watched the Old Wise Woman go
into her friend’s house, and a long while later she came out again. The
mother thanked the Wise Woman, and gave her a cake for her trouble, but
the little girl could see that there was not happy news. Tears fell down the
mother’s cheeks as the door closed.
The girl followed the Wise Woman through the village and then down the
winding path that led into the woods. The old woman turned and saw
the little girl. “What do you want, my child?” she asked. “I want to help
my friend get well. Isn’t there anything that you can do?” asked the child.
“Well, my dear,” said the woman as she sat down on a moss covered log and
gestured to the girl to sit next to her. “There is one thing that would surely
help, but it is a flower that grows in only one place. It grows far away, deep
in a cave on a high mountain. It is a golden star flower, which grows in the
dark. From that flower I could make a magical healing tea. But I cannot go
there for I am too old to make such a journey.”
The girl did not hesitate. “I will go,” she said. “I am young and I will make the
journey. Just tell me where to go.”
“It will be very difficult,” said the Old Woman. “Are you sure you have the
courage?” The child nodded. She would be strong and brave.
Early the next day the girl set out on her journey. She walked deeper into
the forest than she had ever gone before. The branches grew thicker
and thicker, and it was hard for her to push through them. Soon they
were thorny, as well, and scratched her arms and caught on her hair. She
struggled forward until she was so ensnared that she could go no further.
She simply did not have the strength to push past the thorny, snarled
branches. She thought of her friend, in bed with a fever, and she began to
cry.
Just then, a beautiful white horse came tromping through the tangled
branches. The girl looked up and saw a man sitting astride the horse. He
smiled kindly at her. He reached down and gave her a shining, golden
sword. “Here,” he said, “Take this sword of light. It will give you strength.”

52
And then he was gone. The sword sliced easily through the thorny branches
and the thick, twisted vines, and soon the girl made her way safely out of
the woods.
Ahead of her was a meadow, and beyond the meadow, a large mountain.
The mountain was so tall that the top of it disappeared into the clouds. She
ran across the meadow and began to climb. At first, the climbing was fun,
as the higher she went, the more she could see all around her. The meadow
looked like a beautiful carpet, and she could see the tops of the trees of the
great forest.
But the higher she climbed, the colder the wind blew. Soon freezing drops
of rain stung her face and she shivered with cold. Her fingers and toes
began to ache. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, but there
was no shelter from the cold. The rain turned to snow, and the rocky path
became covered in slippery ice. She was so cold that she began to feel as if
her limbs were frozen and she could not move. Tears froze on her cheeks,
as she thought of her dear friend.
Just then, she heard the heavy galloping of hooves. It was the knight on the
white horse! The horse slowed down and clumped over to her on steady
hooves. The knight took a golden, glowing cape from around his shoulders
and reached down to wrap it around her. “Here,” he said, “Take this cape
of light. It will keep you warm.” And then he was gone. The girl felt golden
sunshine all around her and she felt warm and cozy all the way to her
heart. The ice melted at her feet and she continued her way up the steep
mountain.
Soon it began to grow dark, and the path ahead grew dim. She climbed
slowly now, because she could not see very well in the fading light. She was
approaching the top of the mountain and the path grew ever more narrow
and steep. Finally she climbed onto a ledge and she saw she was standing
at the mouth of a cave. This must be the cave the Old Wise Woman had
told her of! She stepped gingerly forward, and the last star in the sky
disappeared behind her. It grew completely dark all around. She could not
even see her own hand! She kept going, one small step at a time, but after a

53
 while she didn’t know where she was at all. She had been in the dark a long
time, and was lost deep in the cave. She didn’t even know which way was
backward or forward anymore. She was afraid she had been going in circles,
and she felt as if she was losing her balance. She had to put her hands
on the ground because it was all she could feel. As she crouched in the
pitch black, she felt very afraid. Would she be lost in the cave forever? She
wanted to find her way back to her home, and her family, and her friend.
What would happen to him without his healing tea? The little girl huddled
in the darkness, afraid to move and she began to cry.
Then she heard the sound of hooves clomping softly towards her. As she
looked up, she saw a bit of light appear. It grew brighter and brighter,
until she saw the beautiful knight on the white horse. He was wearing a
sparkling crown of stars. He smiled down on her, and he took the crown
and placed it on her head. The twinkling stars lit up the cave all around her,
and she saw it was beautiful, with bits of crystals shining all around. Then
the knight was gone.
The girl now stepped lightly and quickly ahead, down the curving tunnel,
with her star crown lighting the way. Soon she found herself standing
in what looked like a small garden, with green moss growing all around.
Hidden in the soft moss were tiny golden flowers, shaped like stars. The
air smelled fresh and sweet, not at all like a cave deep under the ground.
She carefully picked three of the tiny flowers, wrapped them in her
handkerchief, and tucked them deep in her pocket.
She fairly flew home, as her heart was so filled with hope and joy. The
journey was made easy with her sparkling crown, her warm cloak and the
shining sword of light. When she got to the forest near her village, she took
the path to the cottage where the Old Wise Woman lived. She ran to the
door and knocked three times. “Here!” she cried, when the door opened.
“I’ve done it! I made it through the thorny forest, the icy cold mountain
and the dark cave!” The little girl reached into her pocket and held out the
folded handkerchief. The old woman gently unfolded the cloth and took
the tiny flowers. They were as fresh as when they were picked. The girl
came inside the cottage and fell asleep by the fire while the old woman

54
boiled water for the tea. Soon the woman woke her. “Come, it is time to
bring the star flower tea to your friend.”
But when the girl went to gather her crown, cloak and sword, they had
vanished. Where had they gone? “Don’t worry,” smiled the old woman. “It
may seem as though they disappeared, but they will always be in your heart
when you need them.”
The special tea worked wonders, and by the next day the boy was sitting up
in bed. Since he was feeling better, the good friends were allowed to have a
visit.
The girl told her friend about her great adventure. She told him how far she
had traveled, and how hard it had been. She told him about the beautiful
knight on the big white horse, with the golden sword, cape and crown
of stars. His eyes grew wide as he listened. And then he said to her, “The
knight who helped you—I saw a beautiful man like that, too, in my dream,
while I was sick. Only he did not come to me on a horse. He flew, with
grand, gold-feathered wings. I thought he must be an angel. He told me it
was time to wake up now, and be well. He told me his name is Michael!”

55
 Mother Earth and the Leaves
PATRICIA RUBANO

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I have done this as a puppet play with needle felted leaves—green
on one side and colored on the other—pinned lightly (barely) to the fingers of a brown
gardening glove, which is the tree. The leaves “turn” colors and I then pull them off to fall.
Wool birds on a tiny branch are under a cloth where they flutter and can then be easily
pulled from under to “fly” into the sky. The songs may be sung to simple tunes.

O nce there was a nut that had fallen into Mother Earth’s lap. A little
tree sprouted up and grew from the nut and Mother Earth watched it
grow. The little tree put out branches and green leaves grew. Mother Earth
nourished it from below and asked Father Sun to shine brightly from above.
Sister Rain sent her lovely tears to quench the trees’ thirst. And Brother
Wind blew gentle breezes all around the tree and tickled the leaves. The
tree grew taller and higher all through the summer until at last Summer was
over and Autumn was coming. Mother Earth sang to the tree:
“Golden in the garden, golden in the glen,
Golden, golden, golden, Prince Autumn is here again.”
And indeed, Prince Autumn came passing through the land bringing a crisp,
new chill to the air. He also brought along the color fairies who painted the
leaves the most wonderful colors—yellow and brown and gold, orange and
red. Prince Autumn looked at the beautiful leaves on the tree and smiled
a golden smile. Then Prince Autumn went on his way taking his Fall colors
wherever he went.
Following Prince Autumn, Brother Wind whistled along through all the
trees rustling the leaves and branches. Mother Earth sang to the tree again:

56
 “Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I,
But when the trees are bowing down
The wind is passing by.”
Now Brother Wind blew more briskly and the leaves danced merrily in the
tree until one by one they left the branches and fluttered and whirled and
twirled down to make a beautiful blanket for Mother Earth below. Mother
Earth was delighted with her patchwork quilt and knew that it would keep
her children—the seeds and insects—warm through the chilly nights. But
when she looked around at the tree and the sky she thought it was a pity to
have all the colors on the ground now, leaving Father Sky so bare.
Mother Earth had an idea, so she breathed softly on some of the leaves
and they began to move. She breathed on them again and they moved
and fluttered and then flew away. They had become birds! Some of the
brown leaves became sparrows. The red-brown oak leaves became robin
redbreasts. The yellow and golden leaves became finches. The red and
orange maple leaves were cardinals and orioles.
The brand new birds fluttered and flew with their beautiful colors all around
Father Sky and when they were weary, they returned to the tree again to
rest and to roost. And that is where they still live today.
Up in the sky little birds fly.
Down in their nests little birds rest.
Now they fly up, now they fly down,
Now all together they fly round and round.
When the sun sets they fly home to rest.
Tuck heads under wings and they sleep in their nests.

57
 The Old Owl on the Farm
KIRSTEN HASCUP

O nce upon a time there was an old owl. He lived in an old tree, near an
old barn, on an old farm. No one else had lived on the farm for a long
time. The farm had been forgotten. There were no horses or cows in the barn,
nor crops in the fields. The fields had grown high and wild, and even the old
farm house was empty. Only the old owl remained, high up in his tree.
But one day new life came to the farm. A family with children moved into
the old farm house, and the new farmer began to mow the fields, and to
clean out the old hay and broken tools from the barn. The mother began to
tend the flower beds around the house, and the children helped all around.
There was sweeping, and scrubbing, and painting and polishing to do. And
when this was done, there was the whole farm and forest for the children
to explore. The merry voices of the family could be heard as they worked
and played.
The old owl wasn’t very happy about this. He had gotten used to things the
way they were, and wasn’t at all sure he wanted all this lively hustle and
bustle about. Why, it made it hard for him to sleep all day! He wanted all
those busy, happy people to go away, so the old barn could be his, and only
his, once more.
Early one morning the owl saw the farmer sowing the field with seeds. The
owl had a plan, but it wasn’t a very kind one. That night, when the family
was snug and warm in their beds, he flew down to the field and pecked
up the seeds the farmer had planted. He pecked, and pecked, and pecked,
until not a single seed was left.

58
After some time, when the sun had sent down its rays, and the rain had
sent down its drops, the farmer came back to look. Nothing was growing in
the field. His pumpkin seeds had not sprouted, so he planted them again.
But again, that night, the owl flew down from his tree. He pecked up each
and every seed, and again, the pumpkins did not grow. The poor farmer
planted his pumpkin seeds again. He was worried the pumpkins wouldn’t
grow in time for Halloween. Halloween was not far off, and the children
would be so disappointed if there were no pumpkins. He sat down and
pondered, “Why, oh why, will my pumpkins not grow?” Then, with a sigh,
he carefully planted the seeds in the field. The old owl was sleeping. He
was tired from all those nights spent pecking seeds. He did not see the
farmer with his sad head bent down. But someone else on the farm did.
You see, the children were not the only ones on the farm who were looking
forward to Halloween. In the woods that began at the edge of the field
lived three witches. They were the friendly sort of witches, and they loved
Halloween. They loved to see the children in their costumes, and to hear
them singing their Halloween songs, and best of all, they loved the glowing
Jack-o-lanterns. They hadn’t seen Halloween on the farm for a very long
time. So that night, when the moon was shining brightly, they came out of
the woods.
When the old owl woke up he swooped down to the field to peck up all
the newly planted seeds. But much to his surprise he saw he was not alone.
Three little witches were dancing in the field, under the light of the moon.
He saw their pointy hats, and their long swirling capes, and their brooms.
The old owl wasn’t very pleased. He fluttered his wings, and glared at the
witches, but he didn’t dare to eat a single seed.
And so it went. For three nights, the witches came out. They danced in the
moonlight, and protected the seeds, and soon the seeds began to grow into
pumpkin plants. And do you know, those pumpkins might have gotten a
late start, but they seemed to grow up right overnight! The children were
so happy to see those big orange pumpkins, and as for the farmer, well, he
scratched his head in wonder, and said, “Well, jumpin’ jiminy, it’s almost as if
those pumpkins grew like magic!”

59
 And if you happened to be listening very quietly, you might have heard a
“Who, whooo. . .” from high up in the barn. “Whoo, who,” said the owl, “I
know whooo could have done such a thing!”
Three little witches pranced in the garden,
Three little witches danced in the moon.
One wore a wishing hat,
One held a pussy cat,
One went pitty-pat and whispered a tune.
Three little witches flew on their broomsticks,
Three little witches flew to their queen,
Over the windy glen, into the night. . .
But then they’ll be back again, next Halloween,
But then they’ll be back again, next Halloween.
—Marjorie Barrows

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Winifred Witch
and Her Golden Cat JO VALENS

E arly one Autumn morning, Winifred Witch was looking for her kitty.
“Come, little kitty, come!” Where could her kitty have gone? Winifred
looked in the apple orchard. She looked up into a great big apple tree. “Kitty,
kitty,” she called. But the cat did not come.
But somebody had heard her calling. It was Apple Mother.
“Good morning,” said Apple Mother. “Whom are you calling?”
“I am calling my kitty,” said Winifred Witch.
“Is your kitty red?” asked Apple Mother.
“No,” said Winifred, “my kitty is golden.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t have your kitty,” said Mother Apple. “But I can give you a
nice red apple.” And she called up to her apple tree:
Apple tree, apple tree, bear apples for me!
Hats full, laps full, sacks full, caps full!
Apple tree, apple tree, bear apples for me!
And a nice big rosy apple came tumbling down. Mother Apple gave it to
Winifred Witch. She put it into her sack. “Thank you,” said the witch and
continued on her way, looking for her kitty cat.
She came to a pumpkin patch. “Kitty cat! Kitty cat!” she called. But no kitty
came. However, Mother Pumpkin appeared.
“Whom are you looking for?” she asked.

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 “I am looking for my kitty,” said Winifred Witch.
“Is your kitty cat orange?” asked Mother Pumpkin.
“No,” said Winifred, “my kitty cat is golden.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mother Pumpkin. “I have not seen your kitty, but I can give
you a nice round orange pumpkin.” And she sang to her pumpkin patch:
Pumpkins, pumpkins, on the ground,
Let’s have one for a friend, one that is large and round.
And she went and picked a beautiful, big round, orange pumpkin and gave it
to Winifred Witch. “And I hope you find your kitty soon,” she said.
Winifred Witch put the pumpkin into her sack. “Thank you,” she said and
continued on her way.
At last she came to a pile of leaves, all red and orange and gold. “Oh kitty
cat,” she said sadly, “where can you be?”
Just then the Wind began to blow and along came Autumn Wind. “Hello,”
said the Wind. “What have you got in your sack? And why are you looking
so sad?”
“Oh,” said Winifred, “I have here in my sack a lovely red apple that Mother
Apple gave me and a beautiful orange pumpkin from Mother Pumpkin’s
patch. But I am sad for I cannot find my kitty cat.”
“Is your kitty red?” asked the Wind.
“No,” said Winifred Witch.
“Is your kitty orange?” “No.”
“Is your kitty gold?”
“Yes!” said Winifred Witch. “Have you seen her?”
“Have I seen her?” laughed the Wind. She blew her Autumn breath, singing
her Autumn song:

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 “Come little leaves” said the wind one day;
“Come over to the meadows with me and play.
Put on your dresses of red and gold. . .”
And one by one the leaves began to rise up and follow her—red and orange
and gold! There, at the bottom of the pile was the golden kitty, fast asleep.
The kitty awoke and scampered among the leaves. Winifred Witch was so
very happy to find her friend. “Thank you!” she called out to the Autumn
Wind, but the Wind had already gone on its way. Winifred Witch and her
little cat headed back home, happy to be together again.

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 The Big Red Apple
KATE WHITING PATCH

EDITOR’S NOTE: For many years I told this story to my kindergarten class before
Thanksgiving. After the story we would make a bonfire, roasting potatoes in the coals of the
fire and hanging apples above the fire to roast. We all thought this was a Thanksgiving feast
fit for kings!

B obby was a little boy and he had a Grandpa.

One day Bobby’s grandpa sat by the fire while Bobby lay on the hearth
rug, looking at a picture-book.
“Ho, ho!” yawned Grandpa, “I wish I had a big red apple! I could show you
how to roast it, Bobby.”
Bobby jumped up as quick as a flash. “I’ll get you one,” he said, and he
picked up his hat and ran out of the house as fast as he could go. He knew
where he had seen an apple tree away down the road—a tree all bright
with big red apples.
Bobby ran on by the side of the road, through the drifts of fallen leaves, all
red and yellow and brown. The leaves made a pleasant noise under his feet.
At last he came to the big apple tree, but though Bobby looked and looked,
there was not an apple to be seen—not an apple on the tree, not an apple
on the ground!
“Oh,” cried Bobby, “where have they all gone?
Then he heard a rustling through the dry leaves on the branches of the tree:
“I haven’t an apple left, my dear.
You’ll have to wait till another year.”

64
Bobby was surprised. “But where have they all gone?” he asked again. The
apple tree only sighed. So the little boy turned away and started home
across the fields.
Pretty soon he met a pussy-cat. “Oh, pussy,” he cried; “do you know what
they have done with all the big red apples?”
Pussy looked up at him, and then began rubbing against his legs, saying:
“Mew, mew, me-ew!
I haven’t a big red apple for you.”
So Bobby went on, and at last he met a friendly doggie. The doggie
stopped and wagged his tail, so the little boy said to him: “Oh, doggie, can
you tell me what they have done with the big red apples?”
The doggie kept on wagging his tail and barked:
“Bow, wow, wow!
If I knew, I’d surely tell you now.”
So the little boy went on until he came to a kind old cow who stood looking
over the fence.
“Oh, mooly cow,” said Bobby, “will you tell me what has become of the big
red apples?”
Mooly cow rubbed her nose against him and said:
“Moo! Moo-o-o!
I’d like a big red apple, too.”
The little boy laughed, and he walked on until he came to the edge of the
wood, and there was a big, gray squirrel. “Hullo, gray squirrel,” said Bobby.
“Can you tell me what has become of the big red apples?”
The squirrel whisked about and looked at Bobby.
“The farmer has hidden them all away,
To eat on a pleasant winter’s day.”
Then the squirrel ran to the foot of a chestnut tree and began to fill his
little pockets with shiny nuts to carry to his own storehouse, but Bobby

65
 said, “Oh, thank you!” and ran up the hill to the farmer’s house as fast as he
could go. The farmer was standing by the door, and he smiled when he saw
Bobby.
“Good morning, good morning, my little man,” he said; “and what can I do
for you today?”
“Please,” said Bobby, “I want a big red apple.”
The farmer laughed. “Come with me,” he said, “and you shall pick one out
for yourself.”
So Bobby and the farmer walked out to the great barn, and there Bobby
saw a lot of barrels standing in a row, and every barrel was full of big red
apples!
“Oh, what a lot!” said Bobby. “Why did you pick them all?”
“We didn’t want to leave them for Jack Frost, did we?” said the farmer.
“Does Jack Frost like apples?” asked Bobby.
“He likes to pinch them,” said the farmer, “but we like to eat them; so we
gather them in for the winter.”
Bobby began to look about the barn. Near the barrels of red apples was
another row of barrels all filled with green apples, and further on was a
great pile of golden pumpkins; and near that was a heap of green and
yellow squashes, and another of turnips, and then piles of yellow corn.
“Are you keeping all those things for winter?” asked Bobby.
“Yes,” said the farmer, “we’ve been gathering in the harvest—all the good
things that the summer has given us.”
“And do the squirrels gather in a harvest, too?” asked Bobby.
“I reckon they do,” said the farmer.
“Then that was how he knew,” thought Bobby to himself.
Soon the little boy’s eyes began to shine. “Won’t we have lots of good
things for Thanksgiving!” he said. “Pumpkin pie, and apple pie and—
everything!”

66
“Well,” said the good farmer, “I guess there’s plenty to be thankful for right
here. Did you say you wanted a red apple, sonny?”
Bobby walked up to the barrel and picked out the biggest red apple he
could find.
“Thank you, Mr. Farmer,” he said; and then he ran home to give the apple to
his grandfather.
“My, my!” said Grandpa, “Wherever did you find it?”
“Oh,” said Bobby, “I went to the apple tree, but it didn’t have any. Then I
asked the cat where the big red apples were, but she didn’t know. I asked
the dog, and he didn’t know, and then I asked the cow and she didn’t know.
But then I met the squirrel, and he knew, because he gathers in a harvest
himself. So he told me to go to the farmer. And I went to the farmer and
asked him for a big red apple, and he gave me this great big one!”
“Well, well,” said Grandpa, when Bobby stopped, out of breath. “Now find
me a bit of string.”
Bobby found the string, and Grandpa tied one end of it to the stem of the
apple. He fastened the other end of the string to the mantel shelf, and
there the apple hung over the fire.
It turned and twisted, and twisted and turned, while Grandpa and Bobby
watched it; and the juice sizzled out, and the apple grew softer and softer
and, by and by it was all roasted.
Then Bobby fetched a plate and two spoons, and he and Grandpa sat
before the fire and ate the big red apple.

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 The Harvest Gift
EMILY BUTLER

O nce upon a time, there was a snow-white rabbit that lived in a deep
hole beneath a rosebush bramble on the edge of the forest. Every
morning, before setting out to look for food, she would groom her furry
coat. It was whiter than snow and softer than goose feathers and she spent
time making sure there were no tangles or specks of dirt in her beautiful
coat before setting off for breakfast. She nibbled on this and she nibbled on
that and when she was full, she found a shady grove in which to rest.
Today was a special day; the summer was coming to an end and the harvest
time was beginning. The farmer was gathering vegetables from his garden
and his wheelbarrow was full of carrots, cabbages, beets and squash.
It had been an especially good summer and there were so many vegetables
that they did not all fit into the wheelbarrow. The farmer put aside the
extra vegetables for the animals on his farm. The cabbages and beet greens
he saved for the chickens; the sweet corn would go in the cow’s manger,
but off in one corner he placed a few carrots for the rabbit that lived in the
woods.
On such a harvest day, the rabbit was hopping off to the gardens when
along came Mother Hen with her flock of chicks. Now, Mother Hen always
seemed to be in a hurry but today she appeared to be especially busy.
“Good morning,” said the rabbit, wiggling her soft nose.
“Good morning,” clucked the hen. “Good morning, good morning!” cheeped
her chicks. “It is harvest time and we are making a basket for the farmer

68
who is so kind to us. We will put our eggs in the basket, so we must look
for extra juicy worms and fat beetles to eat so our eggs will be especially
delicious. No time to chat today!”
With that, the hen scurried away with her chicks scrambling to keep up
with her. The rabbit hopped away, thinking of all she had heard from
Mother Hen.
Next she met the sleek brown cow. The cow’s eyes were so large and
brown that whoever looked upon them felt themselves to be wrapped up in
a cloak of warm, soft velvet. Behind her trundled a little brown calf, whose
legs looked too long for her body.
“Good morning,” said the rabbit, wiggling her soft nose.
“MOOOOOOO,” said the cow, and behind her came a little “Mooooo” from
her brown calf.
“Have you heard about the harvest basket, too?” asked the rabbit.
“Indeed we have,” replied the cow. “I am eating green, luscious grass and
sweet clover so that my milk will be especially creamy for the good farmer.
He likes to use my fresh milk to make his sweet yellow butter for his bread.
No time to talk.” And with that she lumbered away with her calf following
close behind.
Just then the rabbit heard a soft buzzing sound and turned to see the
honeybees gathering nectar from the sunflowers.
“Good morning,” said the rabbit politely.
“Buzz, buzz,” replied the bees.
The rabbit could see that the bees had no time to chat and she began to
groom her soft, white coat. She felt a little sad because all the animals had
something to bring to the farmer’s basket. There would be eggs, and sweet
butter from the cow’s milk, and honey for his toast. What did she have to
give the farmer?
Everyone knew that the rabbit was kind, and quick, and could run like the
wind, but she could not give those things to the farmer. And she longed

69
 to give him something, he who was always so kind to her and shared his
vegetables with her each year.
That night the little rabbit closed her eyes and was visited in her dreams
by a fairy. The fairy knew that the young rabbit longed to share something
with the farmer. The fairy whispered in the rabbit’s long ears:
“When you awake
Your coat do shake.
Now find a tuft of fur so soft
Into a garment warm to make.”
When the rabbit awoke, she wondered what the verse could mean; what
could she bring to the beautiful harvest basket? As she wondered about
it, she began to groom herself with her soft tongue. This time, however,
her coat seemed even longer and furrier, and as she licked, tufts of soft,
white fur began to come out. Now she knew what she could give the good
farmer! The little rabbit collected all the tufts of fur. She carried her soft
fur to the harvest basket and laid it carefully beside the eggs, the fresh
milk, and the honey. Then she hid behind the fence as she heard the farmer
coming.
When he came upon the harvest basket, a huge smile spread across his
kind face. What lovely gifts he found there! This year his family would be
well cared for; they would eat and drink good things, have honey for sweet
desserts and soft, white yarn to make mittens and hats.
“Thank you,” he said as he looked towards the woods where the animals
were hiding and watching. Very happy indeed, the little rabbit hopped
off to find her breakfast of dandelion greens and sweet clover. Ever since
that day, the rabbit has been especially proud of her long, soft coat, which
she grooms each day before breakfast. She carefully puts all the tufts to
one side and gathers them gently into bundles for anyone in need of extra
warmth.

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Squirrel Nutkin’s Thanksgiving
BETTY JANE ENNO

O ne day, not long before Thanksgiving, little porcupine Pete was

lumbering along the golden autumn path through the trees. He was
mumbling to himself about how sad he was that his friends did not want
to be near him. “I don’t know how to have a Happy Thanksgiving if no one
invites me to dinner,” he thought woefully to himself. “Everyone thinks I
will prickle them. I can make a delicious pumpkin pie, but what good is it if I
cannot share it with someone?”
Just then Squirrel Nutkin came scurrying by and called out, “Pete, thanks
for being such a good friend and helping me find my store of chestnuts.” For
when Pete was digging around for some roots he came upon a cache of
chestnuts that had Squirrel Nutkin’s scent on them.
“You are welcome,” called Porcupine Pete.
As Squirrel was about to hurry by, he hesitated and quickly blurted out,
“You are invited to Thanksgiving Dinner at my tree,” and went on jumping
and leaping on his way.
“Oh,” thought Pete to himself, “that is a very nice idea!”
Squirrel Nutkin was busy all day inviting his forest  and farm friends to
dinner at his tree. Hare said he would bring carrots, Deer said he would
bring berries, Sheep said she would bring milk, Chicken said she would bring
eggs, Pig would bring potatoes.
“Bubble, bubble in the pot, stir it and stir it while it gets hot,” he sang to
himself.

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 Suddenly there was a barking sound, and Coyote, who was hiding behind
a tree, jumped out and tried to catch Squirrel Nutkin. Squirrel ran up a
tree and found a safe spot to chatter at the coyote. “I will not invite you to
Thanksgiving at my tree, because you have very bad manners!” he chattered.
“Well, you just wait and see,” called the coyote.
The next day all his farm and forest friends gathered together and sang
their blessing as they made a circle around their wonderful feast, at Squirrel
Nutkin’s tree. Just as they finished singing, Coyote ran into the circle and
started to clamp his teeth on Squirrel Nutkin. But instead he closed his
mouth on Porcupine Pete’s quills, for Pete had hurried over to protect
Squirrel Nutkin. “Yipes!” yipped Coyote and backed up into the hot pot of
soup. “Yipes!” he yipped again and turned tail and ran as fast and as far as
he could. They did not see him again. 
Everyone thanked Porcupine Pete, and realized that if they didn’t rub him
the wrong way his shiny quills did not bother them at all, and looked very
pretty in the sunlight!  

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Hugin and the Shooting Stars
CELIA RIAHI

O nce there was a little boy named Hugin. He was visiting his
grandmother one fine autumn day. She was old and wise and seemed
to know the answer to any question that Hugin asked her. She would often
sit by her window and spin as she watched Hugin playing outside. Her little
kitty, named Blueberry, would try to play with the wool as she worked.
Sometimes they would all go for a walk out to their garden. Hugin and his
grandmother had a beautiful garden. It was filled with squash, gourds, corn
and a patch of marigold flowers. When the sun shone down on the garden,
all the vegetables were content but the marigolds, who were especially
happy, smiled, and their colors shimmered just like the sunshine.
One windy autumn day his Grandmother gave Hugin a kiss and asked him
to go for a walk up to the apple orchard to find some rosy red apples. . .
then maybe she would bake an apple pie for dessert. Blueberry went with
him. The sun was shining as they walked and walked. They climbed up the
hill to the orchard and collected apples. When their basket was full, Hugin
called Blueberry over and they sat down for a little rest. It seemed they had
been resting only a short while when Hugin heard something.
It’s golden in the garden, golden in the glen; it’s golden, golden, golden.
Prince Autumn’s here again.
As Hugin opened his eyes he saw Prince Autumn passing by, painting the
leaves red and gold. “Oh how beautiful,” thought Hugin. “Look Blueberry,
look at the colors!” Then a little apple blossom fairy tickled his nose. “The
sunlight fast is dwindling! . . . Better go home before it gets dark, Hugin.”

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 So Hugin and Blueberry walked back home. The little fairy was right, it was
getting darker. When Hugin and Blueberry reached Grandmother’s house
they were hungry but they would have to wait a little longer to eat the apple
pie that Grandmother had put in the oven. “Let’s go outside while we wait,”
they said.
As Grandmother, Hugin and Blueberry were sitting outside looking up at
the night sky, it became darker and the first star came out. “Look!” Hugin
said to his Grandmother, pointing up, and at that moment something
dashed across the sky. It was shimmery and bright with a long tail flying
behind it, and it glimmered in the darkness. “Oh Grandmother, what was
that?” asked Hugin. “That was a shooting star; we must make a wish, for it
is good luck to see a shooting star,” said Grandmother. They closed their
eyes and each made a wish.
“Come, my boy,” said Grandmother, “our apple pie must be done by now.”
While they were eating their pie Hugin said to his Grandmother, “Oh how
I wish I had a shooting star to play with—it would shimmer and glitter
and I could play catch with Blueberry!” “Ah,” said Grandmother, “perhaps
tomorrow I will show you one way.”
The next morning, after they had eaten breakfast, Hugin said, “Grandmoth-
er, will you show me now?” “Yes, dear Hugin,” and she took some of her
fluffy, puffy wool, orange and red just like the colors of Prince Autumn, and
she made a round ball of it and washed it with soap. She rolled it round
and round in her hand for what seemed like a long time, making soft, soapy
lather. She let Hugin roll it in his hands, too. The ball got smaller and round-
er and firmer as they took turns rolling it in their hands.
Finally Grandmother said it was done. She rinsed it and dried it in a towel
and then she took out her sewing basket and sewed some ribbon onto
it, yellow, gold, red and orange. Hugin had to wait many days for it to dry
but finally grandmother took it down for him to play with it. Hugin threw
it up as high as he could; the ribbon fluttered in the wind behind it and it
landed on the ground in front of Blueberry, who was happy to play with it,
too. “Oh Grandmother, thank you! I knew you would know how to make a
shooting star—just like that shooting star we saw in the night sky.”

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Fiochetto Bianco
AUTHOR UNKNOWN

EDITOR’S NOTE: In several kindergartens I have seen this story told or performed before a
Lantern Walk.

