ONCE upon a time there was a man who had a cat, and she ate so very much that he did not want to keep her any longer. So he decided to give her away; but before he did so she was to have something to eat just once more. The woman offered her a dish of mush and a little potful of fat. These she swallowed, and then jumped out of the window. There stood the man on the threshing-floor.

“Good-day, man in the house,” said the cat.

“Good-day, cat,” said the man. “Have you had anything to eat yet to-day?”

“O, only a little, but my fast has hardly been broken,” said the cat. “I have had no more than a dish of mush and a little potful of fat, and I am thinking over whether I ought not to eat you as well,” said she, and she seized the man and ate him up. Then she went into the stable. There sat the woman, milking.

“Good-day, woman in the stable,” said the cat.

“Good-day, cat, is that you?” said the woman. “Have you eaten your food?” she asked.

“O, only a little to-day. My fast has hardly been broken,” said the cat. “I have had no more than a dish of mush and a little potful of fat and the man in the house, and I’m thinking over whether I ought not to eat you as well,” said she, and she seized the woman and ate her up.

“Good-day, cow at the manger,” said the cat to the bell-cow.

“Good-day, cat,” said the bell-cow. “Have you had anything to eat yet to-day?” “O, only a little. My fast has hardly been broken,” said the cat. “I have had no more than a dish of mush and a little potful of fat and the man in the house and the woman in the stable, and I’m thinking over whether I ought not to eat you as well,” said the cat, and seized the bell-cow and ate her up. Then she went up to the orchard, and there stood a man who was sweeping up leaves.

“Good-day, leaf-sweeper in the orchard,” said the cat.

“Good-day, cat,” said the man. “Have you had anything to eat yet to-day?”

“O, only a little. My fast has hardly been broken,” said the cat. “I have had no more than a dish of mush and a little potful of fat and the man in the house and the woman in the stable and the bell-cow at the manger, and I’m thinking over whether I ought not to eat you up as well,” said she, and seized the leaf-sweeper and ate him up.

Then she came to a stone-pile. There stood the weasel, looking about him.

“Good-day, weasel on the stone-pile,” said the cat.

“Good-day, cat,” said the weasel. “Have you had anything to eat yet to-day?”

“O, only a little. My fast has hardly been broken,” said the cat. “I have had no more than a dish of mush and a little potful of fat and the man in the house and the woman in the stable and the bell-cow at the manger and the leaf-sweeper in the orchard, and I’m thinking over whether I ought not to eat you as well,” said the cat, and seized the weasel and ate him up.

After she had gone a while, she came to a hazel-bush. There sat the squirrel, gathering nuts.

“Good-day, squirrel in the bush,” said the cat.

“Good-day, cat! Have you already had anything to eat yet to-day?” said the squirrel.

“O, only a little. My fast has hardly been broken,” said the cat. “I have had no more than a dish of mush and a little potful of fat and the man in the house and the woman in the stable and the bell-cow at the manger and the leaf-sweeper in the orchard and the weasel on the stone-pile, and I’m thinking over whether I ought not to eat you up as well,” said she, and seized the squirrel and ate him up.

After she had gone a little while longer, she met Reynard the fox, who was peeping out of the edge of the forest.

“Good-day, fox, you sly-boots,” said the cat.

“Good-day, cat! Have you had anything to eat yet to-day?” said the fox.

“O, only a little. My fast has hardly been broken,” said the cat. “I have had no more than a dish of mush and a little potful of fat and the man in the house and the woman in the stable and the bell-cow at the manger and the leaf-sweeper in the orchard and the weasel on the stone-pile and the squirrel in the hazel-bush, and I’m thinking over whether I ought not to eat you as well,” said she, and seized the fox and ate him up too.

When she had gone a little further, she met a hare.

“Good-day, you hopping hare,” said the cat.

“Good-day, cat! Have you had anything to eat yet to-day?” said the hare.

“O, only a little. My fast has hardly been broken,” said the cat. “I have had no more than a dish of mush and a little potful of fat and the man in the house and the woman in the stable and the bell-cow at the manger and the leaf-sweeper in the orchard and the weasel on the stone-pile and the squirrel in the hazel-bush and the fox, the sly-boots, and I’m thinking over whether I ought not to eat you up as well,” said she, and seized the hare and ate him up.

When she had gone a little further, she met a wolf.

“Good-day, you wild wolf,” said the cat.

“Good-day, cat! Have you had anything to eat yet to-day?” said the wolf.

“O, only a little. My fast has hardly been broken,” said the cat. “I have had no more than a dish of mush and a little potful of fat and the man in the house and the woman in the stable and the bell-cow at the manger and the leaf-sweeper in the orchard and the weasel on the stone-pile and the squirrel in the hazel-bush and the fox, the sly-boots, and the hopping hare, and I’m thinking over whether I ought not to eat you up as well,” said she, and seized the wolf and ate him up, too.

Then she went into the wood, and when she had gone far and farther than far, over hill and dale, she met a young bear.

“Good-day, little bear brown-coat,” said the cat.

“Good-day, cat! Have you had anything to eat yet to-day?” said the bear.

“O, only a little. My fast has hardly been broken,” said the cat. “I have had no more than a dish of mush and a little pot of fat and the man in the house and the woman in the stable and the bell-cow at the manger and the leaf-sweeper in the orchard and the weasel on the stone-pile and the squirrel in the hazel-bush and the fox, the sly-boots, and the hopping hare and the wild wolf, and I’m thinking over whether I ought not to eat you up as well,” said she, and seized the little bear and ate him up.