O nce upon a time there was a little shepherd boy. He had only one
little lamb to tend. The name of the lamb was Fiochetto Bianco, which
means White Flake, for his fleece was as white as snow that falls from the
sky in winter. Fiochetto Bianco wore a little golden bell around his neck so
that he made sweet music wherever he went. Every day, the little shepherd
led Fiochetto Bianco to the pasture where he could eat sweet green grass.
One early morning, the little shepherd put on his rucksack and his hat, and
set off as usual with Fiochetto Bianco. They climbed a tall hill. Soon the path
began to wind and turn, and it became very steep and rocky. It was not so
hard for Fiochetto Bianco with his four legs, but for the little shepherd boy
with his two—well, he soon became quite tired. They stopped to rest and
they noticed a gurgling sound. Leaving the path, they went to look for its
source, and soon came upon a spring bubbling with cool, clear water. The
little shepherd and his lamb were thirsty and both drank gratefully. The lad
sat down and leaned against a tree to rest while Fiochetto Bianco nibbled
the grass that grew at the edge of the spring. Soon, the shepherd boy fell fast
asleep and Fiochetto Bianco wandered away, following the brook that flowed
from the spring and down the hillside.
After a time, the little shepherd awoke. He stretched and looked around
him, but he did not see his little lamb. Nor did he hear the little golden bell
that Fiochetto Bianco wore around his neck. He called:

75
 “Fiochetto Bianco! Fiochetto Bianco!
Come to me! Come to me!”
The shadows grew long and soon the sun set. The first star rose in the sky.
The poor little shepherd could not find Fiochetto Bianco anywhere. He sat
down on a rock and began to cry. After a moment he heard sweet singing.
He looked up and he could see a bird in the evergreen tree, singing her
evening song.
The shepherd listened and when the song ended, he asked the bird, “Have
you seen my lamb, Fiochetto Bianco?” The bird shook her head. “No,” she
said. “Look in the woods. I will show you the path.” The bird flew ahead of
him and showed him the way. The little shepherd thanked her and walked
into the woods. The moss was soft and his footsteps made no sound. It was
beginning to get dark. He called:
“Fiochetto Bianco! Fiochetto Bianco!
Come to me! Come to me!”
But there was no answering bleat, no tinkling bell. Just then, he heard a
rustling in the bushes. Was it a fox? Or a wolf? No, it was a squirrel, fetching
some nuts for his supper. “Good evening,” said the shepherd. “Have you seen
my lamb, Fiochetto Bianco?” The squirrel shook his head and said, “No, I have
not seen your lamb. Perhaps the hare has. I will take you to his house.” They
went further and further into the darkening woods. “The hare lives in the
roots beneath that oak tree,” said the squirrel. The little shepherd thanked
him and the squirrel skittered away up the trunk of a nearby tree.
The shepherd knocked on the door of the hare’s house. The hare was just
getting ready to curl up in his warm burrow to go to sleep. “Good evening,”
said the lad. “Have you seen my lamb, Fiochetto Bianco?” “No, I have not,”
said the hare, “but perhaps the owl has. He has good eyes that can see in
the dark. I will take you to him.”
The woods were very dark now. It was hard for the little shepherd to follow
the hare. “The owl lives in the hollow tree,” said the hare. The boy thanked
him and he bounded away in the darkness.
The shepherd boy was a bit shy to ask the owl, but at last he found his

76
courage. “Good evening,” he said, “have you seen my lamb, Fiochetto
Bianco?” “No, I have not,” said the owl. “But there is someone who may
be able to help you. I will take you to his house.” Now the woods were
completely dark and the little shepherd could not see at all. He did his best
to follow the owl’s soft hooting call in the darkness.
Soon they came to a small house in the forest. Light shone from the
window. The owl said, “This is Omino’s house. You must knock on the door
three times and say—Omino, Omino, come out! Open your door!” The lad
thanked the owl and he flew silently away in the darkness.
Finding all his courage, the little shepherd lad knocked three times on the
door. Knock, knock, knock. He called out, “Omino, Omino, come out! Open
your door!” Soon the door opened and a little man appeared. “Good evening,”
said the lad. “Have you seen my lamb, Fiochetto Bianco?” “No, I have not,”
said Omino. “But I have a lantern and I will help you look.” With that, he
turned and picked up his bright lantern and came out into the night. The light
from the lantern lit the way and the little shepherd could see the path in the
woods. They looked everywhere for the lamb, stopping to call for him:
“Fiochetto Bianco! Fiochetto Bianco!
Come to me! Come to me!”
But there was no answering bleat, no tinkling bell, not even a rustling in the
leaves. After a time, they came to a ravine. As they stood and listened, they
heard a faint tinkling. The little shepherd’s heart was filled with hope.
“Fiochetto Bianco! Fiochetto Bianco!
Come to me! Come to me!”
An answering bleat was heard from far below, and the tinkling of the little
golden bell. Omino held his lantern high and lit every corner of the ravine.
There at the bottom was Fiochetto Bianco, trembling with cold and fear.
The shepherd boy climbed down and gathered his little lamb in his arms.
How happy the two of them were to see each other once more!
Omino lit the way home for them with his bright lantern. The little
shepherd thanked him and they bid each other good night.

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 The Golden Lantern
STEPHEN SPITALNY

O nce upon a time there was a girl with shining eyes whose name was
Sophie. Her mother and father had died and she lived alone in a house
at the edge of the forest. Her sole possession was a golden lantern, left to
her by her parents, and the light of the golden lantern was always shining.
Whatever Sophie put her hand to went well. Each day she brought fresh
water from the stream for cooking and washing. She tended her garden.
She collected fallen branches for her fire. And whatever she did, she always
took the golden lantern with her. The creatures of the forest were her
friends; they were made welcome in her house and what food she had she
shared with them.
As she grew older, the light of her eyes grew dim. One autumn evening
when she was in the forest and it grew dark, she noticed that her golden
lantern was not shining as brightly as it once shone. Over the next days, she
saw that the light of the golden lantern was growing dimmer and dimmer.
One evening when Sophie was gathering wood for the fire, she met a
traveler and asked him, “Who are you, going through the forest with no
lantern and yet the way is bright for you?”
“I am the king’s youngest son. I live on the other side of the forest at the
foot of the mountain of the Sun. I have come to see the girl with the
golden lantern and the shining eyes, for I have heard they do not shine as
brightly as they once did.”

78
“Oh, but it is only my golden lantern that is growing dim,” she said. “Will you
help me rekindle it with a spark from the sun?”
“If that is your wish, come with me,” he said.
He held out his hand and together they went through the forest. At last
they came to the foot of the mountain of the Sun and began to climb. They
climbed higher and higher and higher. The stars were sparkling and smiling
as they made their way toward the top of the mountain. When they neared
the peak and reached a small plateau, the prince said, “You must go the rest
of the way by yourself. I will wait here.”
Sophie went on by herself. It was a steep climb and sometimes she had to
crawl on her hands and knees. Finally she reached the peak of the mountain
of the Sun. The first rays of dawn were at hand and reds and yellows and
purples and pinks were dancing across the sky. And then the sky filled with
golden light, and the warm face of Father Sun was shining over the world.
Sophie called out, “Father Sun. My lantern needs kindling. Please send a
spark of your light that it may brighten my way in the dark world.”
Father Sun looked down and said, “My light is always shining even when
you cannot see it. It is always with you. So, look at your lantern, my child.
Look, it shines brightly. And as long as the light shines in your heart, the
light in your lantern will shine. And all will be well.” Then Sophie’s eyes were
shining again.
“Thank you, Father Sun,” Sophie said, and she started down the mountain.
When she came to the prince she saw that his eyes were shining, too. Then
she took his hand and together they went down the mountain.
They returned to Sophie’s house. There the wedding was celebrated amidst
great rejoicing. And the golden lantern shines its warm light into their home
and it never grows dim.

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 Hugin’s Lantern
CELIA RIAHI

AUTHOR’S NOTE: For this story I made a tiny paper lantern just like the ones that we
made to take home for Thanksgiving and lit it at the end of the story. The first verse is by the
author, the second by Elizabeth Moreland. The story may end with singing a favorite lantern
song.

O ne late autumn day, Hugin was visiting his grandmother. The sky was
turning gray and the branches of the trees were bare. Jack Frost had
already visited once or twice and Father Sun went to bed earlier and earlier
each night. As Hugin and Grandmother stood outside together they could
hear the wind calling the last few leaves on the trees and if they listened
very quietly they could hear Mother Earth calling her children home to
sleep for the winter. Hedgy Hedgehog was getting his house ready for his
family to sleep all winter and little rabbit was gathering food. Nicholas, the
squirrel, was helping his family gather nuts and berries for the long dark
winter.
“Oh, Grandmother, if only we could keep some of Father Sun’s light for the
long dark winter. How I wish we could!” Now Hugin knew his Grandmother
knew everything and maybe she would have a good idea. “Well,” she said,
“go and get some nice gold paper from our cupboard and some tissue paper
[or describe the lantern you are making in class] and glue and we will make
a house for the sunlight.” So they sat and cut and glued until they had the
loveliest house for the light. Now Hugin wondered what they would do
next. They went outside to the highest hill and called out to Father Sun.

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 “Oh Father Sun so bright and strong,
Please listen well to our song
And give a tiny golden spark
To show us the way when it is dark.”
He sent down one of his fire fairies to light the lantern so Hugin and
Grandmother could take it inside their house. “Thank you Father Sun!”
As Mother Earth’s children sleep through the night,
My Lantern will shine with its golden light.
Going before me to light the way
Into the coming darkest day.

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 Mother Earth’s Children
ANDREE WARD

EDITOR’S NOTE: This story was done as a puppet play. The characters of Mother Earth,
Pippin, Old Gnome, mice, bunnies, two more gnomes, squirrels, owls or enough woodland
creatures for all the children in your group may be handed out at the beginning. Appropriate
songs are suggested from the Wynstones book Autumn, or others may be substituted.

O nce upon a time there was a lovely garden where the flowers
blossomed and trees grew tall, where bees and butterflies flew from
flower to flower, where the little animals on the earth and the birds in the
sky lived under the warm sun.
But the days grew cool and the flowers and the animals listened to the song
of the winds. With a Hey and a Ho, the autumn winds blew into the garden
and called, “Arise! Arise, Mother Earth’s children! Arise and dance!”
Sing “Come, Little leaves” (Autumn, p. 41) while the leaves and butterflies and birds fly
around.
What a singing and a dancing, what a playing and a chasing, winds and
leaves, bees and seeds, flying about—until one by one, Mother Earth’s
children could hear her calling, “Come, my children, come home to me.”
Now all the tired little leaves and seeds, bees and animals, followed the call
and made their way down under the ground.
“Come, my children, come home.”
All the creatures go, and even the green silk on the “trees” is removed, leaving them bare.
But someone was left behind! It was Pippin.

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“Where is everyone?” he cried. Just then, an old gnome came walking along.
He carried a lantern. Pippin asked, “Where are all my playmates, the leaves
and the flowers, the bees and creatures of the garden?”
The old gnome replied, “They have gone down to stay with their Mother,
deep under the earth. Soon the cold North Wind will bring ice and snow,
but Mother Earth will keep us warm and snug, down below.” The old
gnome began to walk away.
Pippin said, “May I come along, too?”
“Of course. There is always room for all of Mother Earth’s children.”
“But how will I find the way?”
“Follow the light of the lantern.”
Pippin follows the gnome off stage. While they are placed in the underground scene, all
sing “Glimmer, Lantern, Glimmer” (Autumn, p. 27), verse two only. Lower curtain is opened.
Mother Earth is waiting with the leaves and the seeds, bees, Pippin and the old gnome
nestled around her in her cave. Mother Earth speaks, while the children carefully place their
animals in the scene as they are mentioned:
“Come, my children, come to me.
The fruits of summer sun you bring
They bear a little light,
A little light that glows within
And warms the winter night.
Come, my bunnies, come home.
Come, my little mice, come home.
Come, wise owls, fly home.
Come, Whisky Frisky and Squirrel Nutkin.
Thank you, dear gnome, for lighting the way.
Now, little Pippin, right here you’ll stay.”
All of Mother Earth’s children snuggled into her big, warm lap and she
wrapped them in her cozy gown.
Brown silk gets tucked in around them all.

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 “Here, my children,
Find warmth and sleep.
Above blows ice and snow.
I’ll stay awake the watch to keep;
Let winter winds wail and blow!
But when the Spring Sun comes to call,
We’ll wake again and rise.
Up to the light we’ll make our way
To greet the new morn and blue skies.”

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Silvercap, King of the
Frost Fairies ALICE A. PATTERSON

S ilvercap lived far up among the white, fleecy clouds of the north. All
his life he had played with his brothers and sisters in the kingdom of his
father, King Winter. But now he was grown and he longed for something
great to do. So he was very happy, one day, to have a message from his
father commanding him to come at once to the council chamber of the
palace to discuss plans for a trip to the Earth.
Silvercap did not waste a minute, but rushed into the palace, where he
found his father sitting upon a beautiful crystal throne, with all his servants
about him. As soon as Silvercap had taken his place, the king rose and said:
“I have called you together, my dear subjects, because my son, West
Wind, has just returned from a flying trip to the Earth. He says that Prince
Autumn is staying longer than usual this year, so we must hasten to send
him off.
“North Wind, you must start at once. Blow on the trees and scatter their
leaves far and wide, for some of Autumn’s fairies are still at work painting
them. Hurry to the gardens and the fields; snip off the heads of the autumn
flowers. You understand your work—see that you do it well.
“Prince Snow, fill your bags with flakes from the mountains. Have them
ready tonight, so that you may fly down early in the morning and scatter
the crystals before the sun peeps up.”
When King Winter had given his orders to Prince West Wind and Prince Ice,
and all the rest, he turned to Silvercap.

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“My son,” he said, “you are to be King of the Frost Fairies. They have been
idle too long. Just what they can do I leave to you; make your own plans,
but never forget that you are a prince, and the son of King Winter.”
Silvercap made a low bow to King Winter and left the council chamber. All
the rest of the day, he thought. All night he thought, but in the morning he
called the Frost Fairies together and said:
“My father has made me your king. West Wind has just returned telling
of the wonders he has wrought. He has blown the leaves from the trees,
made the flowers bow their heads and drop their petals and he has driven
the birds away to the south. I am sure he has made the little Earth children
unhappy, for they miss their friends the flowers and the birds. Let us gather
the feathery leaves from our trees and our dainty crystal blossoms. Let us
fill our chariots with building materials. Perhaps we may be able to make
the Earth children happy again.”
The Frost Fairies set up a shout for Silvercap. All day they worked filling their
chariots, and when it became twilight they started out for the Earth. They
flew to the trees and decked every bough with leaves of lace. They covered
every plant in the garden, even the weeds and grasses, with their wonderful
feathery blossoms.
Silvercap looked at their work and was happy.
“Now for the castles,” said the Frost Fairies.
“Let us build them on the windows of the rooms where the children are
sleeping,” said Silvercap.
So into the rooms, through chinks and crannies, the tiny fairies crept.
Silently they began to build, not only grand castles, but high hills covered
with silvery trees and rushing waterfalls, fields filled with rare ferns and
flowers, and flocks of birds flying everywhere.
Just as the sun began to show in the eastern sky the last chariot was
emptied. “Into your chariots,” shouted Silvercap. “We must be gone!” And

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away flew the Frost Fairies just as the little Earth children woke up, crying:
“Oh, the beautiful trees! Oh, the wonderful silver castles! Oh, the kind,
loving Frost Fairies!”
And King Winter was so pleased with their work that he made Silvercap
King of Frostland. Every winter since, he and his Frost Fairies come and
work night after night to make the world beautiful for the little Earth
children.

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 The Crystal Cave
ANDREE WARD, ADAPTED FROM A SWISS STORY

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Traditionally, each week of Advent we celebrate a different kingdom

of nature: the first week, the rocks and crystals; the second, the plant world; the third
the animal kingdom and the fourth, the human being. This story is a lovely example of
celebrating the kingdom of minerals.

T his is a story of something that happened on Christmas Eve, on Holy

Night. It is said that nothing bad can happen on this night; no evil can
befall you on Holy Night.
Not so long ago, high in the mountains, two children, John and Mary, lived
with their mother and father in a little village. Our story begins early in the
morning of Christmas Eve day. The two children set off over the mountain to
visit their grandparents. They arrived just in time for lunch. Grandmother had
been cooking all morning and piled their plates high with good things to eat.
While the children were eating, Grandma packed John’s backpack full to
overflowing with delicious food. Then she said, “In the backpack you will
find a tightly wrapped bottle; it is a tonic for your mother and father, and it
is so strong that the merest sip will warm you from head to toe. The days
are short and you must hurry to get home before evening. Greetings to
Mother and Father and tell them we wish them a right Merry Christmas.”
As the children got ready for their long walk, Grandma gave them hot rolls
to keep their hands warm in their pockets. The children left the house,
walked past their grandfather’s barn, across the fields to the edge of the
forest where they found the path that would lead them over the mountain
and back home. A few snowflakes floated slowly down.

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John said, “See there, Mary, I knew it would snow!”
The two children walked more briskly and Mary was delighted when a
falling snowflake landed on her coat. The flakes fell more and more thickly.
Soon the path was covered with snow; it felt soft underfoot. It was so still,
so quiet, that they could hear the rustle of the flakes settling on the pine
needles. The children pulled their coats tightly about them. John said, “I
think the path must turn here to go down the mountain. The days are short,
as Grandmother said, Mary, so we must hurry.” He took her by the hand
and began to walk at a brisk pace. After a time they came to some immense
shapes heaped in confusion. They went closer to look. Ice! Nothing but
ice! Great green, glassy slabs of ice, glittering like crystals and splinters of
precious jewels. “Oh dear, Mary, we have come the wrong way. We are near
the glacier of the mountain.”
The children went on over the ice wherever they could find a place to
step, but they could find no way down to the valley. At the edge of the ice
were gigantic, heaped up boulders, covered with white snow. Several were
slanted together, and lying over them was a great wide slab, like a roof. A
little house had thus been formed, open at the front. It led into a little cave
which was quite dry inside; not a snowflake had drifted in. By this time it
had grown very dark, and John said, “Mary, it is nearly night and we cannot
go on any further. Let’s go in under the stones where it is dry and sleep in
the cave. We can eat all the good things grandmother gave us.” And so they
went in. Mary sat down close to her brother and they shared the food.
In the meantime, the snow had stopped falling. It was night—Holy Night.
The stars came out in greater and greater numbers; not a cloud was left in
the sky. Nothing was to be seen but whiteness and the blue arch of heaven
was spangled with countless stars.
“Mary, here is the tonic Grandmother sent. Taste just a little; it will make
you warm. Just a tiny sip, then you may go to sleep.” After Mary, John drank
a little. The strong tonic had an immediate effect. Mary said, “I feel nice and
warm in my stomach; even my toes and fingers are getting warm.” Then the
children curled up close together in their little stone house on the snowy
mountaintop and fell fast asleep.

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 It was midnight now; the Holy Hour had come. A vast stillness settled over
the earth. John and Mary had a wonderful dream—a faint light bloomed
amid the stars and began to travel slowly downward in a delicate, glowing
arc of light. The light grew brighter and brighter as it descended. It came
closer to the earth and slowly approached the very cave where John and
Mary slept. The children opened their eyes and found their little house full
of warmth and light. And what could they see? They had fallen asleep in a
real crystal cave, for the walls and roof were glittering and sparkling with
the light of a thousand diamonds. And standing over them was a little child
from whom all the light and warmth came. He wore a white robe and a
golden crown and his gentle smile filled their hearts with peace. Then the
children closed their eyes and slept on through the longest night.
The children slept deeply and well and awoke when the sunlight streamed
into their house. They were refreshed and ready to begin their journey
home. John took his sister by the hand and they walked for some time
across the ice and the snow. At length the boy thought he saw a fire in
the snow. Then they heard faintly, across the still, blue distance, the long
sustained note of an alpenhorn. They both shouted with all their might.
And Mary cried, “John, that’s not a fire. It’s a red flag!” Then they saw
people coming steadily nearer. The first to reach them was herdsman Philip
with his horn. “Praise be to God! Here you are at last! We were scattered all
over the mountain looking for you. What a Christmas!”
Late in the evening, after they had had hot baths and lots of hot milk to
drink, and when they were tucked in their beds, the children told Mother
and Father about the wonderful dream in the crystal cave, and about the
little child who cared for them through the longest night of the year.

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The Child of Light
JAN TANNAROME AND JERRE WHITTLESEY

EDITOR’S NOTE: Two versions of this Advent story are given. The second version is
simplified for very young children.
From Heaven’s arch so high
An angel light draws nigh;
Stops to hear. Stands quite near.
Wonders what is happening here.

O nce upon a time, there was an unborn one who lived with her angel.
The sun in the sky was bright and beautiful and the land below them
was glowing with life. In this land lived a mother and a father. And they
were waiting and hoping for a child—for a baby to come to them. They had
a donkey and a sheep but their hearts longed for a child, a baby.
The angel saw how loving the mother and father were and she heard their
whispered wishes. So the angel and the unborn one decided together that
it was time for her to go to earth. The angel showed her the good mother
and the good father and said, “This is your mother and your father. Go now
to the land that is glowing with life.”
“How do I get there?” asked the unborn one. The angel pointed with her
wing and said, “There is the rainbow bridge. It will carry you down to them.”
The child was filled with joy when she saw the rainbow bridge and when
she put her foot upon it, she went sliding the whole way down.
Rainbow, rainbow, shining bright,
Bring to earth the child of light.

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 When she reached the end and was on the land of life, she found herself
being held and rocked by the mother and she saw the father smiling. The
donkey was so happy he bent his ears and brayed, “Hee Haw!” and the
sheep brought a bundle of her wool to make the baby a bed.
And when the angel saw what a happy family they were, she saw that all
was well and good and she gathered with the other angels to sing songs of
love and joy to the mother, father and the child.
The mother with her baby,
Call the light in gaily,
Come in here, come in here,
Light us with your radiance clear.

AUTHORS’ NOTE: This version is done with a marionette, moving very slowly, and
humming the two verses of “From Heaven’s arch so high. . .” at the beginning and at the end.
We have found that the very youngest children are satisfied with the simplicity of the story.
Once upon a time there was a mommy, and in her heart she wished for a
child, a baby. She wished for a baby, a little child. One day when night was
coming and the stars were shining she looked up into the vast sky and as
she was looking up the saw that the stars were shining brighter and brighter
and she could hear the angel’s song coming from the stars.
In her heart she became very peaceful and still. And as she gazed once
again into the heaven’s, one star grew brighter and brighter and its light
streamed all the way down upon her. And as the light was streaming down,
a little child floated down on the rays of the star and nestled next to the
mommy’s heart. The mommy wrapped her arms around her baby. And her
heart was filled with joy.

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Holy Nights
DEBORAH BAHARLOO

O nce upon a time, during the dark and quiet time of winter, the stars
shone brightly in the heavens and the North Wind blew cold on the
earth. The wind whistled through the forest. Even the biggest, strongest
and furriest animals took shelter from the cold wind. Near the center of
the forest stood a cabin and from the outside one could see a thin smoky
trail floating out of the chimney and soft golden light glowing from the
windows. If one got close enough, you could smell delicious smells and hear
someone softly singing.
In this home near the center of the forest lived an old woman. She was
older than most of the animals in the forest. When the animals smelled
good smells coming from her house they would often come near; then the
old woman would laugh and say to them, “This is not for you. You have the
whole forest from which to eat. Off you go!”
She was baking many things—pies, biscuits and honeycakes—because her
grandchildren were coming to visit the day after Christmas, and these were
their favorite treats. Every year, at this time, her grandchildren, a little boy
and a little girl, walked deep into the forest to visit their grandmother. They
were always happy to see their grandmother, but sometimes they were
afraid of the dark forest.
This year, before they set off on their long journey, their mother gave them
carefully wrapped packages to bring to Grandmother and a bundle for
themselves for their travels. It was a long journey to Grandmother’s house
and they would have to sleep one night in the forest, but the children ran

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 most of the way, so happy were they to see her. They knew the path well
and they could always find it by the dim winter sunlight or by the bright
moonlight. Sometimes the path was very narrow and hidden by plants and
rocks; other times it was very wide but they always managed to find their
way.
Just as the winter sun was setting and the North Wind was biting at their
clothes, they decided to spend the night in a nearby cave. Their stomachs
were grumbling and their legs were tired. They settled in near the mouth of
the cave so that the moonlight could beam down on them and where they
were protected from the cold wind.
They made sure that grandmother’s packages were safely wrapped and then
they opened their bundle. Inside they found a straw mat, wool blankets
and bread with honey and a small jar of milk. They laid out their sleeping
mat, gave thanks for their food and shelter and ate their food. When they
finished, they wrapped themselves in the blanket and sat listening to the
sounds of the forest.
They heard tapping and clinking sounds, scraping and banging sounds and
even an owl hooting far away and the soft footsteps of an animal on the
prowl. They kept very quiet, keeping a few stones by their side in case a
wild animal should come too close.
With the morning sun, the children were on their way. Before too long
they could see Grandmother’s house and the closer they came, the more
delicious the air smelled. Their hearts leapt with joy. Grandmother was
watching and waiting for them. When she saw them her arms opened wide
and she said, “Dear children, you have found your way to me again!”
The children gave their grandmother all of her gifts and she unwrapped
them very carefully, one by one. In one package she found sugar and salt
and spices; in another there was syrup and honey and oil. And in the third
package she found a small plain wooden box. Inside, wrapped in a gold
cloth, lay a pearl. How happy was Grandmother with these beautiful gifts
and how happy were the children to give them to her.

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Each day the children ate good food, sang songs and heard Grandmother’s
stories of life in the forest. Each day they all worked together to make the
house shine and they even worked out in the garden. “Even during the
winter the garden needs to be cared for,” said Grandmother, so they cut
back plants, covered the beds with straw and sharpened all the tools. How
happily they worked and played together through the short winter days!
All too soon it was time for them to return to their mother and father in
their home at the edge of the forest. They would have liked to stay even
longer, but Grandmother knew it was time for them to go home. Off they
went, the same way they had come, until they arrived home again, twelve
days later. And when they came home they felt a bit older, they stood a bit
taller and they were a bit braver.
And so it was.

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 The Polar Bear
AMY DRENGSON

T here once was an old man who lived all alone in a small wooden house
near the edge of the woods.
One morning the old man awoke and found that snow had fallen and the path
leading to his door was covered. The man felt lonely and sad after looking
outside, for Christmas had passed and it was still winter and very cold. The
old man thought perhaps he could cheer himself by making a beautiful New
Year’s wreath to hang upon his door. He looked all around his house but all
he found were a few scraps of winter greens, and they were not very full.
Still, the old man took the puny twigs and gathered them together, making a
small, sad looking wreath. He hung it on his door and sighed to himself and
said “Dear Wreath, how I wish that you weren’t so frail,” but still it made him
smile to look at what his hands had made and indeed he went inside feeling
a little less lonely.
As the day became night a giant polar bear happened by. The polar bear
was suffering from an itchy back. Looking up the polar bear noticed the
hook in the little wooden door. It was just the right height to scratch his
back upon. The polar bear began to scratch her back upon the hook and
a most dreadful thing happened. The little wreath slipped over her head
and around her neck. The polar bear was quite surprised and didn’t like the
wreath around her neck. It felt scratchy and uncomfortable. She tossed her
head back and forth, but try as she might the wreath would not budge. The
polar bear thought that perhaps if she were to jump into the Arctic Sea, the
wreath would loosen and so she went to the sea and dove in. The polar

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bear swam through the icy waters, and as she swam all kinds of sea life got
caught in the leaves of the wreath—little pieces of seaweed and starfish.
Still the wreath would not come off. She swam to the ocean surface and
got out of the water. As the polar bear walked through the cold air, the wet
wreath around her neck froze, making beautiful ice crystals on the leaves.
The polar bear walked and walked, very sad that the dreadful wreath still
encircled her neck. Then she saw the little wooden door with the hook. She
thought that perhaps if she rubbed her neck on the hook, she could be rid
of the wreath once and for all. She rubbed her neck against the cold, hard
hook and indeed the wreath slipped over her head and finally the polar bear
was free from the cumbersome wreath. She lumbered off into the woods.
It was now growing light. The sun had just risen from behind the hills. The
old man awoke and went to make some hot tea—but as he moved past the
window, he noticed something dazzling and sparkling outside his door. He
opened the door to see what was there, and there on the hook, hung the
wreath he had made the day before, only now it looked to him as if King
Winter had touched it with his magic staff. All of a sudden the little old man
felt warm. He smiled in its radiance as the sunlight hit the beautiful wreath.
It sparkled and seemed to glow. The little old man did not feel lonely
anymore—in fact he was happier than he had ever been.

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 A Million Valentines
SUZANNE DOWN

I t was Valentine’s Day in the little village. Papa Giorgio woke up early as
usual. The sun had not yet arisen and he made himself a cup of tea and
sat in his favorite chair by the big window. He could see far and near, and
it was here where he watched the winter sun rise. The morning pink first lit
up the snow on the mountain, and slowly spread its warmth over the open
valley to his own yard. It was so quiet and still. Nothing moved outside,
except the occasional hungry bird looking for something to eat. Then the
sun’s gold peeked over the mountain. Day had arrived!
Papa Giorgio suddenly sat up and thought, “Winter is so long and cold, so
white and gray, what we need this late in winter is more warm gold, like the
sun. I know just what to do!”
He went to his cupboard and moved boxes and bins, looking for something.
He thought he remembered having net bags that he used to fill with thistle
seeds to hang outside at this time of year. The birds loved to eat thistle
seed! “Oh, yes,” laughed Papa Giorgio, “these seeds bring magic. They
bring gold wherever they are!” Papa Giorgio looked further in his closet and
sure enough he found the net bags and the thistle seeds he had almost
forgotten about.
He smiled, and wondered why he had not been feeding the birds for such
a long time. “I must be getting old and tired, but today I will feed the birds;
each seed will be a valentine gift from me to them! I will fill these little net
bags with seeds, millions of tiny seeds, and hang them outside my window.
Then I will sit and watch the gold come to visit!”

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He filled each bag with tender, loving care. The tiny black seeds glistened
in the sunlight. He hung many bags full of seeds in the trees outside his
window. Even before he got back to his chair, the birds were flying in. They
tucked their small bird feet into the netting and peck–peck–pecked at the
thistle seed. How hungry they must have been! Here and there on all the
net bags he saw flashes of gold. Gold here, gold there, flying, pecking, gold.
The goldfinches had found the thistle-seed Valentines! As he watched,
hundreds of golden birds flew in to eat the seed and they sang and flapped
their wings to Papa Giorgio in thankfulness.
Papa Giorgio watched the birds for a long time, the gold of their feathers
made him think of the coming daffodils and the yellow crocuses of spring.
Winter would soon fade as Lady Spring found her way to the village. How
wonderful to see all the golden birds, like little Sun children. As Papa
Giorgio watched, he started to get sleepy, and his eyes gently closed. . .
When he woke up, the sun was setting! All the net bags were empty! “Oh,
my. Those hundreds of hungry birds certainly enjoyed their Valentine’s Day
meal!”
Papa Giorgio went outside to take the empty bags down. . . and much to
his surprise he saw, on the ground, golden feathers gathered in the shape of
a heart! The goldfinches had left him a Valentine, too.

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 Leprechaun’s Gold
YVONNE DEMAAT

Very early, in the morning,

All the birds awake and sing.
Praising God that now the sunshine
Warmth and joy to earth shall bring.

V ery early in the morning the rooster strutted to the haystack. He

flapped his way to the top of it and looked at his fields. The farmer had
ploughed some land, ready for planting, and the grass for the cows was
turning green again. But what did he see down below in the potato patch?
It was a little man and he was grumbling and mumbling to himself. When
he got closer to the farm the rooster could hear what that little green man
was saying, “Where is my gold, oh, where could it be?”
“I can give you some of mine,” said the rooster, “I was just about to call it.”
And he puffed up his chest, and just as the sun came up he called out a
loud cock-a-doodle-doo. “See,” said the rooster, “there is my gold, isn’t it
beautiful and warm?”
“Ha,” said the leprechaun (for that is what he was), “that may be gold to you,
but it is of no use to me.” And he walked on, grumbling to himself.
There in the courtyard he mumbled; “Where is my gold, oh, where could it
be?” He met a hen, and she said: “I will let you hold some of my gold,” and
then seven little chicks came cluck-clucking along.
“Aren’t they precious?” she asked. But the leprechaun only grumbled, “That
may be gold to you, but it is of no use to me.”

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He walked on to the hay field and mumbled; “Where is my gold, oh, where
could it be?” A little calf said, “I will share some of mine. I was just going to
eat some of this golden hay!” “Ha,” said the leprechaun, “that may be gold
to you, but it is of no use to me.”
And he mumbled “Where is my gold, oh, where could it be?” and he came
to a field where some sheep were grazing. And one of them said: “I’ll
share some of my gold with you. It’s so yummy!” and she gave him some
buttercups. “Arhh,” said the leprechaun, “that may be gold to you, but it is
of no use to me.”
And on he went, until he came to a duck in the pond. “What are you
mumbling about?” asked the duck. “Oh, I don’t know where my gold is,”
said the leprechaun. “My gold is just coming. See that little girl, she always
brings me gold.”
The leprechaun jumped behind a rock because he did not want any humans
to see him. Why, they might catch him, they are so fast.
And the girl called out: “Where is my little duckling?” The duck swam as fast
as he could to the girl and the girl threw golden crusts of bread to her duck.
“Arggg,” said the leprechaun, “that may be gold to you, but it is of no use to
me.”
Now the girl heard him, and she knew that catching a leprechaun meant
good luck. So she jumped and caught the leprechaun from behind his rock.
She looked at him and asked, “Why are you so very grumpy?”
“Oh, I lost my gold and can’t find it.”
“Oh,” said the girl, “have some of my gold! See these daffodils, their golden
color always cheers me up.”
And the leprechaun let out a deep sigh and said, “No one here on this farm
can help me find my gold, and now it’s starting to rain as well, hmmpp!”
The girl started laughing and danced in the rain.
“Silly, silly little leprechaun,” she said, “don’t you know that when it rains and
the sun shines that there will be a rainbow?”
And he was just about to say, “That may be gold to you,” when he

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 remembered that there is always a pot of gold at the bottom of a rainbow—
his Gold!
Together they ran to the end of the rainbow and the leprechaun hugged the
pot of gold that was there. But the girl held on to his coat, and said, “Now
give the gold to me.” And the leprechaun knew he had to give it to her,
because if you catch a leprechaun he must give you a pot of gold.
So he gave her the pot, and the girl ran home to show her parents the pot
of gold, and as long as she lived her life was golden.
The leprechaun went on his way, mumbling “Where is my gold, oh, where
could it be?” Perhaps one day you will find a grumpy little leprechaun, and
you will know just what to do.

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Lady Spring Arrives
SHERRI SCOTT

O nce upon a time when winter was not quite gone and spring had
not quite arrived, a young girl named Dorothy went for a walk in the
woods. She was walking without thinking about anything in particular,
just enjoying the lovely day, when she felt a sudden chill in the air. There
walking ahead of her was most certainly a king, for he wore a crown of
sparkling ice and was wrapped in furs. As he walked, snow seemed to follow
behind him. He was moving so slowly that she was soon beside him.
As they walked together, he said he had lost his way to his castle and asked if
she had seen it. She offered to help him find it, and so together they walked
deeper into the forest, which was darker and colder the further they traveled.
Her hands were getting so cold that finally she stopped and cupped her
fingers, warming them with her breath. But when she did this, a magical thing
began to happen. The warm air froze into snowflakes and flew upward. The
more she blew on her hands, the more the snowflakes flew. Right before her
eyes the snowflakes swirled and settled into a sparkling castle.
King Winter bowed down to thank her for her generous gift, and then with
a wave of snow he disappeared into the frosty castle which began to glisten
as the sun peeked through the trees. The little girl gave one last look at the
castle and continued on her way.
As the sun began to brighten and warm the path, Dorothy noticed that the
forest was changing. The colors were brighter, and there were even bright
sounds coming from the trees. She saw a patch of purple under a tree and
stooped down to look closer. Ah, the first crocus of the spring, she thought.

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 At that very moment, a beautiful young woman appeared from behind the
tree. She was clothed in a long flowing airy dress of the most beautiful
colors of spring, with flowers in her long dark hair.
She curtsied and introduced herself as Lady Spring, as if it were the
most natural thing in the world. Lady Spring was carrying a basket with
paintbrushes and pots of the most wonderful colors. Dorothy curtsied back
and not knowing what else to do, asked, “May I help you?”
Lady Spring handed her a fine brush and some pots of color and showed
her how to gently paint flowers of bright yellow and lovely purple with the
freshest green leaves. Together the two of them wandered from the forest
to the fields, adding color everywhere. As they worked, the air came alive
with the sounds of birds busily flying about building nests, the sounds of
squirrels, of rabbits, and foxes all enjoying the warmth and sunshine.
As they painted, Lady Spring told her all about the mysterious May Queen
and how she loved the sound of children singing and how she especially
loved to watch children dancing around the Maypole. The May Queen
searched out only the most beautiful places for bringing flowers to the
children. Lady Spring was hoping her colorful painting would mean a visit
from the May Queen this year.
The two of them worked their magic with the paintbrushes until
they reached Dorothy’s house. She was surprised
to see daffodils and tulips in her yard that had
not been there when she began her walk that
morning. She turned to thank Lady Spring,
but she was not there—only a sweet smell
of flowers and springtime rain. Dorothy
thought maybe she had imagined her, but
there in her hand was the paintbrush and
a pot of color. She carefully painted two
more flowers. She brought one to her
mother, saying, “Spring is here, spring
is here!” And the other she left on the
porch for the May Queen.

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The Mud Muffins
BETSI MCGUIGAN, BASED ON AN IMAGINATION FROM ANITRA SORENSON

O ne day Peter and Polly ran outside to play. The snow still made
a patchy blanket across the ground, for Mrs. Thaw had been in the
neighborhood and swept away whole patches of snow leaving the brown
earth showing through. Father Sun shone down brightly and made the days
long and warm.
But Peter and Polly were hoping to go sliding a few more times before
Mrs. Thaw came and swept all of the snow away. They ran to their favorite
hillside and flopped on their bellies. “Whee!” cried the children. “This is fun!”
Up the hill they ran and down again. “Whee!” cried Polly. “Oh, Peter!” Polly
began to laugh. Mrs. Thaw had been to their favorite field already and Peter
had discovered just where she had come and swept the snow away. Peter
had landed in a big mud puddle. But both of the children were laughing.
After the long, cold winter they were happy to see the brown earth again.
But suddenly Peter cried, “Polly! Look!”
The children stared at the little brown creature standing near the edge of
the puddle.
“What is it?” whispered Polly.
“I don’t know,” Peter replied.
The creature did not seem afraid, so Polly spoke up. “Excuse me, hello. . .
but. . . who are you?”
“Oh!” said the little creature with a start.

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 He had been so busy that he had not noticed the children. “Oh my, hello,
children! Who am I? Polly dear, can it be true that you are already six years
old and have never before noticed me? Oh dear me. . . no. . . well. . . I
suppose not. Every year, Polly, here I am, as busy as can be while you sled
and play. Why, you’ve helped me before—don’t you know? You too, Peter.
But, you ask—who am I? My dear Peter and Polly, I am a Mud Muffin. This
is my busy time of year, as you can see. I must stir up all of the mud in all
of the mud puddles. I count on the children to help me. Come now, find a
stick.
“We must stir and stir. Mrs. Thaw is busy too, sweeping and sweeping. . .
she sweeps and sweeps all day long. She must sweep away all of this snow
and then we Mud Muffins must stir up all of the mud—with the children’s
help, of course. We depend on the children’s help. Yes, good Peter, you
have found a stick. Yes, Polly, that is right. There is so much mud to stir. . .
The sun has called to the frozen earth
Awake for Spring is near
And everywhere there was ice and snow
The squishy mud appears!
Yesterday it was white and slushy
Now my garden is brown and mushy
I feel the earth begin to sing
Thanks, Mr. Sun, for it’s almost Spring!
“Oh, wonderful, children! You are doing a wonderful job! Do you hear? Tee
hee! Tee hee! Our friends the chickadees are laughing! That means the sap
in the maple trees is rising and tickling their toes! When we stir the mud it
tickles the trees’ toes and makes the trees laugh. And when the trees laugh,
that tickles the chickadees’ toes. Then they stop singing chickadee-dee-dee
and they start to laugh—tee hee! Tee hee!
“Well, Polly and Peter, I am very glad that you came by. For now the sap
is rising. Soon Farmer Brown will come and tap the maple trees. The
chickadees will laugh and you, my dear children, will have pancakes with
syrup!”

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The Little Pine Tree
A GERMAN FOLK TALE

O ut in the woods there grew a little pine tree, and its leaves were long,
slender, green needles. But the little tree did not like its needles.
“I wish that I had beautiful leaves,” it thought. “I wish that I might have
leaves different from any of the other trees. If I could have my wish, I
would have leaves all of shining gold.”
After a while night came, and the little tree went to sleep, and the Angel
of the Trees walked through the woods. In the morning the little tree had
leaves of shining gold.
“How very beautiful I am!” it thought. “How my leaves sparkle in the sun!
Now I shall always be happy!”
Foolish little pine tree! It was not happy for long.
In the night a man came to the woods with a bag. He picked off all the
gold leaves, and took them home with him. Then the poor little tree had no
leaves. “What shall I do?” it cried. “I will not wish for gold leaves again!”
“How pretty glass leaves would look! They would sparkle in the sun, and no-
one would rob them. I wish that I could have glass leaves!”
That night the Angel of the Trees walked through the woods again. In the
morning, when the sun peeped over the hill, it looked at the little pine tree.
All the other trees looked at it, too.
How beautiful it was! It had glass leaves now, and they sparkled in the
bright sunshine. The little tree was happy all morning. But in the afternoon,

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 black clouds hid the sun, and the rain came down. The tree shivered in the
wind.
When the shower was over, there were no glass leaves to sparkle in the
sunshine. The wind had broken each one, and they lay on the ground under
the bare branches.
“I will not wish again to be better than my neighbors,” cried the pine tree.
“If I had big green leaves like them I should be happy.” Then the tree went
to sleep, and once more the Angel of the Trees walked through the woods.
When it was morning the pine tree looked just like the other trees, for it
had fine, large green leaves.
But the big leaves looked so good and so juicy that an old goat came along,
and he ate every one for his dinner.
“Alas!” cried the little tree. “A man took my leaves of gold. The wind broke
my leaves of glass. A goat ate my large green leaves. I wish that I had my
long, green needles again!”
The Angel of the Trees was listening to all that the little pine tree said. The
next day the birds flew to the little tree, and they were happy to see that it
was covered again with long needles.
“Now we can build our nests here,” they said.
“Yes,” said the tree. “I will hide your nests with my needles, and in the winter
I will keep you safe and warm.
“Gold leaves, glass leaves, and large green leaves were very fine; but nothing
is so good for a little pine tree as its own long needles.”

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The Old Woman
and the Tulips BETSI MCGUIGAN

T here was once upon a time a little old woman who lived in a little
house. The house had two windows, one on either side of the door, and
two more windows that peeked out from underneath her roof. In front
of the house was a garden full of flowers. The old woman loved to have
flowers all year long. But of all the flowers that grew, her favorites were the
tulips.
Very early every spring, she would begin to walk up her garden path and
walk down her garden path, looking at her garden bed. Each day she would
walk up her garden path and down her garden path and at last she would
see a little green head pushing up through the brown earth. Then she
would say, “There’s one!”
Soon there would be another and another and another. And the little
shoots would push up taller and at last the leaves would unfold and a little
green head would appear. And the sun would shine and the rain would rain
and the wind would blow. And soon the tulips would open to the sun—pink,
white, purple, red, yellow and even red and white!
And then the old woman would walk up her garden path and walk down
her garden path and look at her tulips and say, “Well, there they be, just a-
growin’ and a-blowin’ . . . just a-growin’ and a-blowin’. ” And the old woman
thought that her tulips were very pretty—and indeed they were!
Now one evening in May when the moon was shining bright, it was the
old woman’s bedtime. She was getting ready for bed when suddenly she

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 thought about her tulips. “They will look so pretty in the moonlight,” she
said to herself. “I will just peek out my door at them.”
And so the old woman peeked out the door. The moon was shining so
brightly that it was almost as light as day. A gentle wind was blowing and
the tulips swayed from side to side. The old woman smiled at her tulips and
said, “Well, there they be—just a-growin’ and a-blowin’ . . . just a-growin’
and a-blowin’. ”
She was just about to go back inside—for it really was past her bedtime—
when suddenly she stopped and put her hand to her ear. “I hear singing.”
Now it was quite late and the old woman lived far out in the country.
“What can that be?” she asked.
She did not go back inside, but asked again, “What can it be?” The old
woman walked down the path. At the end of the path, she leaned against
the gate. The music grew clearer, nearer, and louder.
Suddenly she stood straight up and said, “I know! I know! I know! ’Tis
the pixies singing!” Now pixies is another word for fairies. Past the hedge
beyond the gate was a pixie ring and the old woman knew that in May
when the moon shines full, the pixies come up from their homes under the
ground and dance on the pixie ring. No wonder the music was so beautiful!
The old woman also knew that the pixies do not like to be watched. So she
said, “Bless their little hearts!” and turned to go back inside—for it really
was past her bedtime.
Now the old woman walked up the path in the moonlight. There were
her tulips. . . just a-growin’ and a-blowin’. They looked so pretty in the
moonlight, that she bent over to take a closer look. But she jumped back
and cried, “Well, bless me!” She went to another tulip, bent over and
soon jumped back and cried, “Well, bless me!” She went up and down the
walkway and at each tulip the same thing happened and the old woman
cried, “Well, bless me!”
The old woman was very surprised and you would have been, too—for
in each tulip she found a sleeping pixie baby. She knew just what had
happened. When the pixies came up from underground, they could not

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leave their babies behind—no one would do that! And they could not dance
while holding their babies. The old woman’s tulips made a perfect cradle,
deep and safe. When the wind blew, it rocked the babies to sleep. And so
the old woman walked up and down the path and said, “Well, bless their
little hearts!” a great many times.
But it really was past her bedtime and so she went inside to bed.
But the old woman who loved her tulips was ever so pleased to know that
the pixie babies were sleeping in her tulips. She continued to take the
greatest care of her tulips. And sometimes, when the moon was full in May,
she would go outside, and peek inside her tulips.

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 Grandfather Tomten
and the Easter Surprise NANCY FOSTER

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is a little story I created for my grandchildren, one- and three-year-
olds at the time, and it has become our traditional story before their Easter egg hunt each
year. This can be done as a lap story or a table play. I used a simple knitted hand puppet for
Grandfather Tomten, but it could easily be a standing doll with arms, instead.
Underneath the covering silk, there is another cover of white silk “snow.” To begin, sing the
first verse of “Winter’s Past” (Let Us Form a Ring, p. 24) while removing the covering silk;
then sing the second verse while slowly removing the “melting snow.”

A ll winter long, Grandfather Tomten had been asleep in his home

beside a large rock in the meadow. He slept so soundly he did not
notice when the warm sun melted the last snow of winter. He slept so
soundly he did not notice when the flowers in the meadow wakened and
smiled up at the sun.
A bumblebee came buzzing by. He stopped to gather some pollen from
the flowers, and whispered to Grandfather Tomten, “Wake up, Grandfather
Tomten, spring is here, and the flowers are blooming.”
But Grandfather Tomten did not hear him, and slept on.
A butterfly came fluttering by. She visited the flowers to sip their sweet
nectar, and whispered to Grandfather Tomten, “Wake up, Grandfather
Tomten, spring is here, the flowers are blooming, and the bees are buzzing.”
But Grandfather Tomten did not hear her, and slept on.
A robin came flying by. He sang, “Cheer-up, cheer-up, it’s time to build

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a nest!” and sang softly to Grandfather Tomten, “Wake up, Grandfather
Tomten, spring is here, the flowers are blooming, the bees are buzzing, and
the butterflies are fluttering.”
But Grandfather Tomten did not hear him, and slept on.
At last a rabbit came hopping by. She stopped now and then to nibble the
sweet clover in the meadow, and whispered to Grandfather Tomten, “Wake
up, Grandfather Tomten, spring is here, the flowers are blooming, the bees
are buzzing, the butterflies are fluttering, the robins are singing, and I have
hidden an Easter surprise for you.”
And Grandfather Tomten opened his eyes, stretched, and looked around—
just in time to see the rabbit hopping away.
Grandfather Tomten said, “Spring is here, the flowers are blooming, the
bees are buzzing, the butterflies are fluttering, the robins are singing, and I
think the Easter rabbit has hidden a surprise for me. Where could it be?”
And he began to look: under the stone. . . behind the bushes. . . under the
yellow flowers. . . and there, just in a little hollow in the hillside, he found
it: a beautiful colored Easter egg! Grandfather Tomten tucked it into his
basket, and home he went as pleased as could be.
End by singing the first verse of the opening song while replacing the covering silk.

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 Golden Rabbit and the
Rainbow Eggs JAN TANNAROME & JERRE WHITTLESEY

I t was the first day of spring! Golden Rabbit peeked his nose out from
under the bushes and sniffed the sweet spring air. It was not raining. It
was not cold. It was sunshiny and warm! So Golden Rabbit hopped outside
to play. He hopped and hopped all around the bright green meadow when,
much to his surprise, a big gray cloud covered the sun and it started to rain!
So, Golden Rabbit scampered back under the bushes and hopped inside
where it was cozy and dry to wait for the rain to stop.
When the rain stopped, Golden Rabbit peeked his nose out from under
the bushes and sniffed the sweet spring air. It was sunshiny and warm. So
Golden Rabbit hopped outside to play. He hopped and hopped all over the
bright green meadow until he found a spot in the warm sunshine and there
he stayed.
It was then that he saw a shimmering rainbow in the sky. And at the end of
the rainbow he found colored eggs. And the shining colors spoke from the
sky:
Take these eggs and hide them far and wide;
When the children find them they will see the sun inside.
And Golden Rabbit took the eggs and began to hide them.
See him leap! See him leap!
Are the children all asleep?
Now the eggs he’s bringing. It’s spring and birds are singing.
See him leap! See him leap!

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He hid eggs all over the world!
In the morning, when the sun came up, a little girl woke up. Her mother
said to her, “Easter is here! Easter is here! Are there any eggs?”
And the child ran outside to see. At first, she did not see any eggs. But then
she looked under a bush and there they were! First she found one, and then
another, until she had gathered a basket full of rainbow colored eggs. And
when her basket was full, she remembered the song her mother had sung
to her:
Easter hare, ears so tall,
Comes to visit children all.
Brings the eggs all colors bright;
Golden sun in white moonlight.
Easter is coming! Easter is here!

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 The Caterpillar’s Journey
CELIA RIAHI

One day a furry caterpillar

Sitting under a tree
Thought—“let me climb a little higher
To see what I can see.
“Oh me! Oh my!” herself did sigh,
“What lovely sights there are.
I see flying flowers,
Dancing through the air!
“I wonder how they got their wings
And how they learned to fly.
They look so very lovely
Dancing in the sky.”
So the furry caterpillar
Climbed right down the tree.
Off she went to Mother Earth,
To see what she could see.
She came upon the great light cave
Where Mother Earth does dwell
She knocked upon the cave’s large door
And rang its silver bell.

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 “Dear Mother Earth, what shall I do?
I see such lovely things.
I wonder if I
Shall ever have such wings?”
“Dear Caterpillar, brown and small,
You must wait and see.
I know! I’m sure!
Just be patient, please.
“Go to your friends, both great and small.
Watch them carefully.
And when at last, your time has come
Return to visit me.”
Off went furry caterpillar
O’er the rocks and leaves.
Through the forest she did go
To Spider’s house now, please.
She watched him spin his shining web.
Round and round and round.
Spinning, spinning softly.
Why he ne’er did make a sound.
Off went furry caterpillar
O’er the rocks and leaves
Through the forest she did go
To Squirrel’s house now, please.

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 She watched him crack apart his nuts
As fast as fast can be.
“Crack, crack nuts
Crack up and down the tree
Crack, crack nuts
Hide, no one else can see.”
Off went fuzzy caterpillar
O’er the rocks and leaves.
Through the forest she did go
To Robin’s house now, please.
She watched as Robin flew up high
And sang her lovely song:
“Fly away, high in the sky
You will learn how bye and bye
Spread your wings and try your best.”
Off went furry caterpillar
O’er the rocks and leaves
Through the forest she did go
To her own leaf now, please.
She curled up on her favorite leaf
And closed her little eyes
Soon she was in dreamland
And in for a big surprise!

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For her dreams were filled with all her friends.
And all that she did learn;
To spin, to crack, to fly up high,
All in each one’s turn.
She dreamed she spun a long white thread,
Round and round and round.
She felt warm and cozy
On her leaf on the ground.
She woke one day with Father Sun
Tickling her nose.
She stretched, and cracked apart her house,
Then to Father Sun arose.
She remembered Robin’s song
and spread her wings out wide.
She flapped them in the summer breeze,
So she could fly up high.
So now our furry caterpillar
Who had sat upon her leaf,
Flew back to Mother Earth,
Her promise she did keep.
I see at last your time has come
To dance high in the sky,
For on this lovely sunny day
You’ve become a Butterfly.

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 Corn Child and the
Queen of the Night JO VALENS

I t was late summer, with the days still warm but the nights beginning to
cool, and in the fields the corn was beginning to ripen. At the edge of the
woods the berries were turning red. In the morning, the deer would come
out from the shadows of the trees to nibble at the delicious blackberries
and raspberries that grew there. Apples were growing round and firm on
the apple trees. Deer would go there, also, rising up on their hind legs to
pull an apple down from the branch. In the garden, pumpkins were still
green but growing larger every day beneath the vine. Fairies followed
the birds through the air, teaching them beautiful songs. Little fire fairies
accompanied the bees and butterflies as they flew from one blossom to the
next.
Corn Child was outside playing when she heard a strange noise, a
buzzing sound like a giant bumblebee. But it wasn’t a bee at all; it was a
hummingbird going from flower to flower. “How beautiful!” Corn Child
exclaimed. The hummingbird’s vest shimmered pink and green. It was
so beautiful. How did he ever become so sparkling? Corn Child forgot
everything else and followed the little hummingbird from blossom to
blossom, out of the garden and across the field. Just as Corn Child was
beginning to feel too hot, they came upon a shallow stream. Hummingbird
flew directly across it and Corn Child splashed through the water to the
other side. And now the ground began to rise and there was a path heading
up the mountainside. On went the hummingbird and onward went the
little Corn Child.

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The day was growing cooler and the shadows were growing long. Suddenly,
the little bird disappeared! Where did he go? Corn Child looked around
and saw that evening was coming on and she did not know how to get
home. Then she saw something glimmering, something shining. It was
coming from a cave in the hillside. Corn Child entered the cave; everything
was sparkling! There she saw, sitting upon her throne, the most beautiful,
sparkling Queen. It was the Queen of the Night. Around her, little gnomes
were busy at work. Some were taking starlight from the Queen’s gown and
using it to polish their jewels. Others were busy making and repairing little
vests like the one Hummingbird wore.
The Queen of the Night looked kindly upon Corn Child. “The night is dark,
too dark for you to see the path. I will ask Hummingbird to take you home.”
So Corn Child climbed onto Hummingbird’s back and they went outside
and up into the air they flew. The nighttime stars made the Hummingbird’s
vest shine even more brightly. Snug and warm in his feathers, Corn Child
was carried all the way back down the mountain, across the stream, over
the field, through the garden and right inside to her own snug bed. Hardly
had she pulled up the covers than she was sound asleep and did not wake
up until morning. When she opened her eyes, there was no hummingbird to
be seen. She looked out the window at the sparkling dew. Then she looked
down and saw that she, too, had received a sparkling vest. “Thank you!” she
called out to the Hummingbird and to the Queen of the Night.

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 Jimmy Acorn Stories
JO VALENS

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I do these Jimmy Acorn stories as puppet shows, making Jimmy Acorn
by using an acorn for his head and felting a little brown body which I glue to the acorn. I
intersperse these stories throughout the school year from September into Spring.
September

J immy Acorn lived high in an old oak tree. From here he could look out
and see everything there was to see. When the wind blew, he hung on
tightly to his branch, swaying to and fro. Never, ever did he think he would
want to leave a place as lovely as this. One morning, however, Jimmy Acorn
awoke to a crisp, blue sky and not a breath of wind. He looked around and
could see that his friends, the Fire Fairies, had been busy painting the leaves
of the nearby trees yellow and gold and red. “Oh,” he said, “I would like to
do that! I want to be of help.” And without giving it a moment’s thought,
he leapt from his branch, flew out into the air and landed on the ground,
kerplop! After adjusting his cap, he looked up, amazed at how far he had
come.
Just then, there came along a grey squirrel. “Yum,” said the squirrel. “I’m
going to take you with me and stash you away so that I will have food in
the winter.”
“No, no,” said Jimmy Acorn. “I want to see the world. I don’t want to be
hidden away. I was going to help the Fire Fairies.” But Squirrel Nutkin didn’t
listen at all. He scooped up Jimmy Acorn and carried him away.
Squirrel Nutkin had many favorite places to store nuts for the winter. One

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such place was near the compost pile, for in winter the children always kept
the path clear, which made finding his store easier for the squirrel. And this
is where he carried Jimmy Acorn. The squirrel dug a little hole and buried
Jimmy Acorn in it before scurrying off. Jimmy Acorn curled himself up into a
snug little ball and fell asleep, dreaming of his home high up in the branches.
October

J immy Acorn awoke and felt miserable. He was used to his home high
up in the old oak tree, where he could look out and see everything. He
was feeling so sad that at first he did not notice a little gnome approaching.
“Hello,” said the gnome. “You’re looking very sad today.”
“Oh, yes,” said Jimmy Acorn. “I had wanted to help the Fire Fairies paint the
leaves and now here I am, buried in the ground. “I can’t even see the leaves
from here. I can’t see anything!”
“Oh, but open your eyes! Look around you,” said the gnome. “I spend a lot of
time underground and I see so many wonderful things.”
Jimmy Acorn looked around him and saw that the gnome was right! There
was much to see that he had never seen before. There were stones and
roots, beetles and little sleeping insects. Why, Squirrel Nutkin had brought
him right into Mother Earth’s warm gown and he hadn’t even noticed. “This
is a rather nice place to be,” said Jimmy Acorn to the gnome. “I think I rather
like it here. But I still want to go and help the Fire Fairies paint the leaves.”
Just then he heard the wind above him singing.
“Come, little leaves,” said the wind one day,
“Come over the meadow with me and play.”
And Jimmy Acorn managed to dig himself out from under the earth and he
looked up and could see the leaves, all dressed in red and gold, playing with
the wind.
“Oh, how I should like to do that!” said Jimmy Acorn. Gently, the leaves
came down, making for Jimmy Acorn a nice, warm blanket. Now Jimmy
Acorn was happy. He curled up and fell asleep, dreaming his acorn dreams.

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 November

J immy Acorn is dreaming; he is dreaming of

becoming a mighty oak tree. O! how he will
stretch his roots downward, holding onto the
earth. O! how he will reach upward, sending
out a shoot that will grow stronger and taller,
reaching all the way to the sun! Suddenly,
Jimmy Acorn shivers and awakens. Oh, dear,
he has no root; he has no shoot. He’s not
going to grow at all! Jimmy Acorn moans and
turns uncomfortably. Big Brother Gnome
comes and covers him up again, gently
tucking him in.
“Sleep, sleep, Jimmy Acorn,” says Big Brother Gnome. “Have no fear; your
dream will come true. But you must have patience to grow. Wait for the
starlight of winter. The snowflakes that come will bring it to you. But you
must be asleep for it to come. In your dreams it will come. Starlight will
teach you everything you will need to know about growing into a fine oak
tree. Shhh. Be patient; wait; sleep. Sleep, Jimmy Acorn, sleep.”
December or January

D eep beneath the snow, buried close to the compost pile, Jimmy Acorn
was sleeping. But little gnomes were busy doing their work, using
starlight to polish the crystals, feeding the roots of the trees and turning
compost into soil for Mother Earth. As he was working away, Little Brother
Gnome came upon Jimmy Acorn. “Big Brother!” called Little Brother
Gnome, “Come look at what I have found! Isn’t this a funny looking stone!
Is it meant to be polished?”
Big Brother came over to see. “Oh, no,” said he, “This is not a stone. This is
one of the Acorn family. Of course you did not recognize him, for he is far
from his Grandfather Oak from whence he came. Squirrel Nutkin must have
brought him here to save him for winter feasting.” Little Brother Gnome
was curious. Jimmy Acorn was not like any of the other little seeds he had

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seen sleeping, ones from the nearby trees and flowers, like Peter Pine Cone
or Pretty Apple Pip or little Dandelion Dandy.
Just then, there was a flurrying and a scurrying above. It was Squirrel Nutkin,
hungry as always on this winter morn. He thought he could smell the acorn
he had hidden and he began to dig down for it. Well, Big Brother Gnome
and Little Brother Gnome had the same thought and all at once they threw
a little stardust blanket over Jimmy Acorn. Stardust, as you may know, has
magic in it, and that magic worked just now so as to hide Jimmy Acorn from
Squirrel Nutkin’s nose. Scitter! Scatter! went Squirrel Nutkin as he followed
his nose off to other findings. No worry, he wouldn’t go hungry today; he
had so many places where he had hidden food that he would soon be
nibbling away.
Jimmy Acorn, meanwhile, was dreaming his acorn dreams, dreaming
of starlight and his old home way up high in the old oak tree. “Ah,” he
mumbled in his sleep.
Leaves from aloft the roots do feed;
A seed is a star and a star is a seed.
Twinkling twilight to my toes;
From a tiny acorn the mighty oak grows.
Together Big Brother Gnome and Little Brother Gnome tucked the stardust
blanket around Jimmy Acorn. Big Brother gave him a kiss on the cheek and
then the two went off to continue their important work.
February

D eep beneath the snow, next to the compost pile, Jimmy Acorn was
sleeping. The little gnomes were busy doing their work, using stardust
to polish the crystals, feeding the roots and turning compost into soil for
Mother Earth. Little Brother Gnome was working carefully, watching out for
Jimmy Acorn. “Big Brother,” he asked, “shall I be turning Jimmy Acorn into
soil?” “That all depends,” said Big Brother Gnome. “We could help Jimmy
Acorn to sprout a root and a shoot, to begin his growing into a mighty oak
tree. But our work will really not bear fruit without a special ingredient from
above.”

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 What would that be?” asked Little Brother Gnome.
“It is love,” said the Big Brother. “The love of human beings.”
“Love?” said Little Brother. “What is love?”
Just then the little gnomes became aware of footsteps up above. Two
children, a sister and a brother, were out walking on this wintry morning.
The little girl shivered with the cold and complained, “Oh, brother, I am so
very cold. Please can we go home and get warm?”
“Is your coat not warm enough?” asked her brother.
“Yes, it is, but I have forgotten my hat.”
“Silly sister,” said her brother, laughing. And taking off his own hat he gave
it to her. Then he also took off his scarf and wrapped it snugly around
his sister. “But are you not cold, brother?” the sister asked. “I’m just fine,”
answered the brother; “Let’s head home.”
“I think we can get this oak tree started!” said the Big Brother Gnome.
Gently he gave Jimmy Acorn a little shake. “Wake up, little fellow; it’s time
to grow.”
Leaves from aloft the roots do feed;
The seed is a star and the star is a seed.
Twinkling twilight to my toes;
From a tiny seed the mighty oak grows.

Spring

B ig Brother Gnome and Little Brother Gnome were working busily in

the earth. “Come, O come, ye little gnomes; let us leave our mountain
homes.”
They were gathering the finest jewels, preparing a throne for the Flower
Queen. Little Jimmy Acorn peered out from his nest next to the compost
pile. He was wide awake now, well rested after his long winter’s nap. “Can I
help?” he asked the gnomes, who had become his loving, helpful friends.

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Big Brother Gnome and Little Brother Gnome looked at each other and
smiled. “You stay where you are,” said Big Brother. “You have plenty of work
right here.”
Acorn did not understand what was meant by that until he attempted to
move: He couldn’t! He was stuck! “Help me!” he cried. “I’m stuck!”
Little Brother Gnome laughed but Big Brother Gnome explained: “You’re
not stuck, Jimmy Acorn; you’re growing. You’re beginning to take root!” And
indeed it was true. Jimmy Acorn wiggled and squiggled a little and found he
had a root, just beginning to grow down into the earth. He was so excited
he reached up, and look! He not only had a root reaching downward, he
also had a sweet little shoot reaching up, with a very first leaf, still curled up,
just beginning to grow. Jimmy Acorn was so very pleased! Now that he was
growing, he had much work to do.
Jimmy Acorn watched the gnomes preparing their work and dreamed of the
day when he would be a tall oak tree, giving shade to the creatures who
passed this way, perhaps providing a home for squirrels and birds, and how
he would offer shade and protection for the Flower Queen herself and even
for his friends, the gnomes.

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 Working
and Helping
The Little Girl Who
Would Not Work AUTHOR UNKNOWN

T here was once a little girl who loved to play all day outdoors among
the flowers and the bees.
One day, her mother needed her help; even though she was a tiny little girl,
she was old enough to be a helper. But when the mother asked her to help,
the little girl said: “Oh, Mother, I do not like to work. Please let me go to
the woods and play just a little while.”
So her mother said she might play, but only for a little while.
The child ran out of the house and across the garden and down to the
woods as fast as her feet would carry her. As she hurried on, a Red Squirrel
jumped across her path and the little girl said to him: “Red Squirrel, you
don’t have to work, do you? You can just play and eat nuts from morning till
night. Isn’t that all you do?”
“Not work?” chattered the Red Squirrel. “Why, I am working now, and I
worked all day yesterday, and all of the day before. I have a family living in
the old oak tree, and I must store away nuts for the winter. I have no time
to stop and play.”
Just then a Bee came buzzing by and the little girl said: “Little Bee, do you
have any work to do?”
“Work?” buzzed the Bee. “Why, I am always working, gathering sweets and
making the honeycomb for you. I work all day long!”
The little girl walked along very slowly, for she was thinking, and she saw an

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 ant, down on the path, carrying a very large crumb of bread.
“That crumb of bread is too heavy for you, Ant,” said the little girl. “Drop it
and come and play with me!”
“I don’t care how heavy it is,” said the ant. “I was so glad to find it that I
am willing to carry it. Oh no, I couldn’t stop to play. Someone has recently
stepped on our house and it has been crushed! Now we are hurrying to
rebuild it so my large family can have a roof over their heads. And I am
bringing home dinner for all the babies. No, I have no time to play.” And the
ant continued on her way home.
So the little girl sat down on a stone, so that she might think better, and
she said to herself: “The creatures all have their tasks to do, but I don’t
think the flowers have work to do. Do you work, Pink Clover?” she asked of
a little flower growing at her feet.
“Oh, yes, I am very busy,” said the Pink Clover. “I gather the sunbeams every
morning and keep them shut in my petals quite carefully all day long. I drink
up all the moisture I can find with my roots, and I grow, and grow, to get
ready for the seed time. The flowers must all work,” said the Pink Clover.
Then the little girl decided to go home to her mother, and she said: “Mother,
the squirrels and the bees and the ants and the flowers all work. I am the
only idle one. I want some work to do.”
So her mother brought her her apron and together they swept and dusted
until the whole house was shining.

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The Legend of the Woodpecker
PHOEBE CARY

T here was once a little old woman who lived all alone at the top of a
hill. She was the tiniest, neatest little old woman you ever saw, and she
always wore a shiny black dress and a gay little red bonnet on her head, and
a big, white apron with a floppy white bow behind.
But because she lived alone, and thought of no one but herself, this little
old woman had grown very selfish. She never invited anyone to drink a cup
of tea with her, and she never gave presents to anybody.
One day, when the little old woman was baking round cakes with plums in
them, a tired, hungry man came up the hill and rapped at her door.
“May I have a cake?” he asked. “I am hungry, and I have no money to pay
you, but whatever you wish for, that shall you have.”
The little old woman looked at her cakes, and she decided that they were
too large and plump to give away. So she broke off a wee little bit of dough,
and put it in the oven to bake. It puffed and swelled; and when it was done
she decided that this cake, also, was too nice and brown for the hungry
man. She broke off a tinier bit of dough, and then one smaller still, but each
came out of the oven as fat and brown a cake as the first; and she set them
all on a high cupboard shelf, because she thought they were too good to be
given away. Then, at last, she took a bit of dough as wee as the head of a
pin, and put it in the oven to bake, but this, too, came out a fine, large, crisp
cake; so the old woman hid it in the cupboard with the others, and brought
out a dry crust of bread for the hungry man.

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 The poor man just looked at the crust, and then he was gone, before you
could wink your eye. But the little old woman began to feel sorry to think
how unkind and selfish she had been.
“I wish I were a bird!” she said. “Then I could fly to that hungry man with
the largest cake on the shelf.”
And, all at once, the little old woman began to grow smaller and smaller.
Her nose changed to a beak, her arms stretched out until they were wings,
and her feet became claws. She was really the bird she had wished to be,
and the wind whisked her up the chimney and over the hill to the woods.
If you look, you may see her today. She still wears her shiny black dress, her
white apron, and the gay little red bonnet upon her head; but all day long
she must run up and down the trunk of trees, pecking her food from the
hard bark. Listen, and you will hear her tap, tap, tapping away; the selfish
little old woman who was changed into the red-headed woodpecker.

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Little Squirrel and the
Mysterious Knocking MEG FISHER

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This can be told as a story but is also a lovely, simple puppet show. For a
puppet show you will need the following: two squirrels, broom, table, bowl and spoon, oven,
acorns, arched wood for a doorway, piece of wool for Little Squirrel’s bed, a piece of wool for
Nutkin’s tree bed, and two little baskets (one for each squirrel). Each time the acorns fall, the
line may be narrated, or replaced by the sound alone.

B right and early one morning, Little Squirrel leapt out of bed. “What
a beautiful day! The perfect day to play with my friend Nutkin. And just
in case he visits me, I had better make my bed.”
Sings: I’m making my bed, I’m making my bed,
I’m pulling here and tucking there, I’m making my bed.
Three acorns dropped outside Little Squirrel’s door: Plop, plop, plop!
Oh, how wonderful!
Nutkin’s knocking, knocking, knocking at my door!
Little Squirrel ran to the door and poked her head outside and loooooooked
around. . . But no one was there!
“Hmmm”, she said, “That’s strange! I thought Nutkin was knocking at my
door, but no one is here! But just in case he does visit me, I’d better sweep
my house.”
I’m sweeping my house, I’m sweeping my house,
I’m sweeping here and sweeping there, I’m sweeping my house.
And as she was sweeping her house:

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 Plop, plop, plop! Three acorns fell.
Oh, how wonderful!
Nutkin’s knocking, knocking, knocking at my door!
Little Squirrel ran to the door and poked her head outside and loooooooked
around. . . But no one was there!
“Hmmmm,” she said. “I wonder if Nutkin is playing tricks on me! But just in
case he really does visit, I’d better bake us a honey cake!”
I’m mixing the dough, I’m mixing the dough,
I’m mixing here and mixing there, I’m mixing the dough.
And as she was mixing the dough:
Plop, plop, plop! Three acorns fell.
Oh, how wonderful!
Nutkin’s knocking, knocking, knocking at my door!
Little Squirrel ran to the door and poked her head outside and loooooooked
around. . . But no one was there!
“Hmmmm,” she said. “Now I know Nutkin is playing tricks on me, and the
next time Nutkin knocks, I am NOT going to answer.”
She popped her little cake into the oven and soon her house was filled with
the wonderful smell of honey cake baking. The smell of honey cake drifted
out of Little Squirrel’s door and over to the tree where Nutkin lay fast
asleep.
“Oh, what a beautiful morning,” said Nutkin. “Just perfect for visiting my
friend Little Squirrel.” Sniff, sniff, sniff. . .
Oh, how wonderful!
Little Squirrel’s baking, baking, baking something for me!
Nutkin poked his head out of the tree and saw all the acorns that had fallen
in the chilly morning.
“I know what I’ll do. I will bring Little Squirrel a present!”

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 I’m gathering nuts, I’m gathering nuts,
I’m gathering here and gathering there,
I’m gathering nuts.
Squirrel Nutkin went to Little Squirrel’s door and knocked. Knock, knock,
knock! But no one answered!
“That’s strange. Little Squirrel must be home—I smell a honey cake baking.”
So Squirrel Nutkin knocked again, and again there was no answer. So
Squirrel Nutkin called out:
“Hello! Little Squirrel! It’s me! Nutkin! Are you home?”
“Nutkin! Have you been playing tricks on me?”
“Not me,” said Nutkin. “I just woke up. And look what I found for you!”
“What lovely acorns! Thank you! Let’s have honey cake, acorns and tea!”
And so they did.
But while the two were eating. . . Plop, plop, plop!
Now who could that be?
Little Squirrel and Nutkin ran to the door, poked their heads outside and
loooooked around, but no one was there!
Plop, plop, plop!
“Oh!” they said. “It’s acorns falling.”
And the two friends spent all the rest of that beautiful day gathering acorns
for the long winter to come:
We’re gathering nuts, we’re gathering nuts,
We’re gathering here and gathering there,
We’re gathering nuts.

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 The New Red Dress
CORA E. HARRIS

A long time ago, when your grandfather and grandmother were children,
there lived a little girl named Rachel. She had no playthings that came
from the store, but she did have a fine little play horse, made for her by her
big brother. She also had a soft kitty to hold and a soft rag doll with black
eyes and red cheeks just like her own. None of her clothes came from a
store, either, and her Papa made all her stout shoes.
One Thanksgiving Day, little Rachel was feeling very happy because she
had a new, warm red dress to put on. The weather had grown quite cold,
and the brown cotton dress she wore in the summer had become thin and
old. She was, first, to have her hair combed, and then to put on the new red
dress, so that she would be ready for Thanksgiving dinner.
“Oh, mother,” said Rachel, “tell me the story about my new red dress—the
one you told yesterday.”
“Very well,” said mother, as she combed her hair. So she began:
“Last spring, when it was warm and pleasant, a wise little fairy knew that
cold weather would come soon, and then a little girl’s cotton dress would
not be warm enough; so she said: ‘Where can I find something to make
Rachel a new dress?’
“ ‘How would our leaves do?’ said some bright red poppies that were
growing in the garden.
“ ‘Your color is just right,’ said the fairy, ‘but you will not last until winter.’

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“ ‘How would our feathers do?’ sang robin red-breast.
“ ‘It would take a great many to make a dress,’ said the fairy, ‘and you could
not spare them. No, we must look farther still.’
“ ‘Maa-a, maa-a!’ said Nannie, the sheep. ‘How I wish that I could lay off my
coat. It is getting so warm, and I am sure that another would grow before
cold weather comes.’
“ ‘If the color of your coat can be changed,’ said the fairy, ‘I believe it will be
the best thing in the world for Rachel’s dress, but how am I to get it off?’
“ ‘We will help you,’ said some strong, sharp sheep shears; and—snip, snap
they went, until Nannie’s coat was all in a heap on the ground.
“ ‘But the wool is so dirty,’ said the fairy.
“ ‘Swish, swosh, swish,’ said some soap and water; ‘see what we can do’; and,
sure enough, the wool was soon washed and clean and hung drying in the
sun, as white as snow.
“ ‘How nice,’ said the fairy, ‘but that wool does not look very much like a
dress yet. I wonder who will help me next.’
“ ‘Here, here we are,’ said some strong combs, which, queer as it seems,
were called carders. Back and forth they went, until the wool was all
combed out into long rolls, nearly two feet long and about as big around as
one of Rachel’s curls.
“The rolls were scarcely finished before ‘z-z-z, z-z-z’ was heard in the attic,
and the spinning wheel had begun to spin some of the rolls of wool into
yarn. The wheel hummed and worked day after day until many skeins of
soft, white yarn had been made and hung beside the kitchen fireplace.
“ ‘S-s-s, s-s-s!’ hissed the big brass kettle. ‘Put the skeins in here and see
what will happen to them!’ In went the white skeins, and out came red
ones as bright as the gay summer poppies.
“The fairy was just thinking about what wonderful things had been done,
when ‘Slam, bang!’ was heard in the room above.
“ ‘See what my shuttle can do with the yarn,’ said the great loom, and when

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 the yarn had been placed in the frame, back and forth flew the shuttle until,
by the end of the day, a long roll of cloth was lying on the back of the loom.
“ ‘That begins to look like a dress,’ said the fairy. ‘Now, who will finish it?’
“ ‘Here we are,’ sang out a pair of scissors. ‘Sister Needle and I are very
bright and sharp. Together we can do wonderful work!’ So they went to
work at once, and they worked so fast that soon, in place of the cloth, there
was a pretty, red dress with two sleeves, a waist and a skirt—all ready for
Rachel to put on.”
“What a lovely story,” said Rachel, when mother had finished. Her hair was
all combed. Rachel put on her new red dress and went downstairs and
there was Thanksgiving dinner all ready on the table.

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The Sheep and the Pig
ADAPTED FROM A SCANDINAVIAN TALE BY CAROLYN S. BAILEY

O ne morning, bright and early, a sheep and a curly-tailed pig started out
into the world to find a home. For the thing they wanted more than
anything else was a home of their own.
“We will build us a house,” said the sheep and the curly-tailed pig, “and there
we will live together.”
So they traveled a long, long way, over the fields, and down the lanes, and
past the orchards, and through the woods, until they came, all at once,
upon a rabbit.
“Where are you going?” asked the rabbit of the two.
“We are going to build us a house,” said the sheep and the pig.
“May I live with you?” asked the rabbit.
“What can you do to help?” asked the sheep and the rabbit.
The rabbit scratched his leg with his hind foot for a minute, and then he
said, “I can gnaw pegs with my sharp teeth; I can put them in with my
paws.”
“Good!” said the sheep and the pig; “you may come with us.”
So the three went on a long, long way farther, and they came, all at once,
upon a gray goose.
“Where are you going?” asked the gray goose of the three.
“We are going to build us a house,” said the sheep, the pig and the rabbit.

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 “May I live with you?” asked the gray goose.
“What can you do to help?” asked the sheep, the pig and the rabbit.
The gray goose tucked one leg under her wing for a minute, and then she
said; “I can pull moss, and stuff it in the cracks with my broad bill.”
“Good!” said the sheep, the pig and the rabbit; “you may come with us.”
So the four went on a long, long way and, all at once, they came upon a
barnyard rooster.
“Where are you going?” asked the rooster of the four.
“We are going to build us a house,” said the sheep, the pig, the rabbit and
the goose.
“May I live with you?” asked the rooster.
“What can you do to help?” asked the sheep, the pig, the rabbit and the
goose.
The rooster preened his feathers and strutted about for a minute, and then
he said; “I can crow very early in the morning; I can awaken you all.”
“Good!” said the sheep, the pig, the rabbit and the goose; “you may come
with us.”
So the five went on a long, long way until they found a good place for a
house. Then the sheep hewed the logs and pulled them; the pig made
bricks for the cellar; the rabbit gnawed the pegs with his sharp teeth, and
hammered them in with his paws; the goose pulled the moss, and stuffed
it into the cracks with her bill; the rooster crowed early every morning to
tell them it was time to rise, and they all lived happily together in their little
house.

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The Silent Maiden
A TALE FROM EAST AFRICA, RETOLD BY ELEANOR B. HEADY

O nce very long ago, there was a beautiful young maiden called Mepo.
She was the daughter of a great chief. Mepo was good and beautiful,
with skin like black velvet, teeth like flashing pearls and eyes that shone like
diamonds. Her smile made all who saw her love her.
When it came time for Mepo to marry, she went to her father and said,
“Father, please do not give me to the first man who offers you a great
reward, nor to any man you fancy, but let me choose my own husband. He
must be handsome, a brave warrior, a fine hunter and clever.”
“A man like that would make a very good husband indeed. If you are looking
for such a man, you may certainly choose for yourself,” said the chief.
So word went out to the other villages that the young men of the tribe
might pay court to Mepo, the beautiful daughter of the great chief. They
came from miles around; short men, tall men, lean men, fat men, young
men and old men. All of them tried so hard to please the girl that she
became quite tired of their constant attention. At last she refused to speak
to any of them.
“Daughter, why do you behave so?” asked her father. “Your mother and I
are worried because you do not speak.” Mepo shook her head wearily and
refused to say a word.
Still the young men and the old men came. For weeks, the spears stuck
into the ground at the door of the chief’s house told all who passed by that
there were many men visiting Mepo. But she only sat in the center of the

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 admiring circle and smiled sadly. They brought her gifts of ripe red fruit,
melons, choice meat, and beads of many colors. But still she refused to
speak to anyone or to choose between them.
Finally her father tired of this stubborn behavior. He sent out word to the
villages that he would give Mepo in marriage to anyone who could make
her speak.
In a village far away across the great river lived a brave young chief. His
name was Fupajena. He heard of the silent maiden and of her father’s
offer. He went to her village and asked at the home of the great chief for
permission to meet his daughter. The chief welcomed him. Such a strong
and handsome young man would make a fine husband for his daughter.
“How I hope you can make her speak,” said the father. “I’m sure she would
be happy with you.”
Fupajena was shown into the chief’s hut. Mepo looked up wearily from her
basket making.
“Great beauty is yours, lovely Mepo,” said Fupajena with a low bow. “Will
you be my wife?”
Mepo lowered her eyes and refused to say a word.
Fupajena had come a long way to pay court to the beautiful maiden. He
was not about to give up so quickly.
It was weeding time, for the rains had just passed. Early the next morning,
Mepo took her hoe and went to weed her maize field.
Fupajena watched her go, then quietly followed. When they reached the
field, Fupajena again said to her, “Please, beautiful Mepo, be my wife.”
Mepo did not answer, but handed him the hoe and went and sat in the
shade of a tree. The young chief began hoeing with quick, sure strokes.
“Look, Mepo,” he called. “I have finished.”
Mepo looked at the field. She shouted angrily, “Punda, donkey! You have
ruined my crop. You hoed up the maize and left the weeds standing!”
Fupajena threw down the hoe and began to dance and laugh. Mepo

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became angrier and shouted louder than before. “How could anyone be so
thick-headed?”
Pretending to be frightened, Fupajena ran towards the father’s house.
Mepo followed, still shouting. Her father and mother heard the noise and
met them outside. They were overjoyed that someone had made their
daughter speak.
After her anger cooled, Mepo knew that Fupajena had been clever enough
to make her forget her silence. She gladly went home with him to be his
wife and was never silent again.

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 The Farmer Prince
ELIZABETH STUBBS

EDITOR’S NOTE: This was written to help a child who refused to do any work in the class.

O nce upon a time, there was a king who lived in his castle on a tall hill
in the very center of his kingdom. Surrounding the hill was a lush valley,
full of fields and orchards.
The king had three sons, the princes, who lived there with him. Every day,
the king and his sons would go up to the top of the tallest tower in the
kingdom and stand on the turret, looking out. On one side of the kingdom,
they could see the blue ocean, stretching as far as the eye could see. On
the other side, they could see the mountains, row upon row, fading into
the far distance. The king would point out various wonders to his sons and
together each day they would thank the good Lord for all the blessings that
surrounded them.
They dwelt happily there and time passed. The king’s beard grew very white
and one day he said to his sons, “I grow old, my dear children. One day I
shall pass from this world to the next and one of you shall take my place on
the throne. Go, each of you, out into the wide world. Find out what God
wants of each of you and do His work. In one year’s time, return to me and
tell me what you have learned. Then I shall choose which one of you is to
rule after my death.”
The three brothers were sad to leave one another and their old father, but
they embraced each other and took their leave. The oldest built a wooden
ship and sailed away over the blue ocean. The second saddled his finest
horse and set off to climb the mountains. The third and youngest son

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thought and thought about what he should do. He was a dreamy sort of a
boy who had always been quite content to stay at home. He puzzled over it
but came to no answer. At last, he set off on foot, following his nose, down
the hill into the valley surrounding the castle.
Before long, he came to a field, where toiled a young peasant lad about
his age and size, who bowed deeply to him. “Good day, your lordship,” the
peasant murmured politely. The young prince returned his greeting and
invited him to share a drink of cool water he had brought with him in a
flask. They sat down in the shade of a tree to refresh themselves and the
prince asked the peasant lad to tell him about his work. “Why, I am up with
the sun,” explained the peasant lad. “I come to this field each day to plant,
to sow, to harvest and to mow.” “And do you love your work?” asked the
prince. “It is what I do,” answered the lad simply.
They talked a little more, until the peasant bowed to the young prince and
excused himself to return to his work. The prince watched him a while
longer from the shade of the tree. After a while, the prince hailed him and
they spoke some more. Soon, they made a bargain. First, they switched
clothes. They laughed to see each dressed in the other’s garments. Next,
the prince traded the peasant a bag of gold coins for his bag of seeds, and
they thanked each other and took leave. The peasant lad went off very
happily indeed, looking quite fine and feeling that he had the better part of
the bargain.
The prince, in peasant garb, set to work in the field, humming a little tune.
The sun was hot and his back ached, but he kept planting seeds until the
shadows began to grow long. As the sun sank low, he finished seeding the
last row. He took off the peasant lad’s tattered straw hat and looked at the
field. The neat furrows were all planted with seeds. Now he would have to
wait to see what would grow up from the earth. He felt satisfied that he
had done well.
At the bottom of the field there was a small rough house, just as the
peasant lad had told him. There he went to spend the night. In the palace
of the king he had had a featherbed, deep and soft, with silken sheets and
soft woven blankets. In the peasant’s hovel, there was only a pile of straw

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 with a rough sack-cloth cover, but no matter. He did not forget to thank
the good Lord for his many blessings and then the prince fell into a deep
sleep.
In the morning, the sun rose and the prince awoke with it. When he went
to the field, he noticed that some weeds had sprouted in the night. He took
the peasant lad’s old hoe and began hoeing the weeds away from where
the seedlings would appear. It was tiring work, but the prince kept at it all
day, whistling cheerfully as he worked, and when the sun was nearly set, he
had finished the last row. Now that the weeds were pulled away, the new
seedlings would have plenty of room to grow big and strong. That night, he
said his prayers and slept as soundly as before.
The next morning he awoke with the sun. It was blazing hot and the prince
knew when he got to the field that the little seeds were going to need
water. He found a dented old watering can and went to the little stream
at the bottom of the field. He filled the can, walked back again and began
to water the seeds, singing a joyful tune. It required many, many trips with
the heavy watering can, and once more, the prince found himself very tired
indeed. The shadows began to grow long and just as the sun was setting,
he finished watering the last row. He put the can down and brushed his hair
off of his forehead. As he looked at all the watered rows, he felt satisfied.
He returned to his hovel for the night. He washed his hands and face and
prepared himself a simple supper. After he washed the cooking pot, he gave
thanks, and again fell into a deep sleep.
The next morning the prince arose with the sun and when he got to the
field he was very happy to see that the seedlings had come up. He was
most surprised to see many rabbits hopping about, nibbling on the tender
seedlings. He chased them away and knew what today’s work would be. He
would have to build a fence to keep the rabbits out of the garden.
All day he went into the woods to find brush and windfalls, which he
dragged back to the field and wove together into a wattle fence. It was
hard work and he suffered many scrapes and scratches as he built the fence,
but he sang cheerfully the whole day long. As the sun sank low in the sky,
he finished the last section. The prince stood and surveyed his work. The

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rows of little seedlings looked as though they were reaching toward the
heavens.
And so it went, day in and day out. There was always work to be done
in the field and little rest, but the prince kept at it happily, singing as he
worked. He grew strong and his skin turned brown. His back did not hurt
him any longer. Sometimes villagers stopped along the road to listen for a
few minutes to the wonderful songs the farmer sang as he worked.
The seedlings turned into sturdy little plants. They needed to be staked up,
watered and weeded. They grew taller and taller, and at last they needed to
be harvested.
And what grew in that field? There were all sorts of things: sweet crisp
carrots, sharp radishes, beets, tender lettuces, parsnips, savory herbs, juicy
tomatoes and peppers. There were flowers, too: daisies, golden lilies,
carnations, huge dahlias and sweet-smelling freesias. Each Saturday, he
would load the peasant lad’s old wheelbarrow and trundle off to the market,
where he would sell his beautiful vegetables and flowers. Although the
villagers did not know who he really was, they would look for him and line
up to buy his wares.
One market day, there was a courtier from the castle of the king. He wore
a worried look on his face and as he shopped for food in the market, the
word was passed around that the old king had fallen ill. The prince was
aggrieved to hear this, and wanted to go to his father, but the year had not
quite yet passed. Keeping his peasant’s disguise, he offered the courtier a
basket of vegetables and instructed him in how to make a healthy broth, for
he had learned this art himself, having cooked his own meals each day and
night. The courtier thanked him and hurried back to the castle to prepare
the soup. That night, the prince said extra prayers for his father.
The next week at market, the courtier sought out the man who had given
him the vegetables. “Thank you, good fellow,” said the courtier. “His
majesty feels better. His body is healed, but his soul is still ailing.” The
prince this time gave the courtier a basket of fresh flowers to put beside
the king’s bedside, for he had learned that flowers are like healing balm to
the troubles of the soul. The courtier thanked him and hurried back to the

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 castle to place the flowers by the bedside of the king.
The following week at market, the courtier came once more to find the man
who had given him the vegetables and the flowers. “Good fellow, the king
feels better in both body and soul. But alas, his spirit is ailing and I do not
know how to help him.” “Ah,” said the prince, “You must sing to him.” “Sing?”
asked the courtier. “What shall I sing?” “Anything at all that makes him
happy,” said the prince. But the courtier hesitated and said, “Young man,
my voice is cracked and dry from years of disuse. I can no longer sing. Will
you come and sing yourself for the king?” The prince promised to come and
sing outside the king’s window that evening. The courtier thanked him and
hurried back to the castle. Later that night, when all was quiet, the prince
crept up the tall hill and sang for the king, who stopped tossing and turning
in his bed, and fell into a deep sleep. He sang until the moon was high and
then he tiptoed away for a few hours’ rest.
Soon, the year had passed and it was time for the three princes to return
to their father and tell of their adventures. The oldest prince was the first
to arrive back at the castle. He wore the clothes of a ship’s captain and
was laden down with sacks of silks and spices. Next followed the middle
son, who wore the clothes of an adventurer, carrying caskets of gold and
furs from faraway lands. At last there came a rather ragged-looking peasant
lad, trudging up the hill in his dusty boots, pushing a rickety wheelbarrow,
filled with vegetables and flowers. When he knocked at the gate of the
palace, the gatekeeper did not recognize him and would not let him in,
but the courtier who had met him in the market knew him immediately
and insisted that the gate be opened for him. When at last they were all
assembled before the throne, he threw off his peasant disguise and they
knew him once more. The three brothers greeted each other and their
father with great joy. The old king was delighted to have his sons with him
once again. They each told of their adventures during the year that they
were apart from each other.
The eldest prince had sailed across the sea to strange lands far away. He
had brought back bright silks and rare spices and many stories of exotic
people in far lands. “I have glorified God because I have traveled to see His

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creation across the seas,” he declared. And his brothers marveled at all that
he said.
The middle prince had explored the mountains and the hills beyond. He had
brought back bright gems and gold and rare furs. He too had many stories
of strange people in different places. “I have glorified God because I have
traveled to see His creation across the mountains,” he said. And his brothers
listened spellbound to his tales of adventure.
The youngest prince cast down his eyes. “I have not gone very far,” he
said. “I have been living the life of a farmer down in the valley. I have no
adventures to tell of. I have no treasure to share but what has grown in my
garden. I know only how the seeds push up through the earth toward the
stars. I know only how the earth loves the rain and the way the birds sing
in the morning light. But I know God’s own work. And I have been content.”
No one spoke.
There was a rustle in the corner and the courtier stepped forward. “Please,
your majesty, may I speak?” The old king nodded and the courtier said,
“This is the man who provided the vegetables for the king’s soup when his
body was ailing. This is the man who provided flowers for his soul’s comfort.
And this is also the one whose songs lifted the spirits of the king.” Then the
two older brothers and their father embraced the younger son with heart-
felt thanks. They agreed that indeed it was he who should be king, as he
had learned best the way God wants men to work in the world.
The three brothers returned to the castle to live with their old father. They
married and raised children and lived quite contentedly together, sharing
the work and the joys of their lives. Each night before the fire they would
share all manner of adventure stories and songs. The youngest son, of
course, kept a wonderful garden and continued to grow remarkable things.
The old king was happy to have his children and grandchildren all around
him. He ruled wisely and well, with his youngest son at his side until his
death. Afterwards, the youngest became the king and ruled wisely and well.
It was always said of him that he was never afraid of hard work.
And they all dwelt there, happily ever after.

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 The Shining Loaf
NANCY LINDEMAN, BASED ON A STORY BY ISABEL WYATT

A King lay ill in his royal chamber and none were able to cure him save
an old peasant woman, and no-one knew where to find her.
Nevertheless, the young daughter of the king, who loved her father dearly,
set forth at once to seek the good soul.
At last, she found her baking bread in the kitchen of a small cottage, and
there, a straw fire burned on the hearth with clear, golden flames. The
woman was kneading dough and shaping it into loaves.
“The dough in my father’s kitchen does not shine like that,” said the girl.
“That’s the pity of it,” said the woman.
“What makes your bread dough shine?” the girl asked.
“The sun in the wheat,” said the woman.
“What makes your fire clear and golden?” asked the girl.
“The sun in the wheat straw,” said the peasant woman.
“Then my father, too, needs the sun,” said the child, “for he is on his death
bed.”
“I shall come and see for myself,” said the old woman.
When they entered the king’s chamber they saw him lying upon his bed.
The old peasant woman blessed the king. Then she said to the girl, “What
he needs is bread from a shining loaf harvested, kneaded, and baked by the
people of his own kingdom.”

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“That he can easily buy from them,” said his daughter.
“Such bread is not for sale,” said the woman. “It must come as a gift.”
The princess thanked the woman, who returned to her own cottage. Then
the girl ran to the baker.
“Please baker, can you bake me a shining loaf?” she asked.
“If you bring me some shining flour,” the baker told her. Out of the baker’s
shop she went and walked to the mill.
“Please miller, can you grind me some shining flour?” she asked.
“If you bring me some shining grain,” the miller told her. Out of the mill she
went and walked to a threshing barn.
“Please thresher, will you thresh me some shining grain?” she asked.
“If you bring me a shining sheaf,” the thresher told her. Out of the threshing
barn she went and ran to a ripe wheat field.
“Please reaper,” she said. “Can you reap me a shining sheaf?”
“If you sow me some shining seed,” said the reaper. Out of the ripe wheat
field she went, and at long last she came to a spring ploughland where she
found a sower.
“Please sower, can you sow me some shining seed?” she asked.
The sower was listening to the song of a bird. “The bird gives its song,” said
the sower. “I shall give, too. I shall give these shining seeds to the earth.”
And as he sowed the seeds for the girl he thought, “Why do I feel so happy?”
The young wheat sprang up and grew green and tall. At last the sheaves
turned golden, ready for the harvest. Then the wheat began to shine!
The girl ran to fetch the reaper to reap the shining wheat.
“It was a gift from the sower,” she told him.
“Then let the reaping be a gift, too,” said the reaper, and as he reaped a
shining sheaf, he thought, “Why do I feel so happy?”
The girl ran with the shining sheaf to the threshing barn.

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 “It was a gift from the reaper and the sower,” she told the thresher.
“Then let the threshing be a gift, too,” said the thresher. And as he treshed
the shining grain and filled a grain bag with it he thought, “Why do I feel so
happy?”
The girl ran with the shining grain to the mill.
“It was a gift from the thresher, the reaper and the sower,” she told the
miller.
“Then let the milling be a gift, too,” said the miller, and as he ground the
shining grain into flour and filled a bag with it, he thought, “Why do I feel so
happy?”
At last, the girl ran with the shining flour to the baker’s shop.
“It was a gift from the miller, the thresher, the reaper and the sower,” she
told the baker.
“Then let the baking be a gift, too,” said the baker. And as he mixed it and
kneaded it and shaped it and put it to bake, he thought, “Why do I feel so
happy?”
When the loaf was baked, the girl brought it to the sickroom, cut a piece
from it and gave it to her father to eat.
“The shining loaf,” she said, “is a gift from the people of your kingdom.” The
king ate the bread, and strength returned to his heart, his hands and his
feet. He was able to rule his kingdom more wisely than before.
The young daughter of the king married the sower who was the very first
one to give his gift. He became a prince, and when the girl’s father grew
old and died, the sower became king. Many children were born to the king
and queen and each one grew strong and wise by eating the bread of that
kingdom.

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The Dragonfly’s Tale
A ZUNI TALE, RETOLD BY LORY WIDMER

U pon a hill there was a village, with houses built close together and
even upon each other, like a great honeycomb. The village was happy
and prosperous, for the Maidens of the White and Yellow Corn watched
over it. In the spring, they brought the warm winds that melted the snow.
In the summer, they sent the gentle rains that watered the corn fields. With
their blessing, the corn grew tall and strong. The people had plenty to eat,
and their storerooms were spilling over with all the corn they gathered.
The chief of this village, seeing all this plenty, did not mind how much food
was wasted. He would pile his plate high with food at mealtimes and then
throw it away when he was too full to finish it. His people thought that
their chief must know the right way to behave, and soon everyone was
doing the same.
When the Corn Maidens heard what was happening, they came to see for
themselves. First they covered up their shining robes with ragged, dirty
clothes, and disguised their lovely faces with wrinkles and spots. Looking
like the poorest, most wretched beggar women, they crept into the village.
When they arrived, they saw piles of food everywhere—baskets full of
dough, huge stacks of steaming cakes, mounds of bread. There was so
much that it spilled out of windows and sat on the roofs.
A little boy and his sister sat eating corn cakes with honey. When they
saw the poor women, they offered them their own food. But the chief
happened to be walking by, and grabbed it before the women could. “Don’t
waste your food on beggars!” he said sternly.

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 The Corn Maidens were most unhappy. Their abundant blessings had not
resulted in kindness and gratitude growing in the hearts of their people.
They would have to take away their gifts, and hope that the villagers
learned from their loss.
In the night, the seed-eaters came, hungry mice, insects, and birds
who pecked up every crumb and silently stole away the corn from the
storerooms. The next morning, the people were astonished to find their
great bounty reduced by more than half, but they were sure they would
have another fine harvest to replace it.
That winter was long, and when the warm winds finally melted the snow,
no rain came to bless the earth. The corn plants could not grow and there
was no harvest.
Finally the chief had to admit that they were about to starve and that they
must ask their neighbors for help. They packed up their belongings and
went out to beg for their food.
In their haste, they forgot the young boy and girl and left them behind,
sleeping by the hearth. When the boy awoke to an empty village, he was
frightened at first. But he knew he had to be brave and take care of his
sister, so he made a toy to console her. He took cornhusks, shaped, tied and
painted them, and made a beautiful dragonfly. When the little girl woke,
she was delighted with her new toy and played with it all day. That night,
she asked it to fly away and find them some food.
The dragonfly at once came to life and flew off into the night. It went
straight to the Corn Maidens and told them the whole story. “We must
help the two little ones,” they said. “Once they offered us food. Now their
kindness shall be repaid.”
When the dragonfly came back to the children, it found them sleeping in a
house filled with baskets of corn and beans and squash. The children awoke
and thanked the dragonfly for its help.
Another winter passed, and spring came. The children took from their
stores and went into the fields to plant corn. They asked the Corn Maidens
to bless their work and bring them a good harvest. That night, the rain fell

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and in the morning the little plants were already poking up through the
earth. They seemed to grow faster than ever before, soon bearing heavy
ears of corn. The children ate their fill and fell asleep.
While they slept, the people of the village returned to try again to plant
their fields and regain the favor of the Corn Maidens. They found the fields
already full of tall, green plants, heavy with ripe corn. The chief saw the
children sleeping in the field and knew it was they who had been worthy of
this blessing. He said to the people, “Let us learn from these wise children,
to always honor the Corn Maidens and respect their gifts.”
From then on, the people took care to thank the Corn Maidens for all
their blessings, to care for the abundance they received, and to give of it
generously to anyone in need.

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 The Fisherman
and the Quiltmaker HOLLI BETTIS

O nce, long ago, but not that long ago, there lived a kind and gentle
fisherman. He lived in a small hut at the end of a long dock where his
fishing boat and rowboat were moored. There were many other fishermen
who lived along that same beach. They were all very good friends and
would often go out in their boats fishing together.
Now it happened one day that the kind fisherman was out fishing with
some of his friends when a storm quickly arose upon the seas. The boat
swayed back and forth in the large waves and buckets of rain poured down
from the skies upon them. It became very cold on deck so the fishermen
went down below in the cabin of the boat to keep warm until the storm
passed. One of the men pulled out from his trunk a large, beautiful, warm
quilt and covered all his fellow fisherman with it. Now when the kind
fisherman saw this he asked his friend, “Where did you get such a fine quilt?
I have never seen any this exquisite in all my life.”
“From the quiltmaker who lives at the top of the high mountain. I traded her
some of the finest fish I’ve ever caught for it and it keeps me quite warm at
night,” he replied.
Now as soon as the kind and gentle fisherman heard this he knew that he
must journey to the top of this mountain and find this quiltmaker. With all
his heart he longed for one of her fine quilts to warm his cold self at night.
“But what could I trade her for it?” he thought to himself. He thought about
it for a long time until he finally knew just what to bring her.

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He would find three of the most magnificent seashells that the ocean could
leave upon the beach. He walked up and down the beach searching for just
the right shells. Every day, for what seemed like months, he would comb
the beach picking up hundreds of seashells and putting them back down
again. He would hold each one up to his ear and listen to make sure it had
just the right sound, like the waves crashing on the beach, until finally he
found just what he was looking for. He listened to it for a while and then
placed it in his basket.
He continued to pick up shells and into the hole of each one he blew as
hard as he could and listened to the sound. He blew into hundreds upon
hundreds of seashells until he found just the right one. It sounded like the
mightiest grandfather seal in all the ocean. So he put it in his basket with
the other seashell.
He would feel each shell to make sure it felt smooth and looked as shiny
as a freshwater pearl. He felt hundreds upon hundreds of seashells until
finally he found just the right one. The inside of it was so shiny he could see
a rainbow in it and it was as smooth as the finest silk, so he placed it in his
basket with the other two shells.
Now that he had just the right seashells to bring to the quiltmaker, he could
embark upon the long journey to the top of the mountain. He packed his
satchel with plenty of clams and mussels to eat along his way, for he knew
it was far. He swung his satchel over his shoulder and headed towards the
forest.
He traveled all day long through the forest to get to the mountain. Then
the sun began to set and the forest grew dark so he set up camp for the
evening. He built a fire and began to roast his dinner when out of the forest
came a tall woodsman with an ax over his shoulder.
He set his ax down and said, “Excuse me, sir, I am but a poor and hungry
woodsman and what you are cooking smells so delicious. Could you please
spare some of your dinner for me?”
The kind fisherman replied, “I do not have much, but I will gladly share all
that I have with you.”

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 “Oh, thank you,” said the woodsman. As soon as the woodsman tasted the
fisherman’s feast he declared, “I have never tasted food as delicious as this
in all my life, what is it?”
“It is clams and mussels from the sea,” the fisherman replied.
“I have never been to the sea. What is it like?” asked the woodsman.
So the fisherman began to tell him of the mysteries of the sea. He told him
of the waves, he told him of the seals, he told him of the whales, and he
told him of the tides and the beach. Then he pulled one of the seashells
out of his basket and handed it to the woodsman. He told him to put it up
to his ear and listen, “That is what the waves of the sea sound like; it is the
song of the sea,” said he.
The woodsman was so moved when he listened to the ocean’s song inside
the shell that a single tear rolled down his cheek. “I will never be able to
journey to the sea for my work is here in the forest. Could I please keep
your seashell to listen to and remind me of your tales of the sea and this
fine feast that we have shared?” he asked.
Now as you know the fisherman has much kindness in his heart so he could
not refuse his friend, the woodsman, and deny him such a simple pleasure.
And he did still have two more shells to bring to the quiltmaker. So he gave
that seashell to the woodsman. The woodsman thanked him, picked up his
ax, and went on his way. Then the kind and gentle fisherman slept for the
night. He needed to be well rested for his long journey ahead to the top of
the mountain.
The next morning the fisherman packed up his things and began hiking. He
walked and walked until at last he was out of the forest and traveling up
the mountain. Soon the trail became very steep; night began to fall and he
knew he could not hike any farther. So he set up camp for the night and
built a fire to roast his dinner.
Not long after, along came a young boy and his goat. The boy said to him,
“Excuse me, sir, I am but a poor hungry mountain boy who has lost his herd
of goats and what you are cooking smells so delicious. Could you please
spare some food for me?”

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The kind fisherman replied, “I do not have much, but I will gladly share all
that I have with you.”
“Oh, thank you,” said the boy.
As soon as he tasted the fisherman’s feast, he said, “I have never tasted
food as delicious as this in all my life. What is it?”
“It is clams and mussels from the sea,” the fisherman answered.
“I have never been to the sea. What is it like?” asked the boy
So the kind fisherman told him of the mysteries of the sea. He told him of
the waves, he told him of the seals, he told him of the whales, and he told
him of the tides and the beach. Then he pulled one of the seashells out of
his basket and handed it to the boy. He told him to put it up to his ear and
listen. “That is what the waves of the ocean sound like; it is the song of the
sea,” said he.
The boy held it up to his ear and listened. He smiled the largest smile the
fisherman had ever seen. Then the boy held it up to his goat’s ear and the
goat listened and it looked like the goat was smiling as well. Then, without
the fisherman even telling the boy, the boy picked up the shell and held it
up to his lips and began to blow. The magnificent sound echoed through
the mountains and not soon after, the boy’s lost herd of goats returned to
him.

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 The young boy was overjoyed. He said to the fisherman, “With this seashell
I will never lose my goats again. May I please have it?”
Now, as you know, the fisherman was very good and his heart was filled
with so much kindness. How could he deny the boy the seashell, especially
knowing that it would help the boy keep his goats near him? He knew that
he still had one shell left to bring to the quiltmaker so he agreed to give it
to the boy.
The boy thanked him and laced the seashell with a small piece of leather
and placed it around his neck. Then he went on his way with his herd of
goats bleating behind him. The fisherman went to sleep for the night so
that he would be rested for tomorrow’s journey up the mountain.
The next morning the fisherman packed up his things and began hiking up
towards the top of the mountain. The mountain was even steeper today
than it was the day before. “I must be getting closer to the top,” he thought
to himself. He broke off a fine branch and made it into a walking stick to
help him with the steep path. He hiked as far as he could but he still had
not reached the top when the sun began to set. He set up camp for the
night and built a fire. When he began roasting his dinner, an old woman
who looked very sick hobbled up to the fire and said, “Excuse me, sir, I am
but a sick and dying hungry old woman and what you are cooking smells so
delicious. Could you spare some of your dinner for me?”
The kind fisherman replied, “I do not have much, but I will gladly share what
I have with you.”
“Oh, thank you,” said the old woman. As soon as she tasted the fisherman’s
feast, she said, “I have never tasted food this delicious in all my life. What is
it?”
“It is clams and mussels from the sea,” replied the fisherman.
“I have never been to the sea. What is it like?” she asked.
So the kind fisherman told her of the mysteries of the sea. He told her of
the waves, he told her of the seals, he told her of the whales, and he told
her of the tides and the beach. Then he pulled the last seashell out of his

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basket and handed it to the old woman. He told her to put it up to her ear
and listen, “That is what the waves of the ocean sound like; it is the song of
the sea,” said he.
When the old woman held it up to her ear and listened, her pale face began
to turn pink. Then without the fisherman even telling her, she began to
stroke the smooth inside of the shell and when she did this it looked as if
the rainbow colors in the shell were dancing all around her and she began
to glow a radiant golden light.
“I am healed! Your magic seashell has healed my sickness and I shall no
longer die. Thank you. Thank you, kind fisherman. Could I please keep your
shell and bring it back to my village? All of my people there are dying of the
same sickness that struck me and I would very much like them to be healed.
May I please have it?” she asked him.
Now the fisherman knew this was his very last seashell and if he gave it to
her he would have nothing to give the quiltmaker. But as you know he was
very good and his heart was filled with so much kindness that he could not
deny her the seashell or her entire village would perish. So he gave her his
very last seashell.
She thanked him and hurried back to her village to save her people.
Now the kind fisherman felt great joy in his heart knowing that he had
helped so many people on his journey. But alas, now he had nothing to
bring to the quiltmaker and he had traveled such a long way. He did not
know what to do and he was very tired after a long day of hiking and it
wasn’t long before he had fallen fast asleep.
He woke up the next day, and after much thought, he decided to go to the
top of the mountain to the quiltmaker’s house even though he had nothing
to give her. He thought, “I have traveled so far; I might as well meet her.” It
took all morning to climb the rest of the way. At long last, he reached the
top of the mountain and saw her little house. It was a cozy white cottage
with a green rounded door and a thatched roof, with smoke billowing out of
the chimney.
He approached the door and lifted his hand to knock, but before his knuck-

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 les reached the wood of the door, it opened. “Good afternoon. Please come
in, I’ve been expecting you,” the woman said.
The fisherman was bewildered. “How did she know I was coming?” he
thought to himself. He walked inside and saw a little round table with two
chairs and two steaming cups of tea and a plate of cookies. The smell of
peppermint tea and cookies filled the room. He looked towards the window
and there he saw a huge golden telescope pointed out the window. She in-
vited him to sit down and join her for tea.
He told her that he saw one of her beautiful quilts and traveled all the way
up to the top of the mountain from the sea to trade for one. He then said
that he was very sorry but he no longer had anything to give her. Before
he could explain what happened along his way she began to tell him, in
the sweetest voice he had ever heard, “I saw you through my telescope. I
watched you search out just the right seashells. I watched you give one to
the woodsman. I watched you give one to the boy and his goat. I watched
you give the last shell to the sick old woman.
“Fisherman, you are so good and your heart is filled with so much generosity
and kindness that you do not have to give me anything in exchange for a
quilt. I have made one special, just for you.”
Then she pulled out the most beautiful quilt he had ever seen. The stitches
were tiny and perfect. The quiltmaker had stitched pictures of the three
shells upon it. Upon the quilt were sewn the images of his journey up the
mountain. His fingers touched the woodsman’s ax, the boys’ goat, the old
woman’s smile, and even his own walking stick. He thanked her kindly,
packed his treasured quilt carefully away, and traveled his long journey back
to the sea.
Now every night that he goes to sleep in his small hut, he pulls his warm
quilt over him and looks up at the stars and thinks of the quiltmaker, his
journey, and all the friends he met and helped along the way.

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Do What You Can
AUTHOR UNKNOWN

T here was once a farmer who had a large field of corn. He harrowed it and
weeded it with the greatest care, for that’s the kind of farmer he was. He
hoped to sell the corn and buy needed things for his family with the money
he earned. But after he had worked hard, he saw the corn wither and droop,
for no rain fell, and he began to fear that he was to have no crop. He felt
very sad, and every morning he went out to the field and looked at the
thirsty stalks and wished for the rain to fall.
One day, as he stood looking up at the sky, two little raindrops saw him,
and one said to the other, “Look at that farmer. I feel very sorry for him. He
took such pains with his field of corn, and now it is drying up. I wish I could
help him.”
“Yes,” said the other, “but you are only a little raindrop. What can you do?
You can’t even wet one hill.”
“Well,” said the first, “I know, to be sure, I cannot do much; but perhaps I
can cheer the farmer a little, and I am going to do my best. I’ll go to the
field to show my good will, if I can’t do anything more. Here I go!”
The first raindrop had no sooner started for the field when the second one
said: “Well, if you really insist upon going, I think I will go, too. Here I come!”
And down went the raindrop.
One came—pat—on the farmer’s nose, and one fell on a thirsty stalk of
corn.
“Dear me,” said the farmer, “what’s that? A raindrop! Where did it come

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 from? I do believe we shall have a shower.”
By this time a great many raindrops had come together to see what all
the commotion was about. When they saw the two kind little drops going
down to cheer the farmer, and water his corn, one said: “If you two are
going on such a good errand, I’ll go, too!” And down he came. “And I!” said
another. “And I!” And so said all of them, until a whole shower came and
the corn was watered. Then the corn grew and ripened—all because one
little raindrop tried to do what it could.

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 Journeys
and Wonders
The Story of the Mountain
Pears A JAPANESE TALE RETOLD BY JANET KELLMAN

O nce upon a time there lived a mother who had three sons. The mother
fell ill and called her sons to her and said, “Please go and fetch some
pears from the high mountains.” The eldest son agreed to go and seek the
pears. On the way he met an old woman sitting on a stump. She held out
a red chipped wooden bowl and said, “I am thirsty, please bring me some
water.” The boy refused saying, “I am going to pick mountain pears.” Then
the old woman told him of the bamboo trees standing at the junction
of three paths ahead. “And if you listen, you’ll hear the leaves telling you
which path will take you to the mountain pears. The bamboo leaves are
whispering, ‘This way, this way, rustling, rustling, rustling.’ ”
The boy left the old woman and soon came to the three branching paths.
The wind blew and the bamboo leaves in the middle whispered, “This way,
this way, rustling, rustling, rustling. This way, this way, rustling, rustling,
rustling.” Then the leaves on the right and the left spoke, “Not this way, not
this way, rustling, rustling, rustling.”
But the boy forgot what the old woman had said and he walked down the
path on the right. The woodpecker was making a nest and singing, “Not
this way, tap, tap, tap. Not this way, tap, tap, tap.” Still he went on. Some
gourds on a tree were sounding, “Not this way, rattle, rattle, rattle. Not this
way, rattle, rattle, rattle.” And still he went on.
Then the mountains opened and the boy saw many mountain pears hanging
from a tree by the lake. He ran to the tree and climbed up. When he was
at the top, his shadow fell on the surface of the lake, and this awoke the

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 guardian of the lake, Numa-No-Nushi, who rose up out of the depths of the
lake and devoured the boy.
When the first son did not return home, the second son left to find the
mountain pears. He went on his way and soon found the old woman sitting
on the stump. She held out the red chipped wooden bowl and asked for
some water, but he refused, saying, “I am too busy looking for the mountain
pears.” Then the old woman told him of the bamboo trees standing on
the three paths ahead. ‘’And if you listen, you’ll hear the leaves telling you
which path will take you to the mountain pears. The bamboo leaves are
whispering, ‘This way, this way, rustling, rustling, rustling.’ ”
When the second son came to the three branch paths, he forgot what the old
woman had said and went onto the path at the left where the bamboo leaves
were whispering, “Not this way, not this way, rustling, rustling, rustling.”
The woodpecker was making a nest and singing, “Not this way, tap, tap, tap.
Not this way, tap, tap, tap.” He went on, and then the gourds hanging in the
tree sounded, “Not this way, rattle, rattle, rattle. Not this way, rattle, rattle,
rattle.” And still he went on.
Then the mountains opened up and many mountain pears hung by the lake.
He shouted, “I have found the mountain pears, I have found the mountain
pears.” When he climbed the tree to pick the pears his shadow also fell
onto the surface of the water. Numa-No-Nushi rose out of the water and
devoured the second son as well.
When the second son did not return home, it was the turn of Saburo, the
youngest son. On his way, he met the old woman sitting on a stump. She
held out the red chipped bowl saying, “I am thirsty. Will you fill this bowl at
the mountain stream and bring it to me?”
“Yes, I will,” replied Saburo. When he returned with the water the woman
asked him where he was going.
Saburo replied, “I am going to pick mountain pears.” Then the old
woman told him about the three branching paths and the bamboo
leaves whispering in the wind. “Take the path whose bamboo leaves are
whispering, ‘This way, this way, rustling, rustling, rustling.’ ”

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The old woman gave Saburo a sword and the red chipped bowl. He hung
the sword and bowl around his waist, bid the woman farewell, and went on
his way into the mountains.
Soon he came to the three branching paths. There stood the three bamboo
trees. The wind blew and the bamboo leaves in the middle whispered, “This
way, this way, rustling, rustling, rustling.” The bamboo leaves on the right
and left whispered, “Not this way, not this way, rustling, rustling, rustling.”
Saburo remembered what the old woman had said and he went on the
middle path. There the woodpecker was making a nest and singing, “Not
this way, tap, tap, tap. Not this way, tap, tap, tap.” As he went on the gourds
were hanging in the branches of a tree sounding, “Not this way, rattle,
rattle, rattle. Not this way, rattle, rattle, rattle.”
The mountains opened up and he found an orchard with many pears
hanging in the branches. The pears were singing,
The branches in the east and west,
The branches in the north,
All cast shadows, none are safe.
You must climb the branches in the south.
Saburo took heed and climbed the branches in the south and began picking
pears. They tasted delicious. When he had gathered all he could carry, he
started down the tree. But he stepped on the wrong branch and his shadow
fell on the surface of the water. Numa-No-Nushi saw Saburo and began
moving toward him but Saburo drew the sword. With one mighty blow he
conquered Numa-No-Nushi. Saburo then heard voices saying, “Help us. We
are here.” Saburo cut open the belly of Numo-No-Nushi and out came his
two brothers, looking pale. Saburo drew water from the mountain stream
with the red chipped bowl. The two brothers drank the water and were
revived. Then all three brothers began the journey home. They descended
the mountain and came to the stump and the old woman was no longer
there. Saburo left some mountain pears on the stump for her. They
returned home and their mother ate the pears and her health was restored.
From that time on they lived happily together.

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 The Sun’s Sisters
A LAPLAND MYTH ADAPTED BY CAROLYN S. BAILEY

T here was once a little prince, and he had for a playmate a little peasant
boy named Lars. One morning the prince and Lars were shooting arrows,
and wherever Lars aimed there did his arrow go, straight—but the prince’s
arrow fell short of the mark each time. This made the little prince very
cross.
“I can hit the sun,” he said, at last.
“Very well, then; so can I,” said Lars. So the two boys pointed their arrows
and, whiz, off they went. One arrow fell directly, and that was the prince’s,
but the other went on and on. It must have hit the sun, for it went out of
sight and came back at last with a bright gold hen’s feather stuck to the end
and a tiny red drop in the grass where it fell. “It is mine,” cried the prince.
“No, it is mine,” said Lars, and it really was his, you know. But they went on
quarreling until the king came out to see what was the matter.
Now, the king did not like to think that a little peasant boy could shoot an
arrow farther than his own little prince, so he said very sternly to Lars:
“Go at once and find the hen from whom this feather came. You are not to
come back until you bring her to me.”
Poor little Lars! He went sorrowfully to the king’s kitchen, where the cook
gave him a bag with a dozen loaves of bread and a leg of mutton for his
journey. Then he started off to find the golden hen.
For many days he traveled, looking in all the poultry yards. There were red

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hens, and speckled hens, and white hens, but there were no golden hens.
He grew so tired that one day he lay down under a tree and fell fast asleep,
and when he awoke there sat an old fox looking down at him.
“Where are you going?” asked the fox.
“I am not going anywhere just now,” said Lars.
“Well,” said the fox; “when you get up, where are you bound for then?”
“Oh, dear,” said Lars, “to find the golden hen who lost this feather, and I
don’t know which way to go.”
The fox smelled the feather, and then said in a whisper, “I know every
poultry yard in the world. The golden hen belongs to the Sun’s sisters.
Come, I’ll show you the way.”
So Lars and the fox went on and on for days, and then up a steep mountain,
until they came to the palace of the sun. It glittered and shone from top to
bottom, and Lars and the fox crept softly up to the palace gate.
“You must go straight in, looking neither to the right or to the left,” said the
fox to Lars, “until you come to the poultry yard. Snatch the golden hen, and
run back again as fast as you can. I will wait outside.”
Lars went in through the gate very quietly, looking straight ahead, past the
beautiful gardens, and nearly to the poultry yard, when he happened to spy
a window which was open. He forgot all that the fox had told him, and he
went over and peeped in the window. It was the prettiest room inside that
Lars had ever seen—all pink and gold, like the sky in the early morning. And
on a gold bed lay a little girl fast asleep. She was such a pretty little girl that
Lars couldn’t help climbing over the windowsill and tip-toeing across to look
at her. Her golden hair quite covered the pillow, and her cheeks were rosy.
It was the Princess Sunrise, and Lars kissed her softly.
She never awoke, so Lars climbed out of the window again, and went to the
poultry yard. There was a crowd of ducks and geese, turkeys and cocks, and
one little golden hen, but the minute they saw Lars they all set up such a
cackling, and crowing, and quacking that it awoke the Princess Sunrise, and
she came to the window.

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 “What do you want, boy?” she called out to Lars.
“I was just trying to catch your golden hen,” said Lars.
“Oh, you mustn’t do that; that would be stealing,” said the Princess; but
when she saw how sorrowful Lars looked, she said: “If you can bring me my
sister, Sunset, whom the trolls took away, I will give you my golden hen.”
So Lars went back to the fox and told him what had happened.
“You’ve made a fine mess of it,” said the fox; “but come, we must find the
trolls.”
So Lars and the fox went on and on, and up another steep mountain, until
they came to the great, black castle where the trolls lived.
“You stay outside this time,” said the fox. “I will go in and fetch the princess.”
The fox went up and rapped loudly at the trolls’ front door. The trolls were
all at tea, and they had their candles all lit. They called out: “Who’s there?”
“It is I,” said the fox, “come to dance with you.”
The trolls loved to dance more than anything else, so they called out at
once: “Come inside!” And the fox went inside.
There was the Princess Sunset, as pretty as her sister; only her hair was dark,
and her eyes shone like two stars, and her cheeks were red instead of pink.
“You may dance with her, first, if you like,” said the trolls, who were really
very good-natured.
So the fox put his paws around the princess’s waist, and they began
dancing. Round and round they whirled, and whenever they came near a
candle the fox blew it out, until it was so dark the trolls could not see. Out
the door they danced, and on to Lars.
“Take the princess home quickly,” said the fox to Lars. Then he called to the
trolls: “This way, this way!” He led them on a long chase over hill and dale,
until he left them sticking fast in a muddy marsh, and then he went home.
But Lars took the Princess Sunset home to the Palace of the Sun. The
Princess Sunrise gave him her golden hen, and Lars carried the hen to the

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king. He returned to the Palace of the Sun’s sisters and there he lived all his
days, helping the Princess Sunrise to make the new days.

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 The Golden Pine Cones
BETSI MCGUIGAN

T here was once upon a time, a woodcutter and his wife who lived in a
little cottage at the edge of the woods. They lived a very simple life, for
they were very poor.
One day their youngest child fell ill and nothing that the woodcutter or his
wife did seemed to help. Every day the child grew more thin and pale and
soon his parents feared that he would die.
“If only we had enough money to buy meat to make a good broth!” said the
woodcutter. “Well, I will go today and cut as much wood as I can. Perhaps I
can cut enough to keep our house warm and have some left to sell to make
money to buy meat.”
And so the woodcutter set off for the forest.
Now long ago people were sometimes lucky enough to see a gnome, or
their cousins, the moss folk. The moss folk were tiny gnomes who lived
in holes under the ground or under moss grown stones or in hollow tree
trunks. Like their cousins, the gnomes, they liked jokes and good-natured
tricks. Only the Wild Hunter frightened the moss folk. He would chase
them in the woods and when he caught one, he would eat it.
But this day as the woodcutter entered the woods, he did not see the Wild
Hunter, but only a little moss woman sitting on a moss covered stone. She
was throwing beechnuts at a squirrel. The squirrel would peek out from
behind a tree trunk, but duck and hide from the beechnuts. The moss
woman was having so much fun that she laughed out loud every time that

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the squirrel peeked at her.
The woodcutter stopped to watch her. He knew that he shouldn’t waste
any time this day, but he had rarely seen any of the moss folk. Then the
thought entered his mind, “If I could catch her, perhaps she could heal my
little boy.” Softly he crept forward. But just as he reached out, the moss
woman disappeared.
Disappointed, the woodcutter set to work. He chopped and sawed and
chopped and sawed until the evening came. It was getting dark and he
needed to hurry home to his family.
But suddenly the moss woman stood before him again. “Don’t go,” she
pleaded. “Before you leave the woods tonight, you must cut three crosses
into every tree stump. Otherwise we are lost.”
The woodcutter needed to get home to his sick child and the rest of his
family. But he said, “Why do you ask this of me?”
“Don’t you know?” replied the moss woman. “The Wild Hunter is in these
woods. He is after us and wants to eat us. Only when we sit on a tree
stump with crosses cut by human hands are we safe.”
The woodcutter felt the need to hurry home and yet his heart went out to
the little moss woman. As darkness fell on the forest, and then by the light
of the moon, he stayed and cut three crosses into the stump of each tree
that he had felled. At last he was finished.
The little moss woman appeared again. “We will never forget your kindness
in saving us from the Wild Hunter,” she said. “Here—take some pine cones
from our forest home for your children as a thank you.” The little woman
handed the woodcutter a bag filled with pine cones.
The poor woodcutter was so tired that he could barely think, but he took
the bag and thanked the moss woman. Then he set off for home.
As he walked home, he was so exhausted that the bag of pine cones felt
heavy and heavier until at last, by the time that he reached home, he could
barely lift it.

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 As he stumbled through the door, the worry on his wife’s face changed to
wonder as she looked in the bag and discovered that the pine cones were
pure gold.
The next day the wife took one of the pine cones to town to sell for money
to buy food for the family. But the woodcutter went back to the forest.
There he could feel the eyes of the moss folk all around him. He called out,
“Moss woman! Moss woman! Thank you!”
“Do not thank me,” said the little woman, suddenly standing before him.
“The thanks is to you. Now, take this plant home. Strip the leaves and make
a tea. Give it to your youngest boy. In no time he will be strong again.”
The woodcutter took the plant home and did as the woman had told him.
As his son drank the tea, the color came back to his cheeks. Soon he was
strong and healthy once more.
The family never again knew want. They had plenty of pine cones to sell.
They never saw the moss woman again, but they kept one golden pine cone
to remember her by. And when the woodcutter and his wife died, their
children kept the pine cone, and their children after them.
And I am told that even today, their children’s children keep the golden pine
cone so that the good moss folk are never forgotten.

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Peter, Paul, and Espen
A NORWEGIAN TALE

T here were once three brothers—Peter, Paul and Espen—who set out
from home to find their way through the woods. Now, Peter and Paul
thought they knew all that needed to be known, and they were sure that
they could do anything that needed to be done. Espen said but little, and
the others thought he was of no account.
Their way led through a deep wood, where splendid trees and beautiful
flowers grew. Happy birds flitted from tree to tree; all in all it was a very
pleasant place. After a while the boys heard a strange sound far away to
one side.
“I wonder,” said Espen, “I wonder what that sound can be.”
“That, you silly boy,” said his brothers; “why, it is just a woodchopper
chopping at a tree. Have you never heard a woodchopper before?”
“Yes, I have,” said Espen, “but I wonder just what it is that we hear. I am
going to find out.”
“Nonsense!” said Paul and Peter, “come with us, and don’t stop for that.”
“No,” said Espen; “I am going to find out.”
So away he went and there, far off in the woods, he found an axe chopping
away all by itself.
“Good morning, dear axe,” said Espen; “what are you doing there, all by
yourself?”
“I have been waiting here hundreds of years for you,” said the axe.

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 “Well, here I am,” said Espen, and he took the axe and tucked it into his belt
and hurried off to catch up with his brothers.
They had not gone very much further through the woods when they heard
another strange sound—tap, tap, tap—far away to one side.
“I wonder,” said Espen, “what that sound might be.”
“That, you silly boy,” said his brothers; “why, that is just a stonecutter picking
at a rock. Did you never hear a pickaxe before?”
“Oh, yes,” said Espen, “but I wonder just what it is that we hear. I am going
to find out.”
“Nonsense!” said Peter and Paul, “come with us; we shall never get out of
this wood.”
“No,” said Espen; “I am going to find out.”
So away he went and there, far off in the wood, he came to a pickaxe
tapping at a rock all by itself.
“Good morning, dear pickaxe,” said Espen; “what are you doing here, all by
yourself?”
“I have been waiting here hundreds of years for you,” said the pickaxe.
“Well, here I am,” said Espen, slinging the pickaxe over his shoulder and
hurrying on to catch up with his brothers.
“Well, what did you find?” they asked of Espen. “Was it not a pickaxe?”
“Yes, it was a pickaxe,” said Espen.
Presently the three boys came to a brook. “I wonder where this brook came
from,” said Espen.
“Well, did you never see a brook before?” asked Peter and Paul.
“Yes,” said Espen, “but I wonder where it comes from.”
So, in spite of his brothers laughing at him, Espen followed the brook until
it grew narrower and narrower, and at last found it trickling from a walnut
shell.

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“Well, dear brook, what are you doing here, all by yourself?” asked Espen.
“I have been waiting here hundreds of years for you,” said the brook.
So Espen took the walnut shell and plugged it up with a bit of moss and
put it in his pocket. Then he hurried on, but Peter and Paul were a long way
ahead of him. They had come to a city. Now, it happened that in front of
the king’s palace was a tree that had grown so large, and made the palace
so shady and gloomy, that the king wished it cut down. But, strange to
say, every time one of its branches was cut off, another grew in its place.
So, instead of growing smaller, the tree grew ever larger, and the king had
offered half of his kingdom to whoever could cut it down.
Many people had tried, and had failed, and at last the king decreed that
whosoever tried and failed, they should be sent to a very distant island,
never to return. The palace was also on a high hill, and every drop of water
the king needed had to be carried up the hill. The king said he would give
half his kingdom to whomsoever could cut down the tree and dig him a
well. Many people tried to dig the well and cut down the tree, but they all
failed and the king had them sent off to the far distant island.
At last came Peter and Paul, the brothers who thought they knew
everything in the world. They were sure they could cut down the tree and
dig the well, but they, also, failed and were sent away. Then along came
Espen, and he, too, wished to try.
“Oh, see your poor brothers!” cried all the people. “You must not try it!”
“I will try,” said Espen.
So he took his axe from his belt, put it at the foot of the tree and said to it,
“Chop away, my axe.”
And the axe chopped and chopped away until, in a few minutes, the tree
was down. Then he took the pickaxe, put it in the hard rock and said: “Dig
away, my pickaxe.”
In a little while the pickaxe had dug a great, deep hole. Then Espen took
out his walnut shell, pulled out the moss and dropped it far down into the
ground. In a minute the water bubbled up as high as a fountain, and there

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 was a splendid spring with all the water that was needed for the palace.
So the foolish Espen, whom no one thought to be of much account, had
done what no other had done; and the king gave him all of his kingdom and
he ruled wisely all the days of his life.

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The Magic Lake at the End of
the World A TALE FROM ECUADOR RETOLD BY BARBARA KLOCEK

O nce upon a time the king of a great land had one son who brought
him great joy, but also sorrow. The prince had been born in ill health
and as the years passed, no one could find a cure for him. One night the
king prayed, “Oh, Great One, I am getting old and will soon leave my
people to join you in the heavens. There is no one to look after them but
my son, the prince. Please tell me how he can be cured.”
The king waited for an answer and then heard a voice from the fire that
burned always by the altar. “When the prince drinks water from the magic
lake at the end of the world, he will be well.” But the king was too old to
make the long journey himself, and the prince was too ill, so he proclaimed
over his land that whosoever would bring back the water from the lake at
the end of the world would be richly rewarded. Many brave men set out to
try, but none could find it.
In a far valley of that kingdom, lived a poor farmer with his wife, two sons
and a daughter. One day the older son said, “Let my brother and me search
for the healing water. We shall return before the moon is full to help with
the harvest.” The second son also wanted to go but the father feared for
them. Then his wife said, “We must help our king and prince.” The father
gave his blessing and the sons set out on their journey. They traveled far
and found many lakes, but none where the sky touched the waters. Finally
they knew they must return to help their father.
Said the brothers, “Let us gather water from every lake. In this way we may
receive a reward.” When they returned to the palace they told the king

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 they had brought water from the magic lake. When the prince was given
the water he remained as ill as before. The king called for his magician to
ask why the prince was not made well. The magician said wisely that this
was not the water from the magic lake. The brothers trembled with fright
for they knew their falsehood had been discovered. The king angrily threw
them into prison and every day they had to drink their false water. Once
again the king pleaded for help from his people.
Suma, the little sister of the brothers, was tending her flock of llamas when
she heard the royal messenger. She quickly led her llamas home and begged
her parents to let her go. “You are too young,” said her father. “Besides, look
what has befallen you brothers.” And her mother added, “We cannot bear
to be without our dear Suma.”
“But think how sad our king will be if his son dies,” replied Suma. “And if I
find the lake, perhaps the king will forgive my brothers.”
“Dear husband, perhaps it is the will of the gods,” said her mother, and they
gave her their blessing. Bravely Suma set off with her pet llama to carry her
provisions, a bag of golden corn and a flask of water. The first night she
slept, snug and warm against her llama. But during the night she heard the
cry of the mountain lion and so in the morning she sent her llama home
for safety. The next night she slept in the top branches of a tall tree. In
the morning she was aroused by the voices of the gentle birds resting on a
nearby branch. They were talking about how she had shared her corn with
them yesterday and how she would never be able to find the magic lake.
“Let us help her,” said one sparrow.
“Oh, yes. Please do,” said Suma.
“We shall help you, for you are a good child. Each of us will give you a
special wing feather and you must hold them all together in one hand as
a fan. These feathers have magic powers that will carry you wherever you
wish to go. They will also protect you from harm.”
Each bird carefully gave her a special feather and she made a little fan and
tied them with a ribbon from her hair. The oldest bird told her how three
terrible creatures guarded the magic lake. She should have no fear for she

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would not be harmed if she held up the magic fan and sang this song:
No fear here. Angel stand near.
Suma gratefully thanked the birds and, holding the fan, said, “Please take
me to the magic lake at the end of the world.”
At once, a soft breeze lifted her out of the tree and through the valley. Up
she was carried and over the snowy peaks. At last the wind put her down
on the shore of a lake touched by the sky. She ran to the water and was
about to fill her flask when a large crab said, “Get away from my lake or I
will eat you.”
Trembling only a little, Suma held up the magic fan and sang this song, “No
fear here. Angel stand near.” At once the crab closed his eyes and fell asleep.
Once more she began to fill her bottle, when a voice came from the water:
“Get away from my lake or I shall eat you.” She saw a great green alligator in
the lake. Quickly she held up the fan and sang and the creature sank to the
bottom of the lake, asleep.
As Suma recovered from her fright, she heard a whistling voice, “Get away
from my lake or I will eat you.” She looked up and saw a flying serpent.
Again Suma’s fan and song saved her from harm. The serpent drifted to the
ground, folded its wings, and began to snore. Suma sat for a moment to
quiet herself. Then she realized the danger was past and filled up her flask.
Holding her fan, she whispered, “Please take me to the palace.” Swiftly she
flew and found herself before the gate. A guard lead her to the prince who
was pale and motionless. When Suma gave him a few drinks, he sat up and
said joyfully, “How strong I feel.”
The king and queen rejoiced. They praised her courage and offered her all
the riches of the kingdom. She said that she had only three wishes. The first
was that the fan be returned to the birds and it immediately flew out of the
window toward the mountains. The second wish was that her brothers be
freed. Immediately the king had them released. The last wish was for a large
farm with many llamas for her parents. “It will be so,” said the king. “Will you
not stay with us in the palace? We will do everything to make you happy.”

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 “Oh, no, thank you,” said Suma. “I miss my family and wish to return to
them.” And so she returned home and lived happily with her parents and
brothers and their llamas.

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The Dragon’s Gate
A CHINESE STORY RETOLD BY STEPHEN SPITALNY

AUTHOR’S NOTE: In this story, the image of the dragon represents something that is
valued, something that is the object of striving. The story itself presents a picture of courage,
wisdom and perseverance being the means of self-development.

I n the heart of a deep forest far from any towns and villages is a high
waterfall called the Dragon’s Gate where the waters plunge more swiftly
than an arrow shot by a bow. Many carp gather at the bottom hoping to
ascend the huge waterfall, for those that make it to the top and through
the Dragon’s Gate will turn into a dragon. Many have tried and few, if any,
have ever succeeded.
Day and night, the dragons guard the gate, swishing their tails and
splashing in the water to make waves, snorting out clouds to make rain
and roaring thunder. Not only dragons, but many dangers await those who
attempt to climb the waterfall. Some are swept away by the swift waters,
some are caught by eagles, hawks, owls and ospreys. Others are caught by
fishermen. Such is the difficulty of a carp becoming a dragon.
Once upon a time, there was a carp who lived in a small pond hidden in a
deep forest far from any predators. There was always enough to eat. The
little carp thought his pond was the whole world. At one end of his pond
was bubbling, foaming water that led into a rushing stream. He never went
by the bubbling waters. Occasionally, he saw other carp disappear into the
foam, but he never went close. He was curious and afraid. As he grew, so
did his curiosity. He swam near the spot and watched. He asked other carp
what lay beyond the pond. “What is the world outside our pond like?” Most

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 told him not to wonder about what lay beyond, but he longed to know.
One day, as he was watching the foaming bubbles, his grandfather swam
up to him and said, “Exciting sight, isn’t it? What lies beyond the pond
is also exciting and interesting.” “What is beyond this pond?” said the
young carp. Grandfather carp smiled and said, “There is a stream outside
this rushing water. In this stream are many small waterfalls. If you swim
upstream and climb these small waterfalls, you will come to a waterfall
called the Dragon’s Gate.
“The waters of the Dragon’s Gate plunge a hundred feet with tremendous
force. At the bottom of the falls you will find a great many brothers and
sisters—all the carp who are hoping to climb the Dragon’s Gate. If a
carp ever succeeds in climbing the falls, that fish will turn into a dragon.
However, not one carp out of a hundred, a thousand or ten thousand will
climb the falls. Most fail, swept away by the rushing current, or caught by
birds of prey or foxes and bears and fishermen. All of these and more are
the dangers that await one on this journey. But one who meets his fear and
overcomes these challenges shall turn into a dragon.”
The young carp listened closely to his grandfather. When grandfather was
done speaking, he smiled warmly at the young carp and slowly swam away.
The young carp then swam straight into the foaming waters, never to return
to his protected pond again. He swam upstream through the many small
waterfalls, avoiding the banks where hungry foxes and bears awaited. He
swam in the shadows and under leaves and branches where he would not
be seen by birds of prey. He rested when he needed, but went at a great
pace. At length he reached the pool at the bottom of the Dragon’s Gate.
He looked up at the mighty waterfall. He saw hawks and other birds soaring
overhead, waiting to snatch any foolhardy fish. He watched other carp as
they attempted the falls, only to be swept away by the rushing water and
dashed upon the rocks, or get caught by the talons of the hungry birds. He
thought about what to do. He felt his own fears rise up, but he managed to
still himself, and, little by little, he made a plan.
He leaped to a small ledge near the bottom of the falls and began to make
his way from ledge to ledge, always keeping close to the rocks and rushing

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water, out of reach of the soaring birds. After a long time, he reached the
top where a large dragon awaited him. “Go away,” said the dragon. “You are
a little fish. You should be scared of me. What makes you think you can be a
dragon?”
The little carp answered, “I am afraid, but still I am here. I dedicated myself
to this effort of becoming a dragon, and I am persistent. I can wait. There is
plenty of time.” The dragon laughed heartily and kept one eye on the carp.
No fish would get through the gate while he was guarding it. “I thought
dragons could fly,” said the little carp. “Why don’t you?”
“I can fly,” said the dragon. “I can fly better than birds.”
“I don’t believe you,” said the carp.
The dragon began to grow angry, and the carp swam into a deep pool
beneath the dragon’s feet. When the carp surfaced, he said, “I don’t believe
you can fly. I never saw you. Maybe you are not a real dragon at all.”
The dragon bellowed, “I’ll show you, little fish.” And the dragon leaped into
the air and flapped his huge wings.
The little carp quickly darted through the now unguarded Dragon’s Gate
and waited. Soon the dragon returned. “So you can fly after all,” said the
carp. He began to feel himself growing and his fish scales changing into
dragon’s scales. The dragon gave a thundering bellow, but soon stopped,
and a smile came over his face. “I wanted you to be a dragon all the time.
You have the courage and dedication and cleverness to be a dragon. So I
have let you pass because you are truly worthy.”
The little carp who had now turned into a dragon that was still increasing in
size, looked at the large dragon and smiled. It rained that day, and when the
sun came out, a double rainbow glowed over the land.

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 Hans and the Wonderful
Flower A LEGEND OF THE RHINE, ADAPTED BY CAROLYN S. BAILEY

A long way from here, in a far-off land, there flows a river whose waters
are so clear and pure that one can almost see the bottom, where the
mermaids live in their palaces of coral and shell. This river runs through
valleys sweet with flowers and past mountains and hills. The fields are full
of fairies, and the hills swarm with little people—dwarves, and pixies, and
elves, and gnomes. Not everyone may see the fairies and the little men, but
they do often play the queerest tricks upon the people they do not like, and
sometimes they are good and kind.
This is the story of how they once helped a little boy.
It was little Hans, the shepherd boy, who tended the king’s sheep. Hans
lived with his mother in a wee house, with a tiny garden about it—and all
they owned in the world was the white goat that gave them milk to drink.
Every day Hans drove the king’s herds to the valley, and he watched them
all day long and tended the lambs and when night came he led them back
to the fold again. Then, do you think he played? No, indeed! All day the
good mother had been busy spinning, and cooking, and sweeping, so Hans,
when his day’s work was done, cut the wood, and milked the white goat,
and weeded the garden. They were busy and happy, Hans and his mother,
but they were also very poor.
And one day, when it was cold winter, the good mother grew so ill she
could not lift her head up from the pillow.
There was an old, old woman who came to take care of her, and she shook

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her head when she saw her. “There is only one thing that will cure her,” she
said; “The little brown herb that grows at the top of the mountain—and it
is covered with ice and snow.”
“But I will find it,” cried Hans; “I don’t mind the cold and the snow.” So Hans
kissed his mother, strapped on his snowshoes, took his stout walking stick,
and started out to find the brown herb. Oh, but it was cold! The wind
whistled through the tree-tops and the sleet blew in Hans’s face. The drifts
of snow were so deep in some places that they nearly covered him—but on
he tramped, pushing and poking about with his stick.
“I must find the brown herb,” he said over and over to himself.
Up the mountain he climbed to the very top, until he could see the river far
below him. The crust on the snow was thick and hard, and his fingers ached,
but he pounded with his stick and he stamped his feet. All at once he came
upon the most beautiful flower you ever saw, growing up through the snow.
It was so white that it sparkled like a hundred snow crystals, and it seemed
that one could look deep down into its very heart. It had the sweetest
perfume, like the breath of all the flowers in the summer. It seemed to say,
“Pick me, pick me, little boy.”
Now, Hans loved flowers more than anything. He reached out his hand
for this beautiful one, and then he seemed to see, quite plainly, the poor
mother, waiting so ill at home. A little voice inside him said: “No, no, Hans.
Wait until you come back. Find the brown herb first.”
So Hans left the beautiful flower and trudged on farther, poking about
under the snow. Just as it was nearly dark he found the brown herb, and he
put it fast in his pocket. He was hurrying home, down the mountainside,
when he remembered the white flower.
“Now I may pick it,” he said to himself, but when he went back to the place
where the wonderful flower had been it was not there at all. In its place
stood a wee little brown dwarf bowing and scraping, and taking off his hat
to Hans.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said to Hans, smiling all over his wrinkled face. “Come
right in.”

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 Then the strangest thing happened. The side of the mountain opened wide
like a door. The little dwarf skipped along in front to show the way, and
Hans found himself in the most beautiful castle you ever saw. It was all so
bright that it dazzled his eyes. From room to room they went, and in every
room were piles and piles of precious stones—emeralds, and rubies, and
pearls!
“Help yourself, Hans,” said the dwarf, as he brought out a stout sack. “Take
home as many as you like. A little boy who is as good to his mother as you
are deserves a gift.”
So Hans filled his bag with the precious stones and, however many he put
in, the dwarf urged him to take more. But at last the sack was full, and
suddenly Hans found himself in the snow again, without so much as a crack
in the ice to show where the little dwarf had stood.
Hans felt in his pocket. There was the brown herb—safe. The bag of
precious stones, which he had slung over his shoulder, was still heavy, so he
went home as fast as his snowshoes would carry him.
“Mother, mother!” he cried, as he ran in and threw his arms about her. “See!”
and he emptied the sack upon the floor. “We are not poor anymore! And
see!” he went on, as he pulled the brown herb from his pocket.
So they brewed the brown herb, and as soon as the good mother tasted it
she was quite well again. And the wonderful sack of jewels stayed always
full.

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Hidden Waters
AN IROQUOIS TALE ADAPTED BY JOANNE DENNEE

T he winter snow lay thick and white upon the ground. The cold wind
blew from the north and there was little food in the lodge where
Nekumonta lived with his gentle wife, Shanewis. Shanewis lay upon
the ground warmed by the fire and fur skins that Nekumonta provided.
Shanewis grew weak from hunger and cold and when Nekumonta saw her
suffering his heart filled with grief. “Surely,” he cried, “I must search and find
the healing herbs the Good Spirit has planted! Even if they lie hidden under
the snow and hard ground, I must search and find them!” So he covered his
wife with more warm furs and placed what food he had beside her. Then,
taking his staff and his snowshoes, he bade her goodbye and set out on his
search.
All day long he wandered eagerly through the forest, and though he sought
everywhere he could not find the healing herbs. The snow lay deep on the
ground. Not even the tiniest leaf showed. Thus for three days and nights he
wandered through the forest.
A small rabbit crossed his path and he cried, “My Little Brother, please tell
me where to find the healing herbs that the Good Spirit has planted!” But
the rabbit did not answer. It only scurried away, for it knew that the herbs
were still in the winter ground and she was sorry for Nekumonta.
Then he passed by the den of the bear and cried out, “My Brown Brother,
please tell me where to find the healing herbs the Good Spirit has planted!”
But Bear did not answer for he was asleep, waiting for springtime to come.

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 Then he called to the deer as it came leaping through the forest. “My Swift
Brother, surely you can tell me where to find the healing herbs the Good
Spirit has planted!” But Deer did not answer and went bounding away, for
she knew that the wind blew too cold for the little herbs to come up.
Nekumonta also called to the squirrel and the winter birds and to all the
other forest creatures, but they gave him no answer.
When the third night had come he was weary and weak for he had not
eaten any food. Despairing, he sank down upon the soft breast of Mother
Earth and soon fell asleep. Deer saw him and gave the forest cry. Then
from the bushes the wild creatures came creeping quietly to watch over
Nekumonta. With their warm breath and thick fur they sheltered him from
the cold so he slept in safety. The animals stood guard over him for they
knew his kindness, for he loved the trees, flowers, and animals of the forest.
And while Nekumonta lay there sleeping he dreamed he heard sweet voices
calling. They sounded like murmurs of distant waters, and they whispered
his name and sighed:
Seek us, oh seek us Nekumonta!
Find us and Shanewis shall live!
We are the Healing Waters,
Gift of the Good Spirit.
Then Nekumonta awoke and rose to his feet. The animals were gone, for
they had slipped away into the forest. No waters were to be seen but the
sound of their murmurings still fell upon his ears.
Release us, release us, oh Nekumonta!
Find us and Shanewis shall live!
We are the Healing Waters,
Gift of the Good Spirit.
The murmurings seemed to come from the ground under his feet, so he
took his staff and dug though the snow and into the Earth. Then a hidden
spring gushed from the ground. Its waters were singing, joyously rushing
down, down, down the steep hillside to the village below. With thanks

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in his heart Nekumonta made a bowl of clay, and after filling it from the
spring of healing waters he sped swiftly to his lodge, to the ailing Shanewis.
Wherever he passed along the way the snow melted. The mud nourished
the Earth and healing herbs and flowers sprang up all along his path.
When he returned to his lodge, there lay Shanewis upon the thick furs
beside the fire. He poured the healing waters through her lips and she fell
into a life-giving slumber.
So the gentle Shanewis was saved and the Healing Waters brought joy and
life to the village.
Great blessings, great blessings, oh Nekumonta!
Through your courage and kindness
Shanewis does live!
We are the Healing Waters,
Gift of the Good Spirit.

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 The Sword of a True Knight
ELIZABETH STUBBS

O nce upon a time, there was a child who lived in a small village in the
countryside, far from the castle of the king. His father was a miller and
every day he worked in the mill, helping his father grind the golden grain
into flour.
Although the child was happy to help his father, more than anything, he
wanted to be a knight. He dreamed of knights asleep and awake, played
knights with his friends, and he even drew pictures of them. Every evening,
after he had finished helping his father, he would go to the village inn and
wait, in case any knights, far from home, should seek lodging there. They
did not come very often, but when they did, he would offer to polish their
boots for them and while he did this, he listened to the stories they told
each other. He admired their shining armor and their sharp swords. They
were so big and strong.
One day his grandfather offered to help him make a sword out of wood.
Together, they cut it carefully, measuring the length of the child’s arm and
hand, in order that it would fit him exactly. The wood was very rough,
however, and the grandfather said they would need to smooth it. He led
the child to the river, where they searched along the banks for a special
kind of stone. In time they found it, black and rough, and the old man
showed the child how to use it to shape and smooth the wood. The child
thanked his grandfather, for now he saw that he could use the stone to
sharpen his sword as well as to shape it.
After the old man had returned to his fireside, the child sat down upon

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a fallen tree by the edge of the river and began to sharpen his sword. He
worked all morning in the sunshine. It was weary work and soon his eyes
began to grow heavy. Then it seemed that the stone in his hand began to
speak to him. “Ah, my child,” said the stone, “It is not the sharpness of the
sword, but the light that shines from within it, that gives the true knight
power.” And then it seemed as if the stone began to sing:
The sword of a true knight
Must be strong, must be bright.
But the sword of a true knight
Must shine with inner light.
The sword of a true knight
Must not be used for might
For the sword of a true knight
Belongs to the light.
The sword of a true knight
Must be used for the right
For the sword of a true knight
Must carry the light.
When the child opened his eyes, he decided that the sword was pointed
enough already and stopped sharpening. Then he began to smooth the
wood of the handle, so that it was comfortable to hold and fit easily into
his hand. As he looked at his work, it almost seemed to him that the sword
grew a bit brighter.
Each day the child passed by a field of wheat on his way to the mill. He
had played many hours there among the tall stalks of waving grain and had
known great happiness. One morning he had a great urge to try his sword
to see how sharp it was.
Now he knew, being the miller’s child, that the wheat must ripen to gold
before it is cut. The wheat in this field was still green, but his urge to try
out the blade was so powerful that he could not resist it. He raised his
sword and just as he was about to sweep it through the wheat, it suddenly
seemed that the wheat began to speak to him. “Ah, my child,” said the
voice, “It is not the sharpness of the sword, but the light that shines from

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 within it, that gives the true knight power.” And then it seemed as if the
wheat began to sing:
The sword of a true knight
Must be strong, must be bright.
But the sword of a true knight
Must shine with inner light.
The sword of a true knight
Must not be used for might
For the sword of a true knight
Belongs to the light.
The sword of a true knight
Must be used for the right
For the sword of a true knight
Must carry the light.
When the child opened his eyes, he lowered his arm. He did not want to
cut down the wheat where he had played so happily. And as he looked at
his sword, it seemed to him as though it began to shine more brightly.
Time passed and one day, as the child walked to the mill, something caught
his eye at the edge of the forest. He walked toward it and soon realized
that it was a stag, sleeping in the shadow of a large boulder. He tiptoed
close but the stag did not seem to hear him approach. As he looked, he had
a thought. What a hero he would be if he were to bring down a stag! Why,
he could kill it with the sharp sword he had made! The whole village could
have plenty to eat and he would be the center of the celebration.
But as he gazed down, the stag opened his eyes and it suddenly seemed that
the stag began to speak to him. “Ah, my child,” said the voice, “It is not the
sharpness of the sword, but the light that shines from within it, that gives the
true knight power.” And then it seemed as if the stag began to sing:
The sword of a true knight
Must be strong, must be bright.
But the sword of a true knight
Must shine with inner light.

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 The sword of a true knight
Must not be used for might
For the sword of a true knight
Belongs to the light.
The sword of a true knight
Must be used for the right
For the sword of a true knight
Must carry the light.
The child lowered his sword and looked down at the stag. He now saw that
it was wounded and could not run. It was thin and its beautiful coat was
covered with burrs and hayseeds. The child then had another idea. Quietly
and quickly, he turned and looked around him. Soon he found what he
was looking for, a greenwood tree. He looked above and saw clumps of
young fresh leaves growing high in the tree, and with the help of his sword,
managed to cut some down. These he carried back and left them near
the stag, along with the apple his mother had given him for his lunch. As
he walked away, he could see the stag nibbling at the leaves, and again it
seemed to him that his sword began to glow a little brighter.
Time passed, and the child grew taller and stronger. He still carried his
sword in his belt wherever he went but he did not play with it so often. He
took good care of it and kept it polished with beeswax. He still went to
the inn and waited for the knights who occasionally stopped there on their
travels.
One evening, the child heard the clatter of hooves outside the inn. He ran
to the gate and saw a knight dismounting from his horse. His armor was
dented and dirty and his shield had a huge scratch across its face. When
the knight removed his helmet the child could see that his face was lined
with weariness and sorrow. He handed the reins of the horse to the child,
who led it to the stable and soon returned. He offered to polish the knight’s
boots while he ate his supper. The knight accepted and gave him a silver
penny for his trouble.
When the boots were clean and his supper eaten, the knight unsheathed his
sword and began to clean and polish the blade. Although it was very dirty,

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 the child drew closer to admire the heavy sword. Only a few times had he
seen one so close. He asked the knight if he might touch the sword and
soon he was allowed to hold it in his hand. It was very heavy. The knight
noticed his little wooden sword and he asked the child if he might hold it in
his hand too. The child said yes, but that it was not so sharp as a real one.
The knight held the sword and weighed it in his big hand. He looked the
child right in the eye. “Ah, my child,” said the knight, “It is not the sharpness
of the sword, but the light that shines from within it, that gives the true
knight his power. I can see the light shining from your sword. Do you take
good care of it? And polish it every day?” The child solemnly nodded. Then
the knight looked very sad and very serious. “If only men would learn to see
the light,” he said, “then there would be no more reason for fighting.” And
he would say no more.
The child went home and thought about the knight’s words. He never
forgot them and when he grew to be a man, he did indeed become a knight.
He was brave and strong and true. But he was known for his goodness, his
kindness and wisdom. And he always remembered the words of the song
he had heard as a child.
The sword of a true knight
Must be strong, must be bright.
But the sword of a true knight
Must shine with inner light.
The sword of a true knight
Must not be used for might
For the sword of a true knight
Belongs to the light.
The sword of a true knight
Must be used for the right
For the sword of a true knight
Must carry the light.

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Wild Goose Lake
A CHINESE TALE RETOLD BY LUCIA MELLO

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This story lends itself beautifully to puppetry and marionettes for the
celebration of the Lunar New Year. I’ve made big marionettes for this tale, inspired by the large
marionettes that Joan Almon presented long ago at a conference. I use them to present a
marionette show for all the students during the Lunar New Year assembly we do at our school.
My dragon king is not a dragon, but a male emperor-looking marionette, with chinese dragon
fabric like a vest over the silk. His face is striking, due to his fierce piercing eyes.

L ong ago in China, a young girl lived in a small village at the foot of
Horse Ear Mountain. Her name was Sea Girl and she lived with her
father, a hard-working farmer.
No rain had fallen for many months; the crops hung limp and brown, dying
for want of water. It seemed there could be no harvest, and food was
already scarce. So each day Sea Girl went up to Horse Ear Mountain and
cut bamboo to make brooms to sell.
One day when Sea Girl had climbed higher on the mountain than ever
before in her search for bamboo, she saw a large blue lake gleaming in the
sun. The water of the lake was clear and still. Not a single fallen leaf marred
its surface, for whenever a leaf fell from the trees surrounding the lake, a
large wild goose flew down and carried it away. This was the Wild Goose
Lake, which Sea Girl had heard the elders speak of in the village tales.
Sea Girl carried her bamboo home, thinking of the clean blue water of the
lake and how badly the people needed water for their crops.
The next day she took her axe to cut bamboo and again climbed high in the
mountain. She hoped she could make an outlet from Wild Goose Lake. The

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 village harvest would be saved if the lake trickled down the mountain in a
gentle stream to the farms below.
She began to walk around the lake, following the narrow sandy shore. But
the lake was surrounded by jagged rocks, high cliffs, and dense forest. There
seemed to be no place to make an outlet for a stream.
Then, late in the day she came upon a thick stone gate. Her axe was of no
help, and although she used all her strength, the gate could not be moved.
Wearily she dropped her pile of bamboo cuttings and sat down next to the
gate. All was still, and the lake was a mirror reflecting the dark green pines.
A wild goose swooped high in the sky, then glided down to stand on the
ground nearby. “Sea Girl,” said the Wild Goose, “you will need the Golden
Key to open the gate.”
Before she could ask where she could find the Golden Key, the wild goose
spread her wings and soared away over the lake. Then Sea Girl noticed a
small keyhole in the stone gate, but there was no key.
Sea Girl walked on along the shore of the lake, searching for the Golden
Key. She came to a forest of cypress trees and sitting on a cypress branch
was a brilliant parrot of scarlet and green. “Parrot,” she called, “do you know
where I can find the Golden Key that will open the stone gate?”
The parrot answered, “You must first find the third daughter of the Dragon
King, for the Dragon King guards the Golden Key to Wild Goose Lake.” With
a quick whirring of wings the parrot flew off into the forest.
Sea Girl walked on searching for the Dragon King’s third daughter. In a pine
grove close to the lake, she saw a peacock sitting on a low branch. “Peacock,
peacock,” she called, “where can I find the Dragon King’s third daughter?”
“The Dragon King’s third daughter loves songs. If you sing the songs your
village people sing, she will come forth from the lake.” The peacock dropped
a feather at her feet and flew away.
Sea Girl picked up the feather and began to sing. Her voice was clear, and
as fresh as a lark’s song. At first she sang about the snowflakes drifting on
the mountains, but the Dragon King’s third daughter did not appear. She

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sang of green reeds bending in the wind. Still the third daughter did not
come; the lake lay clear and still. Then Sea Girl sang of pale blossoming
flowers on the hills.
Near the shore the water broke into a glittering spray, and the third
daughter came up out of the lake to stand before Sea Girl. “Deep in the
lake I heard your songs,” she said. “They are so strange and beautiful that I
could not resist them. My father does not allow us to meet humans, but I
have come to you secretly. I, too, love songs, and your songs are finer than
mine.”
Sea Girl asked, “Are you the third daughter of the Dragon King?” “Yes, I am
Third Daughter. My father and his people guard Wild Goose Lake. Who are
you? Why do you sing your songs here?”
“I am Sea Girl. I live in a village at the foot of Horse Ear Mountain, and I
have come all this long way to find the Golden Key which opens the stone
gate of the lake. The people in my village are hungry and need water to
save their harvest.”
Third Daughter hesitated, then she said, “I would like to help you. The
Golden Key is kept in my father’s treasure room, deep in a rock cave.
Outside on the cliff a huge eagle guards it, and he would tear to pieces
anyone who tried to enter.” She pointed to a rock cliff a little distance off.
On the cliff perched an eagle nodding in the sun.
Sea Girl asked, “Would your father give us the Golden Key?” “He will not
help humans,” sighed Third Daughter. “That is why he had the stone gate
made to keep in the lake water. You must wait until my father leaves his
palace and goes off. Then perhaps we can lure the eagle away from the
treasure room.” So Sea Girl made a bed of soft pine branches under the
trees and Third Daughter brought her fresh fish to eat.
A few days later she said to Sea Girl, “My father has left his palace. Now is the
time to search for the key, but I don’t know how you will slip past the eagle.”
“We will sing to him,” said Sea Girl. The two girls moved lightly and quietly
closer to where the eagle perched high on the rock cliff. Third Daughter
pointed out the entrance to the cave below. Tall ferns and reeds hid

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 the girls from sight, and they began to sing. Each took turns singing the
loveliest and most enchanting songs they knew.
At first the eagle just peered around curiously. Then, drawn by the strange
haunting sounds, he moved down from the cliff in search of the source.
Third Daughter crept quietly further and further away, and the eagle
followed the enchanting sound of her voice.
Sea Girl slipped into the treasure cave to search for the Golden Key. At first
her eyes were dazzled, for the room was filled on all sides with gold, silver,
and sparkling jewels. But Sea Girl did not touch the treasure. She searched
only for the Golden Key.
Just as she was about to give up in despair, she saw a small plain wooden
box sitting on a shelf in the corner. Quickly she opened it and peered in.
There lay the gleaming Golden Key!
Sea Girl took the key and returned to where Third Daughter waited. When
the delicate soaring melody of song ceased, the eagle shook himself, spread
his wings, and sailed back to his cliff.
Then Sea Girl and Third Daughter hastened back to the stone gate. The
Golden Key fit perfectly into the keyhole, and the gate swung open. At
once the water rushed out in a leaping cascade, down the mountainside to
the village. In a very short time all the canals and ditches of the farms were
full and overflowing with water.
Third Daughter saw that the village would soon be flooded and she called
out, “Sea Girl, Sea Girl, there is too much water. The crops will be washed
away and lost!” Sea Girl quickly threw in piles of bamboo she had left earlier
at the stone gate. But that slowed the water only a little. Then the two girls
rolled boulders and large rocks into the stream until the water slowed down
to a small bubbling brook. Now they knew the village would always have a
steady supply of water.
When the Dragon King returned and found the Golden Key was gone, he
was very angry. He banished Third Daughter from the palace. But Third
Daughter went to live very happily with Sea Girl, and they sang their songs
together as they worked.

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So beautiful were their songs that each year ever after, on the twenty-
second day of the seventh moon, all the women of the surrounding villages
came together to sing the songs they knew and to celebrate the heroic
deed of Sea Girl.

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 Scarface
BARBARA KLOCEK

O nce upon a time, an Indian tribe lived in a long valley. On one side
rose mountains capped with snow and on the other great forests
covered the rolling hills. The rivers were full of fish and Mother Earth gave
them sweet berries and nuts. But when the rains did not come, the rivers
were dry as were the berries and nuts and the people knew hunger and
hardship.
Singing Rain was the daughter of the Chief and was kind and gentle. When
she saw the hunger of her people, she said she would marry the one who
would banish the hunger of her people. 
Now there was also in the village a boy named Scarface because he had
been born with a mark on his face. He lived with his grandmother because
his mother and father had died. Some of the children laughed at him
because he was poor and had a mark on his face, so he spent much of his
time in the forest and became friends with the birds and the animals. He
even learned their language. They were the brothers and sisters he had
never known.
Many of the young men tried to win Singing Rain’s affection by boasting of
their cunning and strength, but none know how to help the tribe. Singing
Rain soon tired of their proud ways. Scarface felt shy because he was poor
and scarred, yet one day by the river he asked if there was some way to
help the tribe. She saw in him a generous heart and an honesty, which the
other young men did not possess. She said, “Perhaps if you were to ask the
Father Sun, he could help.”

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“I will go to the Sun!” said Scarface. “I will bring him gifts, for surely the Sun
who is our Father and gives us all good things, wishes his children to be
happy.”
“How will you find the Lodge of the Sun?” asked Singing Rain. “Do you
know the way there?”
“I only know that the Sun dwells beyond the Great Waters, which are
beyond the forest. Surely there will be those along the way who can help
me.”
Scarface set out several days later to find the home of the Sun. He took
with him as gifts, pollen gathered by his grandmother from the meadow
flowers and a necklace from Singing Rain, the color of the clouds and the
sky. He faced west and walked for many days until he came to a country
where none of his tribe had ventured. Many paths opened in front of him
and he was uncertain of which way to go. The winds of autumn were
blowing and the leaves were filling with color. Where he paused he spotted
a squirrel nearby and called to him, “Brother, please help me.” Scarface had
always been friendly with the animals and word of his kindness had spread
widely.
 The squirrel said, “You are Scarface, brother to us all. How may I help you?”
“Can you show me the way to the dwelling place of the Sun?”
“I have never been there but am told that this trail will take you.” And the
squirrel pointed to a path.
So Scarface thanked the squirrel and traveled on his way for several
days. Soon he came to a place where the road forked and he came to a
halt. The leaves had all become golden and red. Spotting a mother bear and
her cub on their way to their winter burrow, Scarface called out, “Sister, can
you show me the way to the land where the Sun dwells?”
To her cub the mother bear said, “This is Scarface who has shown kindness
to our people.” To Scarface she said, “I have never seen the place of which
you speak, but the wise ones have said that this path will carry one there.”
and pointed. Scarface thanked the bear and continued.

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 After a long time, Scarface came to a place where the path disappeared
completely. The leaves had fallen and the land was still and empty. He
called out to a pair of snowy white owls who were watching him from a
nearby tree. “Brother and sister, can you show me the way to the Sun’s
home?”
The owls told each other, “This is Scarface of whom our cousins speak”—for
word of kindness travels great distances, carried from heart to heart. “We
have not seen the home of the Sun, but we have flown beyond the edge of
the forest to the shores of the Great Sea. We will take you there.” Scarface
followed them to the edge of the sea and thanked them.
When the owls returned to the woods, Scarface stood alone, staring across
the water. There in the distance he could see the faintest glimmer and
he knew there was the Lodge of the Sun, but how was he to cross such
an expanse of water? Scarface spent three days and nights in prayer and
fasting. On the morning of the fourth day, the mists rose up and the clouds
bent down and the sunlight wove a rainbow bridge for him across the
water. Boldly he stepped on the path and followed it as it wound upward,
singing:
Over the rainbow bridge I go
Over the rainbow bridge I go
With beauty before me, beauty behind,
Beauty above me, beauty below,
Over the rainbow bridge I go
Over the rainbow bridge I go.
When he reached the Land of the Sun, he found a path stretching before
him. He heard the singing of birds and saw meadows of starflowers. The
path was clear and his heart was light as he walked. Soon he came upon a
beautiful beaded belt lying beside the path. He wanted it for himself but
knew it must belong to someone and so he left it lying there. Soon he saw
walking towards him the most handsome man he had ever seen. He asked
Scarface, “Have you seen a beaded belt?”
“Yes, it is back along the path,” replied Scarface.

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“I am glad you are an honest man, for a thief would have taken it and it was
a gift from my father. Who are you and what are you seeking?”
“My name is Scarface and I am seeking the Lodge of the Sun.”
The young man smiled and said, “My name is Morning Star and the Sun is
my father. Come with me while I fetch my belt and I will take you to him.”
When they came to the Lodge of the Sun, it was huge and beautiful and
was filled with pictures of the heavens and of man. Morning Star introduced
his mother Moon who had a dress the color of the evening sky. She gave
him food and drink. In the evening the Sun returned and was pleased to
hear about the honesty of Scarface. He was pleased with the earthly gifts
he brought and asked him his heart’s desire.
Scarface told him about Singing Rain and her wish that her people no
longer would be hungry. The Sun smiled and brought out an ear of rainbow
corn and said, “Take this corn of red, gold and blue and plant it and tend it
and you will no longer be hungry. For your bravery and honesty I have a gift
for you.” The Sun touched the cheek of Scarface and the scar was gone. “I
give you a new name, Dawn Boy.” Dawn Boy thanked the Sun and went
with Morning Star to the rainbow bridge.
Over the rainbow bridge I go
Over the rainbow bridge I go
With beauty before me, beauty behind,
Beauty above me, beauty below,
Over the rainbow bridge I go
Over the rainbow bridge I go.
Singing Rain was joyful to see the return of Dawn Boy. He gave his gift of
corn to the Chief who called all of his people together and gave them the
corn. They planted it and tended it and were never again hungry. Singing
Rain and Dawn Boy were married and the Sun blessed them all the days of
their life and the Moon gave them sweet dreams each night.
 

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Healing Stories
for Special
Situations
The Little Seed’s Journey
CINDY BROOKS

EDITOR’S NOTE: Cindy has found this story to be especially helpful for children with
separation anxieties, though it would be a soothing balm to all our nervous, anxious little
ones.

O nce there was a lovely green meadow high up in the distant moun-
tains. In summer the meadow was filled with every kind of beautiful
flower—there were white ones and yellow ones, blue and purple ones and
even orange, pink and red flowers. There were flowers of every color!
This meadow was also filled with life. The fairies came to play and dance
day and night. All kinds of birds, big and little, swooped over and through
the trees, singing all manner of songs. Butterflies and bees visited the
flowers every day and chased the golden sunbeams dancing through the
meadow.
In the midst of this field of flowers there stood a lone sunflower. She had
grown from a seed that was dropped by a young boy early in the springtime
while he hiked through the meadow with his family. The sunflower was by
far the tallest flower in the meadow! Baby seeds were just starting to grow
inside her blossom, but most of them were still sleeping.
One day, towards the end of summer, the bees came visiting. On the back
of every bee there rode a fire fairy, sending warm light all around. On this
day one especially fuzzy bee flew atop the sunflower and sat down quietly.
The fire fairy on that bee was wearing a fiery red dress and she glowed with
a sparkling halo. She stepped down onto the sunflower’s yellow petal and
bowed very gracefully, as fairies always do. She noticed that one of the

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 little seeds was waking up, standing very straight and tall. She bowed to the
little seed and her halo sparkled all over her. The little seed had never seen
a fire fairy before, let alone a fairy bowing to him, but he was sure that he
should bow to her, too, and so he did. He bowed so far down that his head
touched the very tips of his feet and he thought he might fall over!
The fairy spoke to the seed: “On this day I have brought you a special gift. I
have made this gift especially for you. You will need it very soon, for soon
you are going on a very long journey.” The seed stood up even straighter,
even though he did not know what it meant to go on a long journey. The
fairy had wrapped her present in the finest of silks, one for every color of
the rainbow. Since the seed was still quite young, the fairy unwrapped
the silks to show him what was inside. What a wondrous sight he did
behold! Underneath the silk wrapping there glowed the most radiant
golden blanket! It was woven of golden threads filled with light from the
stars, moon and sun. The seed was filled with wonder and said, ever so
respectfully: “Oh, thank you, dear fairy, for this beautiful gift,” and bowed
his head down to his toes.
Then the fire fairy bowed to the seed, climbed back on the fuzzy bee and
they flew away. The sunflower told the little seed all about the great long
journey he would be taking one day when Brother Wind began to blow his
cold winds across the land.
Mother Earth was very busy deep down underground. She was making tiny
beds to welcome all the seeds for winter, for flower seeds are oh so tender
and do not like the cold. Soon Brother Wind would blow his gusty winds
through the meadow, and then the little seeds would pack their bags and
travel the long path down to Mother Earth’s underground garden.
One day Brother Wind began to blow his cold breath through the land. All
the little seeds packed their bags and started down steps to find the land
where Mother Earth was waiting for them. The little sunflower seed went
with them. He carried his golden blanket wrapped in the fairy’s rainbow
silks. He walked and walked. Soon he found a door to a long, dark tunnel. A
friendly gnome working there told him that this was the way to go. As the
little seed made his way through the tunnel he saw many gnomes inside.

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They were hacking and cracking the rocks and stones, finding sparkling
crystals and beautiful shining ores. It seemed that the gnomes never slept;
they just kept working day and night! They scooted the little seed along his
way whenever he felt drowsy, and so he kept on going through the long
tunnel.
Then he came to the end of the tunnel and there was Mother Earth waiting
for him. She had lit some fire rings to keep her land underground toasty
warm. The little seed loved this warm and cozy world. Mother Earth
showed him to the little bed she had made especially for him and helped
him settle into it, for he and all the other seeds were going to sleep a very
long time while Old King Winter stormed about in the meadow high above.
The little seed carefully unwrapped his golden blanket from the layers of
rainbow silk that were wrapped around it. Then he snuggled into his bed.
Mother Earth tucked his golden blanket carefully around him so that he
would be nice and toasty warm. Then she sang the sweetest lullaby he had
ever heard. Soon he was fast asleep.
High above, King Winter reigned supreme. He blew his icy winds hither
and yon and sent his frost boys and snowflake girls dancing all around. The
grasses were frozen stiff. Long icicles hung from the branches of the trees.
Not one bird, flower, butterfly or bee could be seen anywhere.
The little seed lay peacefully in his warm winter bed, wrapped in the
sparkling warmth of his golden blanket and tended oh so lovingly by Mother
Earth. He dreamed of flower meadows, sunny days, fairy dances and
bird songs. Mother Earth hummed sweet lullabies as the little seed slept,
snuggled deeply in his bed. And the little seed’s golden blanket shone with
the light of heaven all winter long.

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 Two Friends
JO VALENS

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This story was written for two children who did not get along with each
other.

O nce upon a time there were two little angels who lived up in Heaven
and they loved each other very much. They used to make plans for all
the things they would do together when once they came to Earth.
The time came for them to cross the Rainbow Bridge, to come to Earth,
where they had their work to do. They were so excited that they were
going to be able to work together upon the Earth as they had done in
Heaven. First came one little angel across the bridge and she began her life
as a child of the Earth. After her came the second angel and she began her
work also. After each had found her home and family, they came together
to be in school.
Now a funny thing can happen on the way across the Rainbow Bridge: little
angels sometimes forget all the promises made in Heaven and the wishes
they had about being on Earth. And so it was with these two friends: when
they met each other, they forgot they even knew each other. They forgot
how much they loved each other and they didn’t act like friends at all.
Sometimes they played together but often they argued and acted unkindly.
Now each angel on Earth has a Big Angel in Heaven who watches over
them and who loves them dearly. Whenever these two little girls were
unkind, were hurting each other’s feelings, their Big Angels in Heaven were
very sad. They did their best to help the two little girls remember how
much they really loved each other and how to practice kindness.

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These little girls could be rather stubborn. I think their ears might have
needed some cleaning so they could hear the words of the Big Angels
who were trying to speak to them. But you know, the Angels can speak to
us in our hearts as well and these two little girls both had kind and loving
hearts. And in their hearts they began to listen. This heart listening made
them glad, for they began to remember their love for one another and they
began to remember all the things they had planned to do together upon
the Earth. And when they remembered these things, they started playing
happily, sharing their toys, sharing their good ideas and enjoying each
other’s company.
Now the two Big Angels in Heaven were filled with joy. They sang together
and the songs of their joy were heard throughout the Heavens. And those
on Earth who listened with their hearts could hear the beautiful singing.

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 Knock, Knock
CONNIE MANSON, BASED ON A STORY BY RUTH LEBAR

EDITOR’S NOTE: This is a good story to help children learn to knock before entering each
others’ “houses.” It can also be helpful when there are inclusion issues in the class.

O nce upon a time there was a little bear. He lived all alone in a hollow
log, deep in the forest. Little Bear wanted to find a friend. Little Bear
would take a walk through the forest looking for a friend. . . but he never
found one.
One evening, Little Bear set out on his walk. Tramp, tramp, tramp. Tramp,
tramp, tramp. He spied a light shining in the distance. Tramp, tramp, tramp,
he went closer. What was that he smelled? Bread baking! Mmmm. What
was that he heard? A mother telling stories to her children. Oh, thought
Little Bear, this is just what I want, a mother to tell me stories and fresh
baked bread to eat. He ran right up to the house. Trampity, trampity, tramp.
Trampity, trampity, tramp.
And he burst open the door and called out, “Here I am! I’ve come for stories
and bread!”
The children ran to hide. The mother stood in front of the bear and said
with her firm voice, “Bear! You did not knock! My children are hiding from
you. You may not stay here. Go away!”
Bear was sent away. He went back to his hollow log, deep in the forest, all
alone.
The next evening, Little Bear went out again for his walk. Tramp, tramp,
tramp. There was the light shining in the distance. Tramp, tramp, tramp,

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he went closer. What was that he smelled? Soup! Mmmm. What was that
he heard? Children singing and playing. Oh, thought Little Bear, this is just
what I want, children to play with and homemade soup to eat! He was so
excited! Trampity, trampity, tramp, tramp, trampity, tramp, he ran all the
way up to the house. He burst open the door and called out, “Here I am!
I’ve come for singing and soup!”
The children had built a tall castle. Crash! Little Bear bumped the castle and
it tumbled right over. The children ran to hide. The mother stood in front of
the bear and said with her firm voice, “Bear! You did not knock. My children
are hiding from you, and you have knocked over the castle they were
building. You may not stay here. Go away!”
Bear was sent away. He went back to his hollow log, deep in the forest, all
alone.
The next evening, Little Bear again went for a walk. Tramp, tramp, tramp.
Tramp, tramp, tramp. There was the light shining in the distance. Tramp,
tramp, tramp. He went closer. What was that he smelled? Cake! What was
that he heard? The children were singing Happy Birthday. That is just what
I want, thought Little Bear. A birthday party and birthday cake and friends
to celebrate with! He ran right up to the house. Trampity, trampity, tramp,
trampity, trampity, tramp. When he reached the door, he stopped. He did
not want the children to hide away. He lowered his furry paw and knocked
gently on the door. Knock, knock, knock.
The mother answered the door and said, “Hello, Little Bear, won’t you come
in?” So Little Bear went inside and ate birthday cake and played with the
children. From that day on he became friends with the whole family and he
never forgot to knock.

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 Mouse Goes Looking
for a House KAREN LONSKY

EDITOR’S NOTE: Here is another story that addresses issues of inclusion and sharing.

Once there was a mouse

Who went looking for a house.
He walked around the forest floor
And very soon he spied a door.
Up he climbed and squeezed inside.
He found a room—big and wide;
The top was open to let in the light
And the stars could shine on him at night.
“This place is perfect!” he said with a smile.
Then he sat and thought for a little while.
While he sat, he looked around—
Someone was coming, making barely a sound.
A little brown rabbit hopped by.
Then stopped to watch a sparrow fly.
The rabbit sniffed ’round the roots of the tree
And said, “This would make a fine house for me!”

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 He found some soft grass to make a nest,
For that is what rabbits like the best.
He settled in for a restful sleep
Then closed his eyes and slumbered deep.
Up above, in his house so new
Little Mouse thought, “This house is big enough for two.”
Twilight came and night settled in.
The forest went to sleep again.
From that day on, rabbit and mouse
Became good friends and shared a house.

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 For Anastasia and Her
Dear Grandmother CYNTHIA ALDINGER

EDITOR’S NOTE: Cynthia wrote this story for a young family whose two children were in
the kindergarten class of one of her adult students. She had been visiting the class the day
the three-year-old child and her grandmother were killed in an automobile accident, during
the season of Advent.
Once upon a time not very long ago,
A dear little family loved each other so,
That they created a wish that went traveling far,
Until at last it went up to the stars.

I n the heavens the star children worked all day on matters of great
importance. When they had worked very hard, they were given the gift
of beautiful music—so beautiful that it brought great joy to their hearts.
Sometimes, when they were not working or listening to the music, they
were able to play heavenly games like Catch a Falling Star or Chase a
Comet’s Tail.
One day a star child went running so fast
That she came to the edge of the heavens at last.
And when she gazed down to the Earth below
The wish wrapped around her and started to grow.
She went straight to her angel and said, with a vow,
“I must go to the Earth to begin my work now.”
For when she’d looked down, she’d seen the same
Dear little family from whom the wish came.

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The star child was delighted by the amazing sight she saw, for there waiting
for her were a mother, a father, a brother, and a sister and other loving
family and friends. When she went to her angel, her angel looked at her and
looked at her and finally said, “But dear one, you still have much work to do
here in the heavens.”
The little star child said, “Oh, please, may I go, if only for a little while. I
won’t stay long, and perhaps I will bring someone special back with me.”
The angels gathered together to consider the special request of the little
star child and, at last, decided to grant her her wish.
Then all of the heavenly angels did sing.
And the guardian angel said, “Here, I’ll take your wings.
I’ll keep them here safely until you return.
Now, go to the Earth and learn all you can learn.”
Then all the star children gathered quite near
To say “good-bye” to their friend so dear
And as she climbed down from Heaven’s high ridge,
She started across the rainbow bridge.
Now, on her journey, the star child saw the most wondrous sight, for there
before her she could see a radiant being who was gathering light from the
sun, moon and stars and tucking the light into her beautiful blue cloak as
she went along. It was the mother of the Child of Light, the Christ Child,
who every year made her journey through the heavens down to the earth
to weave a garment of light for her Son. Also tucked into her cloak and all
about her were many star children who were coming to the Earth as well so
that they could come to know this special Son.
“Oh,” thought the littlest star child, “How I would love to be wrapped in that
mantle of blue some day when I journey back to the heavens,” for such was
the case that every year the Lady also allowed some children to journey
back with her upon her return. Then the littlest star child closed her eyes
and fell into a dream of such a time when that could happen.
And when she awoke, another amazing sight was there before her. She had
come all the way across the rainbow bridge and was now in the home of

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 the dear little family she had seen from the heavens. How happy they all
were that she had come.
In time, the little child grew from a baby to a toddler to a lovely little
girl who loved to laugh and play. Her family loved her dearly, and her
grandmother sometimes cared for her when the others had to be away.
Soon it was that special time of year again when many star children come
near the Earth waiting for their time to be born while others prepare
for their return wrapped in the mantle of blue. The little girl could dimly
remember the splendor of the heavens and, without even knowing it,
yearned for the sounds of the joyful music.
The angels called to the little girl that the time had come for her return. Her
grandmother, who loved her dearly, carried her up to the heavens where
the radiant Mother wrapped them both in her mantle of blue, and they
were clothed in the light of the sun, moon and stars. Though they were sad
to leave behind their family and friends, they knew that they would all be
together again one day.
And in the heavens, there was great rejoicing.

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Shuna, Teller of Tales
JUDITH ASHLEY

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This story was written for a child whose father had died a few weeks
before. It was presented as a table puppet play.

O nce upon a time, many, many moons ago, a little boy named Shuna
lived with his mother and father, his big brother, his baby sister and his
grandmother on the banks of a mighty river. His village had many tepees
along its broad banks.
Every day Shuna’s father and brother went out on the swift river to catch
fish. Shuna was not yet old enough to paddle the canoe; instead he stayed
in the village with his mother and grandmother. Mother, too, was busy
every day. She and the other women of the village cut up the fish that the
men caught and hung them to dry on wooden racks to save for the winter.
Shuna’s new sister rode on her mother’s back, but Shuna, who was not yet
old enough to cut up the fish, was often in the way. He began to spend
many hours with his grandmother, wise old Kioma. She told him many
stories, and he grew to love her very much. He didn’t mind so much that he
couldn’t go on the river with his father and brother. Just hearing all the old
stories filled his heart with joy. It was enough.
One day Shuna’s grandmother became ill. Shuna was very worried about
her. He gave her his own medicine pouch with his special crystal, the shell
he has found on the banks of the river and the healing herbs he always
wore to keep away sickness.
Shuna’s grandmother got well again but she did not become strong. She now
spent all her time sitting in the sun, for she said that her bones were cold.

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 Time passed and the sun began to shine less brightly in the sky. The autumn
winds began to blow, and soon even the sun did not warm Kioma’s bones.
Shuna became very sad. He climbed to the very top of a nearby hill and
called out to Father Sun, “Oh, Father Sun, do not go away. Grandmother
needs your golden rays to warm her old bones.”
Father Sun pushed aside the clouds and looked down upon Shuna standing
there below him, and he called down to him, “Yes, Little Shuna, soon it will
be dark and cold, such is the way of things. But I will send the last rays of
my sunlight into the gorse flowers. You must pick them and weave your
Grandmother a blanket of sunlight. That is sure to keep her bones warm
until the days grow sunny again.”
And so Shuna went along the banks of the river and picked the many gorse
flowers. He lit a little fire and cooked the flowers with some of the wool
from his mother’s sheep. Soon he had enough of the warm yellow wool,
and he ran to the village as fast as his legs would carry him until he came to
the tepee of his Aunt. She was the finest weaver in the village.
“Please, Auntie,” he said, “would you weave a blanket to keep Grandmother’s
bones warm?”
“If you will watch over my sheep,” his Aunt replied. “I will set to work on it
right away.” And so Shuna took up a staff and took his Aunt’s sheep to feed
along the grassy banks of the river. His Aunt began to weave right away and
soon had woven the most beautiful blanket. It was as yellow as the summer
sky, and oh, so soft. When Shuna returned, he thanked his Aunt and ran
off with the blanket to show Grandmother. Gently, he wrapped it around
her shoulders. Grandmother was very pleased and though the winter
winds roared outside their tepee, Grandmother stayed warm. All winter,
Grandmother told the stories of the old ways to Shuna. His eyes sparkled as
they sat together before the fire. Sometime he would ask her to tell him a
story over and over again—and she always did.
One day grandmother began to tell Shuna the story of the rainbow bridge.
She told him how, before he had come to earth, he had lived in the sky and
how he had looked over the edge of the clouds and wished he could go to

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earth. She told him how he had gone many, many times to the Sky Chief
to ask him if he might go down the rainbow bridge, and how the Sky Chief
had always said, “Not yet. It is not your time. You still have much work to
do.” And she told him how the little sky child had gone bustling about his
chores, polishing the stars until they twinkled, and fluffing up the clouds.
She told Shuna how the sky child had gone once again to the Sky Chief and
how this time the Sky Chief had said, “Yes, child, now is your time. Your
work here is done and now it is time for you to begin your task on earth.”
And he wrapped the child in a red cloak and sent him sliding down the
rainbow bridge right into his mother’s arms.
Shuna asked her to tell him that story many, many times—and she always did.
Time passed, and one season followed another until once again the days
began to grow short and the wind began to howl around the tepee.
Grandmother called Shuna to her. “The time has come,” Kioma said, “for me
to climb the rainbow bridge back to my home in the sky. My work here on
earth is finished, and the Sky Chief is calling me home. Do not feel sad for
me, for I am not leaving you. Every time you tell a story I will be with you.
You have listened well. From now on you will not be called Little Shuna,
but Shuna, Teller of Tales. You keep safely in your heart all the old wisdom.
That is your task here on earth. I give you back your medicine pouch, and
the yellow blanket, made from the sun’s last rays, will be your storytelling
blanket. Wear it well.”
Shuna’s grandmother, wise old Kioma, turned and began to climb the
rainbow bridge.
Shuna, Teller of Tales, watched until he could no longer see her, but he
knew that she would always be with him.
And it was true, for every time Shuna, Teller of Tales, told one of the old
stories, he could feel his grandmother right by his side.

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 The Wise Woman and
the Magical Garden LIZ MORELAND

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This story was written for a class whose teacher was leaving.

O nce there was a wise woman who lived in a little cottage at the edge
of a magical wood. Every morning, the woman would get up and walk
into the garden and admire all the beautiful flowers and trees that lived
there. She was very proud of her garden and loved it and cared for it every
day.
She would plant little seeds and water them so they would grow one
day into tall plants. She would stroke the lavender bushes so that their
wonderful fragrance could fill the garden. She would tame the big bramble
bushes back slightly so that the other flowers and plants had room to
grow and stretch. She would let the golden dandelions and bright white
daisies grow just where they liked. And she cherished the merry song of the
robin who built her nest in the garden every year and whose song would
welcome and cheer her every morning.
Sometimes, as she moved a plant or walked past a bush, the wise woman
thought she saw a fairy or an elf smiling up at her, but when she looked
again, there was nothing to be seen.
Lots of fairies, elves and gnomes did indeed live alongside the flowers, birds
and butterflies of the garden. The garden was full of kindness and love and
they were very happy living there.
One evening as the sun was just setting behind the wood, the wise woman
looked towards the trees and tried to imagine what might lie beyond the

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wood. She had tended her garden for many years but now she wondered
what else there was for her to see. At night, when she went to sleep, she
would dream of visiting far-off lands and going to places she had never
before seen. But when she awoke, she wondered, “But who would care for
the garden?”
“The wise old owl in the wood would know,” said a quiet voice. The wise
woman looked down and there stood a little strawberry fairy smiling up at
her. The woman was delighted—she had always known that her garden
was a very special place indeed!
“Follow the path until you reach the big oak tree; there he will be waiting,”
said another tiny voice. The wise woman turned to see a little gnome
sitting under a toadstool. She smiled at him and immediately set off out of
the garden and towards the wood.
The path wandered here and there and the wood was darker than usual.
Finally she reached the tree and there in the branches sat the owl. She told
him how she longed to travel through the wood to the other side but she
needed someone special to live in her cottage and care for her garden.
The owl called to all the forest birds and asked them to fly to every corner
of the earth and to bring back just the right person to care for the garden.
Now it happened that on the other side of the wood there walked another
beautiful and wise woman. She had been picking berries when, with a flap
of wings, a bird flew down and landed at her feet. It squawked a few times,
flew in circles above her head and then flew away. The woman understood
that she must follow the bird, and so she did. She hurried along the path
and went further into the wood until she reached the most beautiful
garden she had ever seen. There, sitting in a rowan tree, was the bird and
next to the tree stood the wise woman, beckoning her to come in. The
woman knew that this was the home she had always been searching for
and she was delighted to stay and care for all the wonderful things that
lived there.
That evening the wise woman looked around her garden for the last time.
She knew that now her garden would be well cared for and that night she

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 went to bed and dreamed of all the adventures that lay ahead for her on
the other side of the wood.
All the creatures and plants in the garden were also delighted with their
new gardener. But how to thank the wise woman for all her care over the
years? That night all the fairies, elves and gnomes gathered in the garden.
The gnomes brought crystals they had dug from their underground caves;
the fairies brought dew drops from the flowers and turned them into pearls,
and the elves had spun spider webs into gold. They left their gifts in a
golden bag under the tree where the robin lived for the wise woman to find
in the morning.
The next morning, the garden was filled with the robin’s beautiful song and
the wise woman awoke to find a bag full of treasures. Now she knew that
she could happily follow her dreams. And so she did.

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The Golden Fish
CYNTHIA ALDINGER

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This story was written years ago for the children who would be leav-
ing my kindergarten to start their new journey to first grade as well as for the children who
would be remaining with me in the kindergarten. I used the child’s name, “Lieben,” rather
than using the pronouns “he” or “she,” to offer a more universal image of the child. I also
chose this name for its relationship to the word “Love.” The fish represent thought—as is
common in fairy tales—and the fisherman represents the first grade teacher who will help
the children to “catch” the new capacities for thinking that emerge with the second stage of
childhood.

O nce upon a time—not so far away and not so long ago—there lived
a farmer and his dear wife. Every day they worked on the farm taking
care of the animals and field crops. They loved their life on the farm, but
they felt something was missing. They wanted a child to come be with
them. And they loved each other so dearly that one day their wish came
true. A small child was born to them, and they named their child Lieben.
When Lieben was just a baby, the mother and father made sure that the
baby had everything a wee one needs—food, warm clothes and all their
loving care.
When Lieben was old enough to start running about and wanting to
play, they said, “Perhaps now is a good time for Lieben to learn about the
garden.”
All the farm families had their own animals and field crops, but they did not
each have their own garden with all the flowers of many hues. Instead they
found a beautiful spot for a garden not on only one family farm, but on land
they could share and close enough for all to enjoy. Then they searched far

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 and wide for a gardener to come tend to the garden. The gardener grew
so many lovely flowers in all the colors of the rainbow that all the families
began to send their children there to play. The gardener loved the children
and felt that in some way the children were her children too!
Now the gardener had a very good friend who raised little goats, and every
now and then the gardener and the children would go to visit the goatherd.
As the children grew older, they went to see the goatherd more and more
often and they would romp and play with the baby goats. Sometimes the
goatherd would let them feed the little goats.
One day they went with the goatherd and goats down to the large round
pond where the goats could drink. While the children were frolicking
around the pond, one of them discovered a tiny little stream that trickled
out of the pond and flowed away to a river.
“Oh please,” said little Lieben to the goatherd, “may we follow the stream? I
am sure I saw a little golden fish swimming there, and I must know where it
has gone to so that I might catch it!”
“You must first ask the gardener,” said the goatherd. “It is not my decision to
make. I know about goats, but I am not so sure about fish!”
So the children ran to the gardener and said, “Dear gardener, we saw a
stream by the pond where the goatherd takes the goats, and we are sure
we saw little golden fish, and we must find out where they have gone and
how to catch them!”
But the gardener said, “Ahh, so first you learned to romp and play with the
little baby goats, and now, at last, you have seen the golden fish as well!
Dear children, the fish will not disappear and go away, but for now you
must be happy to keep on playing in the garden and with the little goats.
One day someone will come down the stream to the pond, and that person
will guide you to the golden fish. But you must wait until that day.”
So the children grumbled and went home to their mothers and fathers,
saying, “How I wish I could learn to catch the golden fish!”
After that they would ask the gardener and the goatherd every day, “Is

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 today the day the fisherman is coming?” And always, they would answer,
“Not today, but very soon.”
Then one day, before the cricket had sung its last summer song and the
fire fairies were starting to prepare their paints for the autumn leaves, the
children were all playing around the pond. Suddenly a great flock of white
birds flew over singing loudly and stirring the air with their wings. They
came from the same direction where the little stream flowed. When all
the birds had flown, the children looked in the direction of the stream, and
there stood the fisherman! The children ran as fast as they could to give
their joyful greeting.
With open arms the fisherman gathered them all in. “The golden fish!” the
children cried. “You must, please, help us to find the golden fish.”
“In good time, dear children, in good time,” the fisherman said. “I have come
to take you to find the golden fish, but first you must have your proper
fishing clothes. Let us go to the hatmaker to get our new fishing caps and
to the cobbler to get our fishing boots. Then the golden fish will know we
are all true fishermen, and they will leap into our nets with great joy.”
The children were so excited they almost forgot where they were. But with
a nod from the fisherman the children all turned to wave goodbye to the
goatherd and the dear gardener.
“Good-bye,” they called, “good-bye.” The gardener and the goatherd waved
goodbye to the children and went back to the garden to meet the younger
ones who were waiting for them there.
“Come now, children,” the fisherman said. “Let us go catch the golden fish.”
And so they did.

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 Little Birds and Big Birds
BETTY JANE ENNO

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is another transition story for mixed-age kindergartens when the
first graders leave to go to the grade school.

I t was now springtime in the land and the Mother and Father Bird were
busy each day making sure their fledgling birds were becoming stronger
and ready to fly on to their new nesting grounds. They practiced flying high
and flying low, how to take off and how to land on even the highest and
slimmest branches. Mother and Father Bird showed them the places where
the best meals could be found among the insects and the berries and the
seeds and ways to find water even when it didn’t rain.
Some of the very youngest birds just watched and tried to do some of the
things they saw the bigger birds doing. They loved these older birds very
much and were always happy when the older ones would help them learn
to fly, too. But the younger birds were a little sad when they thought about
the older ones flying away one day.
One day Mother Bird and Father Bird told the little ones that even though
their older bird friends would soon be leaving they would still be able to
see them. Their friends were not going far. They could see them when they
flew across the sky and joined even older birds in their big nest across the
meadow where they lived and worked and learned every day. The little
ones were happy when Mother and Father Bird told them that one day
they, too, would fly across the meadow and join their friends. So, in the
meantime, the little birds practiced a song they would sing when the older
birds flew away. And it goes like this:

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 Go forward safely, go forward safely,
Our love will go with you, our love will go with you.
So, on the last day, as the older birds flew away, they waved their wings
and did tricks in the air for the younger birds and their hearts were filled
with joy when they heard the beautiful song that the younger birds sang for
them.
And today, even across the meadow, they can see the older birds busy at
their work and play and they can hear the sweet songs they are singing in
their new nest.

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 Ending
with Laughter
The Travels of a Fox
A TALE FROM NEW ENGLAND RETOLD BY CLIFTON JOHNSON

A fox was digging behind a stump, and he found a bumblebee. The fox
put the bumblebee in a sack and he set off into the world.
The first home he came to, he went in and he said to the mistress of the
house: “May I leave my sack here while I go to Squintum’s?”
“Yes,” said the woman.
“Then be careful not to open the sack,” said the fox.
But as soon as the fox was out of sight, the woman just took a little peep
into the sack and out flew the bumblebee, and the rooster caught him and
ate him up.
After a while the fox came back. He took up his bag and he saw that his
bumblebee was gone, and he said to the woman: “Where is my bumblebee?”
And the woman said: “I just untied the sack, and the bumblebee flew out,
and the rooster ate him up.”
“Very well,” said the fox, “I must have the rooster, then.”
So he caught the rooster and put him in his sack and went on his way.
And the next house he came to he went in and said to the mistress of the
house: “May I leave my sack here while I go to Squintum’s?”
“Yes,” said the woman.
“Then be careful not to open the sack,” said the fox.
But as soon as the fox was out of sight, the woman just took a little peep

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 into the sack, and the rooster flew out, and the pig caught him and ate him
up.
After a while the fox came back, and he took up his sack and he saw that
the rooster was not in it, and he said to the woman, “Where is my rooster?”
And the woman said: “I just untied the sack, and the rooster flew out, and
the pig ate him.”
“Very well,” said the fox, “I must have the pig, then.”
So he caught the pig and put him in his sack and went on his way.
And the next house he came to he went in and said to the mistress of the
house: “May I leave my sack here while I go to Squintum’s?”
“Yes,” said the woman.
“Then be careful not to open the sack,” said the fox.
But as soon as the fox was out of sight, the woman just took a little peep
into the sack, and the pig jumped out, and the ox ate him up.
After a while the fox came back. He took up his sack and he saw that the
pig was gone, and he said to the woman: “Where is my pig?”
And the woman said: “I just untied the sack, and the pig jumped out, and
the ox ate him.”
“Very well,” said the fox, “I must have the ox, then.”
So he caught the ox and put him in his sack and continued on his way.
And the next home he came to he went in, and said to the mistress of the
house: “May I leave my sack here while I go to Squintum’s?”
“Yes,” said the woman.
“Then be careful not to open the sack,” said the fox.
But as soon as the fox was out of sight, the woman just took a little peep in
the sack, and the ox got out, and the woman’s little boy chased him away,
off over the fields.
After a while the fox came back. He took up his sack, and he saw that his

240
 ox was gone, and he said to the woman:
“Where is my ox?”
And the woman said: “I just untied the
sack, and the ox got out, and my little
boy chased him away over the fields.”
“Very well,” said the fox, “I must have the
little boy, then.”
So he took the little boy and put him
into his sack and continued on his way.
And the next house he came to he went in, and said to the mistress of the
house: “May I leave my sack here while I go to Squintum’s?”
“Yes,” said the woman.
“Then be careful to not open the sack,” said the fox.
The woman was making cake, and her children were around her asking for
some.
“Oh, mother, give me a piece,” said one of her children; and, “Oh, mother,
give me a piece,” said the others.
And the smell of the cake came to the little boy who was very unhappy
in the sack, and he heard the children asking for cake and he said: “Oh,
Mommy, give me a piece, too.”
Then the woman opened the sack and took the little boy out, and she put
the fierce dog in the sack in the little boy’s place. And the little boy had
some cake with the other children and he was very happy again.
After a while the fox came back. He took up his sack and he saw it was tied
fast, and he put it over his back and traveled far into the deep woods. Then
he sat down and untied the sack, and if the little boy had been in there,
things would have gone badly with him.
But the little boy was safe at the woman’s house, and when the fox untied
the sack, the dog jumped out and ate him all up.

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 Little Half-Chick
A SPANISH FOLK TALE ADAPTED BY CAROLYN S. BAILEY

A long, long time ago there was a handsome black hen who had a large
brood of chicks. They were all plump little birds, except the youngest,
and he was quite different from all the rest. He was such a queer looking
fellow that when he first cracked his shell the hen could scarcely believe
her eyes. The other twelve were fluffy, downy little chicks, but this one had
only one leg, and one wing, and one eye, and one ear, and half a bill, and
half a tail! His mother shook her head when she looked at him.
“You’re only a little Half-Chick,” she said; “and you’ll never be able to rule a
chicken yard.”
But little Half-Chick thought differently. In spite of having only one leg, he
loved to run away. When the family went out for walks, he would hide in
the corn, and when his good mother called him he pretended not to hear,
because he had only one ear. One day, when he had been away longer than
usual, he strutted up to his mother in the barnyard, hoppity-kick, and he
said:
“Mother, I’m tired of this dull farm; I’m going off to the city to see the king.”
“To the city!” said his mother. “Why, you silly chick, it is too far away. Stay at
home, and some day, when you are bigger, I’ll take you on a journey.”
But, no; little Half-Chick had made up his mind. Without saying goodbye
even, off he stumped along the highroad that led to the city. As he went
along he took a short cut which led through a field and he came to a brook.
Now, the brook was so choked with weeds it could not flow.

242
“Oh, little Half-Chick, help me!” it cried. “Pull out my weeds!” it called, as
little Half-Chick stumped along the bank.
“Help you, indeed!” cried little Half-Chick, shaking the feathers in his little
half tail; “help yourself. I’m off to the city to see the king!” And, hoppity-
kick, hoppity-kick, away stumped little Half-Chick. But before he had
gone very far he came to a fire in the woods. Now, the fire was going out
because it had no sticks.
“Oh, little Half-Chick,” it cried in a weak, wavering voice, “help me! Fetch
me some sticks and dry leaves.”
“Help you, indeed!” cried little Half-Chick; “help yourself. I’m off to the city
to see the king.” And, hoppity-kick, hoppity-kick, away stumped little Half-
Chick.
The next morning, as he was coming near the city, he passed a large
chestnut tree, and he heard a great moaning and sighing in its branches, for
the wind was all caught and entangled there.
“Oh, little Half-Chick,” cried the wind, “do help me. Hop up here and pull
me out of the branches!”
“Help you, indeed!” cried little Half-Chick; “help yourself. I’m off to the city
to see the king.” And, hoppity-kick, hoppity-kick, away stumped little Half-
Chick in great glee, for now he saw the roofs and steeples of the city just
ahead. When he entered the town he saw a splendid castle with guards
before the gates. “This must be the king’s house,” said little Half-Chick, “and
I have come to rule the king’s poultry yard.” But alas! As soon as the king’s
cook saw little Half-Chick stumping through the gates, she said:
“The very thing I wanted for the king’s dinner,” and she straightaway caught
little Half-Chick and popped him into the broth pot. Now, it was wet and
uncomfortable in the broth pot.
“Water, water,” cried little Half-Chick, “do not wet me so!”
“Ah,” cried the water, “when I was in trouble you would not help me.” And
the water bubbled and boiled around little Half-Chick.
“Fire, fire, do not cook me,” cried little Half-Chick.

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 “Ah!” cried the fire, “when I was in trouble you would not help me.” And the
fire went on cooking little Half-Chick.
Just then the wind came hurrying along to see what all the noise in the
king’s kitchen was about, and little Half-Chick called to it:
“Wind, wind, come and help me!”
“Ah!” cried the wind, “when I was in trouble you would not help me; but
come.”
Then the wind lifted little Half-Chick out of the broth pot and blew him out
of the window. Up and down the highways and over the roofs the wind
whirled him, until little Half-Chick could scarcely breathe. On and on they
went, until they came to the highest steeple in all the city. There the wind
left little Half-Chick—on the tip-top of the steeple—standing on his one leg
and looking off over the world with his one eye.
And there he stands today. Whichever way the wind blows that way must
little Half-Chick turn. He can never step down, for this is the story of the
very first weather vane.

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The Boy Who Tried to Fool His
Father A TALE FROM ZAIRE, ADAPTED BY ANDREA GAMBARDELLA

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I tell this story in the spring, which is a time I tell stories with more
whimsy. Even the six-year-olds listen with wide eyes.

T here was once a beautiful rainforest where the canopy of the trees was
so high it touched the sky. The creatures that lived at the top of these
trees could see the land all around them and everything that happened
below. All manner of animals made their home in that forest. And, if you
were to make the long and difficult climb to the top, you would find a soft
resting place among the strong branches. There you would know what it
is to touch the sky. In this wonderful forest coursed a large river. It was
so wide and the current so strong, that if you were to swim across it, you
would be very tired once across.
The trees and the river loved the land, and one day, a father and mother
came into the rainforest to make a home for their children. The big trees
made room for the father and mother, and there they built their simple
huts and tilled the soil for their gardens. Once the gardens were made, the
mother and the oldest children were busy all day. Now the father said to
himself, “There is more I can do to provide for my family.”
So, he peeled the long strings of bark from the great vines that grew up
and up into the canopy of the great trees. He braided them and knotted
them until he had many fishnets. Then, he hoisted them onto his strong
shoulders and back and carried them down to that great river. At the river,
he cast a net into the water, and fastened it to a stone on the shore. And
down the bank he went, casting the nets into the wide and great river and

245
 fastening them to stones on the shore. When all the nets were secured, it
was time for his rest.
The father made his way through the forest path and came into the yard.
There his children were at work and play. One of the littlest ones came up
to him and said, “I am going to hide from you, and you will not find me.”
“Hide wherever you like,” said his father, “I will find you.” Then he went into
the house to rest.
The little boy wandered through the yard looking for a place to hide. The
boy saw a peanut lying on the ground, and he wished he could hide inside
that peanut. No sooner said than done; the boy found himself inside the
peanut shell. He waited for his father to look for him.
Buk, buk, buk—a rooster came into the yard and swallowed that peanut.
Rrrrrrrr—a wild bush cat came out of the forest and swallowed the rooster,
then leaped back into the jungle.
But the dog saw that bush cat—
Bow-wow-wow—the dog ran after the bush cat and swallowed it. Now the
dog was thirsty and he made his way to the banks of that great river. He
bent down for a good drink.
Sssssssss—A long python was up above him on a tree limb and he stretched
himself down and swallowed the dog. His belly was swollen and so heavy,
the python fell with a splash! into the great river, and there he was caught
in a fish net.
The father rose from his nap, ate his midday meal and went into the yard.
He counted his many children as they worked and played. Someone was
missing. The littlest one! The father searched and searched for his son, and
as the sun was getting low in the sky, he had not yet found him. “It is time
for me to draw in my nets,” said the father to himself. And, as he walked the
path to the river, he thought, “Ah, I will find that boy by the river.”
He began to draw in his nets, pulling hand-over-hand with his strong arms.
A python with a great swollen belly was in one of his nets! In the python,
he found a dog. In the dog, he found a bush cat. In the bush cat he found a

246
rooster. In the rooster he found a peanut. He cracked open the peanut shell
and out came his boy.
“You can hide from me,” said the father, “but I will find you.” The boy
thought to himself that he would never try to fool his father again!
Buk, buk, buk.
Rrrrrrrrrr.
Bow- wow- wow.
Ssssssssss.

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 The Red Sheep
A TALE FROM FINLAND

O nce upon a time there was a shepherd who looked after his master’s
sheep all day long. He had been told that for every newborn lamb, he
would be paid, but for every lost lamb or lamb that ran away, he would have
to pay his master.
One evening, just as the shepherd was preparing for bed, there came a
knock at the door. “Who could that be at such a late hour?” he thought to
himself. When the shepherd opened the door, there stood an old wanderer,
looking very tired indeed. “Oh, my dear shepherd,” he said, “I have walked
the whole day long and am at the end of my strength. To sleep outside in
the cold is hard on an old man. Might I stay the night with you?”
“You are welcome here, old father,” replied the shepherd, “I may be able
to offer you something to eat, as well.” For he was thinking, “It is a small
amount that I will have to pay my master and the old man looks hungry as
well as tired.” The shepherd then went outside and slaughtered one of the
lambs and prepared the meat for his visitor. Thereafter both went to sleep.
The next morning the old man said to the shepherd, “Go and look in the
sheepfold.” The shepherd eagerly went out, and there he found more new-
born lambs than ever he could count. And right in the midst was one big
lamb of a kind he had never seen before. Its fleece from head to hoof was
bright red!
The old man spoke: “The little lambs may be sold to your master, but
not the big red one. Keep that one for yourself, and it will bring you

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good fortune.” As soon as he had thus spoken, the old man vanished as if
swallowed up by the earth.
The shepherd did as he had been told, and with the money he got from his
master for the little lambs, he was rich enough to go out into the world.
The red lamb followed him wherever he went, and each day it grew a little
bigger, until at last it was a full-grown sheep, covered with beautiful, thick,
red fleece.
One day, just as night was falling, they came to an inn, where the shepherd
stayed for the night. The innkeeper had a wife and a daughter, and when
the three of them heard about the red sheep, they got up early the
next morning and went to the stable to see for themselves. “That is an
extraordinary sheep,” said the man. “Never have I seen one like it before!”
“And what beautiful fleece it has,” said the wife. “Ah,” said the daughter,
“How I would like to spin that wool. I could knit some lovely warm mittens
with it.”
The girl reached out and began to stroke the sheep softly, but as she tried
to pull out a strand of red wool, she found herself stuck fast to the sheep.
No matter how hard she tried, she could not free herself, and she began to
weep loudly. “Release my daughter at once!” the angry father cried, and he
seized a stick. But when he hit the sheep, the stick stuck fast to the animal
and the father stuck to the stick. “Upon my soul!” he cried angrily, “This
sheep is bewitched! I cannot shake myself loose!”
“You let go of my daughter and my husband!” the woman cried and seized a
broom. But when she tried to beat the sheep with it, the broom stuck fast
to the sheep and the wife stuck to the broom. “Help! Help!” she cried, “I
cannot get loose!”
The wife, the man and the daughter made such a fuss that the shepherd
woke up alarmed and ran away from the inn. As always, the sheep ran after
him, but now with the girl, the man and the stick, and the woman with the
broom still stuck fast to his red fleece. And everyone they passed was so
taken with the sight that they too began running after the sheep.
Now, there lived in that country a king’s daughter who was always sad

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 and never once had laughed. The king proclaimed that whoever made
his daughter laugh could marry her and gain half his kingdom, but though
many suitors had tried, no one yet had succeeded in making her laugh.
Then along came the shepherd, followed by his red sheep. The girl, the man
with the stick, and the wife with the broom were still attached to the sheep,
and they made such ridiculous jerks and jumps and shrieked so loudly
that no one who saw them could keep from laughing. “What is going on
out there?” the king asked and went to the window. But when he saw the
sheep and its baggage, he laughed so heartily that he couldn’t speak. “Let
me have a look,” said the queen, and as soon as she saw the spectacle in the
street, she too roared with laughter. Soon everyone in the palace and in the
street was laughing, but the one whose laughter rose higher than any was
the king’s daughter. She laughed and laughed until the tears ran down her
cheeks.
Upon hearing this, the king rejoiced and said, “Let the shepherd come into
the palace.” The king then asked him, “Will you marry my daughter?” and
the shepherd replied, “Yes!” At that moment the red sheep released the
girl, the man with the stick and the wife with the broom. The wedding was
celebrated, and the shepherd and the princess lived long and happily, while
the red sheep was given the finest stall in the king’s stable and allowed to
graze every day in the royal meadow.

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Gecko’s Complaint
A TALE FROM BALI, RETOLD BY LORY WIDMER

O nce there was a village chief, a wise and kindly man. Late one night
he had just gone to his bed for a well-deserved rest when he was
awakened by loud cries of “Gecko, Gecko, Gecko!” Gecko the lizard wanted
to complain to him. “I am very disturbed and unhappy!” he said.
The Chief thought to himself that Gecko had small reason to be unhappy.
After all, he could do so many things that other creatures could not. He
could walk on walls or even upside down on the ceiling, thanks to the sticky
pads on his toes. And if he ever lost his tail in a fight, he could grow back a
new one! He didn’t even have to work hard to find his food, as he sat lazily
in the rafters and snapped up the plentiful mosquitoes. What could Gecko
have to complain about? But because he was a kind man, the chief settled
down to listen.
“I haven’t been able to sleep for weeks!” said Gecko. “Firefly is keeping me
awake with his red and yellow spots, flashing them into my eyes. Something
has to be done!”
The chief, who didn’t like having his sleep disturbed either, yawned and told
Gecko that he would investigate.
The next day, the Chief told Firefly of Gecko’s complaint. “Is he the only one
you are disturbing with your flashing lights? If you are bothering others, that
is not well,” he said.
Firefly spoke humbly. “I did not mean any harm, Sir. I thought I heard a
drumbeat that was meant to call the villagers together. I was trying to pass

251
 on the message. But it turned out that it was only Woodpecker drumming
on a tree trunk with his beak. You might ask him what he was doing.”
The Chief went to speak to the Woodpecker, and told him what Firefly had
said. “Oh, I was passing on a warning, Sir,” said the bird. “I heard Frog going
kwak-kwak-kwak in the rice fields, and it sounded like an earthquake was
coming. I thought everyone should know about that.”
When the Chief asked the Frog what all that noise was about, he answered,
“Well, when I saw Black Beetle trundling his filthy garbage down the road, I
had to try to stop him!”
“That’s fair enough,” said the Chief, and went to look for the Black Beetle.
Black Beetle, wearing his most glossy and shining coat, answered
respectfully when the Chief asked him what he was doing with a load of
dirt in the road. “Sir, when Water Buffalo drops his pats in the middle of the
road where everyone is walking, it’s my duty to clean up.”
The Chief was wondering if this story would ever come to an end. “Send
the Water Buffalo to me,” he commanded.
When Water Buffalo appeared, he politely disagreed with the Black Beetle’s
point of view. “No one appreciates my work. When the rain washes away
the stones in the road, someone has to fill up the holes. Who else can do
that but I?”
Now the Chief had to ask the Rain what he had to say. And Rain was not
happy to be asked. “How dare anyone complain about me! Who are you
always asking to come and make the plants grow, to give you water for
washing and drinking? And without me, there would be no mosquitoes, and
then Gecko would be even more unhappy! Go tell Gecko it’s all his fault.”
The Chief laughed and said that he would. So when Gecko returned for the
answer to his complaint, the Chief just smiled and said, “It turns out we all
have our problems, Gecko. Be thankful for your blessings, and live in peace—
or someone might take it in mind to complain about you.”
And so there was peace again in the village, and a good night’s sleep for
everyone.

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How to Break a Bad Habit
A WEST AFRICAN FOLKTALE RETOLD BY MARGARET READ MACDONALD

M onkey and Rabbit sat talking.

Monkey was scratching.

Rabbit was twitching.
“Would you STOP that TWITCHING,” said Monkey. “What a bad HABIT.”
“Bad HABIT?” said Rabbit. “Talk about BAD HABITS....Look at YOU.
Scratch. . . scratch. . . scratch. Now THAT is a bad habit.”
“Well I could easily STOP if I wanted to,” said Monkey.
“So could I!” said Rabbit.
“We’ll SEE!” said Monkey. “Let’s have a contest.
The first person to scratch or twitch LOSES.
Begin. . . when. . . I . . . say. . . GO!”
“ALL RIGHT!” Rabbit sat very still. Monkey sat very still.
Monkey did not scratch. Rabbit did not twitch.
Monkey thought he would die if he couldn’t scratch his nose.
Rabbit’s left ear wanted to twitch SO bad.
“I have an idea!” Monkey was excited.
“Let’s tell stories.” And Monkey began to talk.

253
 “Yesterday I was walking down the road.
A little boy threw rocks at me.
“Guess where he hit me?
“He hit me here.” Monkey scratched his nose.
“He hit me here.” Monkey scratched his leg.
“And here . . . and here . . . and here . . . ” Monkey was scratching all over.
“Wait! Wait! I know a story!” said Rabbit.
“Yesterday I was walking in the swamp.
“And mosquitoes bit me. One bit me here.” Rabbit twitched his nose.
“One bit me here.” Rabbit twitched his ear.
“Another bit me here.” Rabbit twitched his other ear.
“And here . . . and here . . . and here . . . ” Rabbit was twitching all over.
Rabbit and Monkey began to laugh. They laughed and laughed.
“Let’s keep our bad habits and just be friends.”
And that is what they did.

Reprinted by permission of the author from Teaching with Story by Margaret Read
MacDonald and Jennifer Whitman (August House Publishers, 2013).

254
About the Contributors

Louise deForest (Editor) was a Waldorf early childhood educator for many years and
now consults, lectures, and teaches internationally. She is a WECAN Board Member and
Regional Representative for Mexico, and one of two North American representatives on
the council of the International Association for Steiner/Waldorf Early Childhood Educa-
tion (IASWECE). She also edited For the Children of the World: Stories and Recipes from
IASWECE (WECAN, 2012).
Deborah Grieder (Illustrator) is currently a student in the eighth grade of Green Mead-
ow Waldorf School in Chestnut Ridge, New York, where she attended Louise deForest’s
kindergarten. She has enjoyed drawing since very early childhood and also loves reading,
baking, and the outdoors.
Jo Valens (Illustrator; author of The Lost Jewel, The Story of a Butterfly, Winifred Witch
and her Golden Cat, Corn Child and the Queen of the Night, Jimmy Acorn Stories, Two
Friends) teaches kindergarten at the Rudolf Steiner School in Great Barrington, Mas-
sachusetts. She is the illustrator of The Waldorf Kindergarten Snack Book, The Waldorf
School Book of Soups, and The Waldorf Book of Breads, all from SteinerBooks.


Note: We have not been able to discover anything about the authors Helen Preble, Frances Bliss Gil-
lespy, Kate Whiting Patch, Alice A. Patterson, Phoebe Cary, Cora E. Harris, Amy Drengson, or Ariane
Burdick beyond their names.

Cynthia Aldinger (For Anastasia and Her Dear Grandmother, The Golden Fish) was the
founding teacher of the Prairie Hill Waldorf School in Wisconsin and is the founder and
current director of LifeWays North America.
Judith Ashley (Shuna, Teller of Tales) was a Waldorf kindergarten teacher for twenty
years. Since her retirement she enjoys spinning, gardening, and felting at her home in
Sebastopol, California.

255
 Deborah Baharloo (Holy Nights) teaches kindergarten at the Richmond Waldorf School
in Richmond, Virginia. She also serves as the Southeast Regional Representative for
WECAN.
Carolyn S. Bailey (The Snowdrop, The Sheep and the Pig, The Sun’s Sisters, Hans and the
Wonderful Flower, Little Half-Chick) was a prominent American children’s author and edi-
tor. The 1906 collection For the Children’s Hour was among her many publications. Her
book Miss Hickory won the Newbery Medal in 1947.
Holli Bettis (The Fisherman and the Quiltmaker) is a Waldorf early childhood educator at
Dandelion Kinder Cottage, a preschool in her home where she enjoys teaching nine 3- to
5-year-olds. She lives in Bellingham, Washington with her husband and three daughters.
Cindy Brooks (The Little Seed’s Journey) is a graduate of the Bay Area Center for Waldorf
Teacher Training, and also served for one year as an assistant in a Waldorf kindergarten.
She is a licensed Marriage and Family Therapist with a current practice in Soquel, Cali-
fornia.
Emily Butler (The Harvest Gift), a former Waldorf student, is the mother of two boys
and is currently living in Japan and teaching English at the Waldorf school her children
attend there.
Yvonne DeMaat (Leprechaun’s Gold) taught in a Waldorf kindergarten for seven years
before opening Heart in Hand Preschool, a program for 3- and 4-year-olds in Portland,
Oregon in 2002.
JoAnne Dennee (Hidden Waters) has taught kindergarten at the Lake Champlain Wal-
dorf School in Shelburne, Vermont since 1992. For the past seven years she has traveled
to Peru to to mentor and suppor the Qe’war Project, a doll-making initiative for young
women that provides a Waldorf education for their young children.
Suzanne Down (Autumn Bear, A Million Valentines) is the founder and director of Juniper
Tree Puppetry Arts, based in Colorado. She teaches, performs, and speaks nationwide
and has brought her puppet artistry to the WECAN annual conference.
Betty Jane Enno (Squirrel Nutkin’s Thanksgiving, Little Birds and Big Birds) teaches kinder-
garten at the Austin Waldorf School in Austin, Texas, where she has been on the faculty
since 1984. She serves as a WECAN Regional Representative for the Southwest.

Sacha Etzel (Rimple and Dimple) has been a Waldorf educator since 2000 and is
currently the Early Childhood Instructor at Swallowtail School in Hillsboro, Oregon. She
also serves as the WECAN Regional Representative for Oregon.
Meg Fisher (And the Little One Said. . ., Little Squirrel and the Mysterious Knocking) is a
nursery teacher at The Hartsbrook School in Hadley, Massachusetts.

256
Nancy Forer (The Hungry Bunny) assisted for almost two decades in the nursery/kin-
dergarten classes at the Waldorf School of Princeton, which she helped start as a pio-
neering parent. She also taught a parent/child class there. Since then she has become a
grandmother and has moved to North Carolina to be closer to her own children.
Nancy Foster (Grandfather Tomten and the Easter Surprise) taught for many years at
Acorn Hill Waldorf Kindergarten and Nursery in Silver Spring, Maryland, and now serves
as the Membership Coordinator for WECAN. She is the author of In a Nutshell: Dia-
logues with Parents at Acorn Hill and of two collections of songs, stories and verses, Let
Us Form a Ring and Dancing As We Sing (all available from WECAN). She also edited The
Seasonal Festivals in Early Childhood (WECAN, 2011) and is currently working on a new
compilation of resources about music in the mood of the fifth.
Andrea Gambardella (The Boy Who Tried to Fool His Father) began teaching in 1977 at
the Waldorf School of Baltimore, and has more than 20 years teaching experience in
parent & child, nursery, and kindergarten classes. She currently teaches kindergarten
at Green Meadow Waldorf School in Chestnut Ridge, New York and is also a WECAN
Board member.
Carol Grieder-Brandenberger (Mister Grieder’s Farm), a native of Switzerland, is a nurs-
ery teacher at Green Meadow Waldorf School in Chestnut Ridge, New York. Her articles
“Michaelmas in the Nursery: A Celebration of Courage” and “Bringing Easter into the
Nursery: A Universal Celebration of Spring” were published in The Seasonal Festivals in
Early Childhood (WECAN, 2011).
Kirsten Hascup (The Golden Star Flowers, The Old Owl on the Farm) has been a Wal-
dorf early childhood educator for 16 years. She is currently on maternity leave from the
Ithaca Waldorf School in Ithaca, New York.
Eleanor B. Heady (The Silent Maiden) was the author of several collections of African
and Native American folktales, including Jambo, Sungura!—Tales from East Africa and
Tales of the Nimipoo from the Land of the Nez Perce Indians.
Clifton Johnson (The Travels of a Fox), born in Hadley, Massachusetts in 1865, was a self-
styled folklorist and a prolific author and editor, as well as an artist and photographer.
Janet Kellman (The Story of the Mountain Pears) has served Waldorf early childhood edu-
cation for 30 years in the Nursery/Kindergarten and teacher training. Now retired, she
tends her family (including three grandchildren), the local community and an orchard,
farm and garden in Penryn, California.
Denise Kilshaw (The Harvest Mouse) has experience teaching grades one through five as
well as preschool and kindergarten in Waldorf schools. She teaches a mixed-age kinder-
garten of 3-, 4-, and 5-year-olds at Blue Sky Kindergarten in Boulder, Colorado.

257
 Barbara Klocek (Michael and the Dragon, The Magic Lake at the End of the World, Scar-
face) taught for many years at Sacramento Waldorf School in Fair Oaks, California. She
now enjoys her five young grandchildren, writing, and art. She was one of the main
contributors to You’re Not the Boss of Me! Understanding the Six/Seven-Year-Old Transfor-
mation (WECAN, 2008).
Nancy Lindeman (The Shining Loaf) started out as a handwork teacher and became a
kindergarten teacher at Green Meadow Waldorf School for many years. Now retired,
she resides at the Fellowship Community where she is active in study groups, among
many other responsibilities.
Karen Lonsky (Mouse Goes Looking for a House) lives in the Finger Lakes region of New
York, where she has taught in Waldorf and Waldorf-inspired schools for over 21 years.
With her husband she performs and sings in several musical groups. She is the author of
A Day Full of Song: Work Songs from a Waldorf Kindergarten (WECAN, 2009).
Connie Manson (Knock, Knock) has taught Waldorf kindergarten, nursery and parent-
child programs for over 19 years. She has shared the magic of puppetry and music as a
professional puppeteer and has taught in workshops and training programs nationwide.
She currently teaches at Waldorf Sarasota in Florida.
Margaret Read MacDonald (How To Break a Bad Habit) was called “a grand dame of
storytelling” by School Library Journal. She has led workshops, school visits and festivals
worldwide, authored over 60 books and audios on storytelling and folklore, and served
as a children’s librarian since 1965. She lives in Des Moines, Washington.
Betsi McGuigan (The Mud Muffins, The Old Woman and the Tulips, The Golden Pine
Cones) is the cook and charitable giving coordinator at W.S. Badger Company in New
Hampshire. She taught children for 25 years and is an adjunct in early childhood educa-
tion at Antioch University, as well as a consultant to Waldorf kindergartens and a WE-
CAN Regional Representative for the Northeast.
Lucia Mello (Wild Goose Lake), a native of Brazil, worked for 3 years as a preschool
teacher in Brazil and 13 years as a kindergarten teacher at the Rudolf Steiner School in
New York City. She now teaches at the Portland Village School in Portland, Oregon.
Liz Moreland (The Wise Woman and the Magical Garden) lives in the UK with her hus-
band and her two homeschooled children. Before homeschooling her children she was a
kindergarten teacher at the Bristol Steiner School.
Celia Riahi (The Boy Who Spoke the Truth, Hugin and the Shooting Stars, Hugin’s Lantern,
The Caterpillar’s Journey) opened her first Waldorf-inspired home daycare program in
1976 and taught kindergarten for many years at The Hartsbrook School in Hadley, Mas-
sachusetts. In 2009 she opened The Cottage Garden, a home nursery program in Am-
herst, Massachusetts.

258
Joe Robertson (Good Night, Baby Bear) is the director of Parent/Child programs at Free
to Be Under Three in New York City.
Patricia Rubano (Mother Earth and the Leaves) has been connected with Waldorf educa-
tion all of her adult life. She has worked with young children for over 20 years. Currently
she works in the realm of adult education, mentoring teachers and offering workshops.
She also serves as a WECAN Regional Representative for Southern California.
Sherri Scott (Lady Spring Arrives) teaches kindergarten at the Linden Waldorf School in
Nashville, Tennessee.
Stephen Spitalny (The Golden Lantern, The Dragon’s Gate) teaches kindergarten at the
Santa Cruz Waldorf School in Santa Cruz, California, and served as editor of the WECAN
Gateways newsletter for ten years. Music and storytelling are his passions. He is the author
of the book Communicating with Young Children.
Elizabeth Stubbs (The Farmer Prince, The Sword of a True Knight) is the nursery teacher
at the Cape Ann Waldorf School in Beverly, Massachusetts.
Jan Tannarome (The Child of Light, Golden Rabbit and the Rainbow Eggs) is a Waldorf
early childhood educator at Live Oak Waldorf School in Meadow Vista, California.
Andree Ward (Mother Earth’s Children, The Crystal Cave) has been a kindergarten,
Nursery, and Parent-Child teacher at Hawthorne Valley Waldorf School in Ghent, New
York since 1982, and currently teaches Parent/Child classes. She is a core member of the
Alkion Center faculty where she directs the Early Childhood teacher training.
Wendy Weinrich (Good Morning, Mr. Jay) has been a Waldorf early childhood educator
since 1996 and taught at Mountain Laurel Waldorf School for ten years. She is the lead
teacher and founder of Mountaintop School, a mixed-age kindergarten founded in 2007
in Saugerties, New York.
Lory Widmer (The Dragonfly’s Tale, Gecko’s Complaint) is a eurythmist, writer, editor, and
graphic designer as well as a mother and Waldorf parent. She has served as Managing
Editor for WECAN Publications since 2007.
Jerre Whittlesey (The Child of Light, Golden Rabbit and the Rainbow Eggs) is a Waldorf
early childhood educator at Live Oak Waldorf School in Meadow Vista, California, where
she currently teaches Parent/Child classes.

259
 Acknowledgments
The following stories were selected by Louise deForest from For the Children’s Hour,
edited by Carolyn S. Bailey and Clara M. Lewis and published by Milton-Bradley Co,
Springfield, MA, 1906: The Big Red Apple, The Snowflake and the Leaf, The Oriole’s Journey,
Mother Spider, Silvercap, King of the Frost Fairies, The Little Pine Tree, The Little Girl Who
Would Not Work, The Legend of the Woodpecker, The New Red Dress, The Sheep and the
Pig, Do What You Can, The Sun’s Sisters, Peter, Paul and Espen, Hans and the Wonderful
Flower, The Travels of a Fox, Little Half-Chick.
Page 27: Autumn Bear is reprinted by permission of the author from Autumn Tales by
Suzanne Down (StoryArts Publications).
Page 36: Small Cloud was submitted by Leslie Burchell-Fox of Green Meadow Waldorf
School, who often tells this story at Easter time. We have been unable to locate the
copyright holder of this story; any information is appreciated.
Page 96: The Polar Bear was submitted by Celia Riahi. We have been unable to locate
Amy Drengson, identified as the teller of this story.
Page 98: A Million Valentines was submitted by Mary Bryan, Linden Waldorf School.
Page 109: The Old Woman and the Tulips was retold from a long-lost children’s book.
Page 143: The Silent Maiden is reprinted from Multiculturalism in Waldorf Education,
Issue No. 3, published jointly by The Waldorf Multi-Cultural Committee of AWSNA and
WECAN (then the Waldorf Kindergarten Association) in 1993.
Page 152: The Shining Loaf was adapted from a story by Isabel Wyatt that appeared in
Gateways, the newsletter of the Waldorf Early Childhood Association of North America,
Issue 41.
Page 169: The Story of the Mountain Pears originally appeared in Gateways, Issue 42.
Page 176: The Golden Pine Cones was compiled from a variety of inspirations including
the traditional Bavarian tale, “The Silver Pine Cones,” and “The Story of the Moss Wom-
an” in More Magic Wool by Angelika Wolk-Gerche.
Page 183: The Magic Lake at the End of the World is reprinted from You’re Not the
Boss of Me!—Understanding the Six/Seven-Year-Old Transformation (WECAN, 2008).
Page 187: The Dragon’s Gate originally appeared in Gateways, Issue 45. This version is
adapted from one in Tales from a Taiwan Kitchen.
Page 193: Hidden Waters was adapted from The Red Indian Fairy Book by Frances Jen-
kins Olcott, Houghton Mifflin, 1917.
Page 201: Wild Goose Lake is reprinted from Gateways, Issue 36. This version was
adapted from a tale in Folk Tales of China (1965), edited by Wolfram Eberhard.

260
Page 213: Little Seed’s Journey was originally published in Gateways, Issue 55.
Page 222: For Anastasia and Her Dear Grandmother is reprinted from Working with
the Angels: The Young Child and the Spiritual World (WECAN, 2004).
Page 225: Shuna, Teller of Tales appeared as “A Marionette Play for the Kindergarten”
in Multiculturalism in Waldorf Education.
Page 245: The Boy Who Tried to Fool His Father was retold from a story in Nursery
Tales Around the World, selected and retold by Judy Sienna (Clarion Books, NY).
Page 248: The Red Sheep was translated by the Eurythmy Spring Valley Ensemble for a
eurythmy program many years ago.
Page 253: How To Break a Bad Habit was submitted by Donna Brooks, DaVinci Wal-
dorf School.

261
About WECAN

The Waldorf Early Childhood Association of North America (WECAN) was founded
in 1983, originally under the name of the Waldorf Kindergarten Association of North
America.
WECAN’s mission is to nurture a new cultural impulse for the work with the young child
from pre-birth to age seven, based on an understanding of the healthy development
of the child in body, soul and spirit, and on a commitment to protect and nurture
childhood as the foundation for a truly human culture.
Membership in WECAN is open to early childhood programs, kindergartens, child care
centers, home programs, and teacher training centers committed to the ideals and
practices of Waldorf early childhood education, and to individuals who wish to support
and contribute to Waldorf early childhood education in North America.
WECAN is a tax-exempt non-profit organization with an administrative office in
Spring Valley, New York. WECAN works very closely in collaboration with its sister
organization, the Association of Waldorf Schools of North America (AWSNA). WECAN
is also a Full Member Association in the International Association for Steiner/ Waldorf
Early Childhood Education (IASWECE), based in Järna, Sweden.
For a listing of WECAN member schools and programs,
information about becoming a Waldorf early childhood educator,
resources for living and working with young children,
a calendar of events in North America and worldwide,
and much more, please visit our website:
www.waldorfearlychildhood.org

263
 Other WECAN books you will enjoy. . .

For the Children of the World • Edited by Louise deForest

Have you heard about the little possum who wanted a peach? Why did a
princess wish for speaking grapes, smiling apples and ringing peaches? Do you
know how the robin got his red breast, or what happened when Taijin went
to live with the Seven Thunders? This little book gathers 24 delightful stories
from all corners of the globe, along with 10 delicious recipes. They were sent by
representatives of the 29 Member Associations that are part of IASWECE, the
International Association for Steiner/Waldorf Early Childhood Education, and
all proceeds from the sale of this book will support IASWECE’s work on behalf
of Waldorf early childhood education around the world. • $16

A Lifetime of Joy • Bronja Zahlingen

In this book you will find many classic stories, rhymes, circle
games, and puppet plays for the Waldorf kindergarten and early
grades, from a master teacher and adult educator. Also includes
the articles “Movement, Gesture, and Language in the Life of
the Young Child” and “The Pedagogical Value of Marionette and
Table Puppet Plays for the Small Child.” • $18

The Seasonal Festivals in Early Childhood: Seeking the

Universally Human • Edited by Nancy Foster
This collection of articles, stories, songs, circles, and puppet plays provides
thoughtful reflections on the cycle of the year and on the nature of each
season, along with many practical ideas and materials to bring into the
classroom. Freya Jaffke, Joan Almon, Holly Koteen-Soulé, Stephen Spitalny,
Helle Heckmann, Nancy Foster, Barbara Klocek, Cecilia Karpoff, and Marjorie
Thatcher are just some of the contributors who have lovingly shared the
fruits of their research and practice in this volume. • $20

To order, visit
store.waldorfearlychildhood.org
Or contact us at 845-352-1690 / info@waldorfearlychildhood.org