When the cat had gone a bit further, she met the mother bear, who was clawing at the tree-stems so that the bark flew, so angry was she to have lost her little one.

“Good-day, you biting mother bear,” said the cat.

“Good-day, cat! Have you had anything to eat yet to-day?” said the mother bear.

“O, only a little. My fast has hardly been broken,” said the cat. “I have had no more than a dish of mush and a little potful of fat and the man in the house and the woman in the stable and the bell-cow[160] at the manger and the leaf-sweeper in the orchard and the weasel on the stone-pile and the squirrel in the hazel-bush and the fox, the sly-boots, and the hopping hare and the wild wolf and the little bear brown-coat, and I’m thinking over whether I ought not to eat you as well,” said she, and seized the mother bear and ate her, too.

When the cat had gone on a little further, she met the bear himself.

“Good-day, Bruin Good-fellow,” said she.

“Good-day, cat! Have you had anything to eat yet to-day?” asked the bear.

“O, only a little. My fast has hardly been broken,” said the cat. “I have had no more than a dish of mush and a little potful of fat and the man in the house and the woman in the stable and the bell-cow at the manger and the leaf-sweeper in the orchard and the weasel in the stone-pile and the squirrel in the hazel-bush and the fox, the sly-boots, and the hopping hare and the wild wolf and the little bear brown-coat and the biting mother bear, and now I’m thinking over whether I ought not to eat you as well,” said she, and she seized the bear and ate him up, too.

Then the cat went far and farther than far, until she came into the parish. And there she met a bridal party on the road.

“Good-day, bridal party on the road,” said the cat.

“Good-day, cat! Have you had anything to eat yet to-day?”

“O, only a little. My fast is hardly broken,” said the cat. “I have had no more than a dish of mush and a little potful of fat and the man in the house and the woman in the stable and the bell-cow at the manger and the leaf-sweeper in the orchard and the weasel on the stone-pile and the squirrel in the hazel-bush and the fox, the sly-boots, and the hopping hare and the wild wolf and the little bear brown-coat and the biting mother bear and bruin good-fellow and now I’m thinking whether I ought not to eat you up as well,” said she, and she pounced on the whole bridal party, and ate it up, with the cook, the musicians, the horses and all.

When she had gone a bit farther, she came to the church. And there she met a funeral procession.

“Good-day, funeral procession at the church,” said the cat.

“Good-day, cat! Have you had anything to eat yet to-day?” said the funeral procession.

“O, only a little. My fast has hardly been broken,” said the cat. “I have had no more than a dish of mush and a little potful of fat and the man in the house and the woman in the stable and the bell-cow at the manger and the leaf-sweeper in the orchard and the weasel on the stone-pile and the squirrel in the hazel-bush and the fox, the sly-boots, and the hopping hare and the wild wolf and little bear brown-coat and the biting mother bear and bruin good-fellow and the bridal party on the road, and now I’m thinking over whether I ought not to eat you up as well,” said she, and pounced on the funeral procession, and ate up corpse and procession.

When the cat had swallowed it all, she went straight on up to the sky, and when she had gone far and farther than far, she met the moon in a cloud.

“Good-day, moon in a cloud,” said the cat.

“Good-day, cat! Have you had anything to eat yet to-day?” said the moon.

“O, only a little. My fast has hardly been broken,” said the cat. “I have had no more than a dish of mush and a little potful of fat and the man in the house and the woman in the stable and the bell-cow at the manger and the leaf-sweeper in the orchard and the weasel on the stone-pile and the squirrel in the hazel-bush and the fox, the sly-boots, and the wild wolf and little bear brown-coat and the biting mother bear and bruin good-fellow and the bridal party on the road and the funeral procession at the church, and now I’m thinking over whether I ought not to eat you up as well,” said she, and pounced on the moon and ate him up, half and full.

Then the cat went far and farther than far, and met the sun.

“Good morning, cat! Have you had anything to eat yet to-day?” said the sun.

“O, only a little,” said the cat. “I have had no more than a dish of mush and a little potful of fat and the man in the house and the woman in the stable and the bell-cow at the manger and the leaf-sweeper in the orchard and the weasel on the stone-pile and the squirrel in the hazel-bush and the fox, the sly-boots, and the hopping hare and the wild wolf and little bear brown-coat and the biting mother bear and bruin good-fellow and the bridal party on the road and the funeral procession at the church and the moon in a cloud, and now I’m thinking over whether I ought not to eat you up as well,” said she, and pounced on the sun in the sky and ate him up.

Then the cat went far and farther than far, until she came to a bridge, and there she met a large billy-goat.

“Good morning, billy-goat on the broad bridge,” said the cat.

“Good morning, cat! Have you had anything to eat yet to-day?” said the goat.

“O, only a little. My fast has hardly been broken,” said the cat. “I had no more than a dish of mush and a little potful of fat and the man in the house and the woman in the stable and the bell-cow at the manger and the leaf-sweeper in the orchard and the weasel on the stone-pile and the squirrel in the hazel-bush and the fox, the sly-boots, and the hopping hare and the wild wolf and little bear brown-coat and the biting mother bear and bruin good-fellow and the bridal party on the road and the funeral procession at the church and the moon in a cloud and the sun in the sky, and now I’m thinking over whether I ought not to eat you up as well,” said she.

“We’ll fight about that first of all,” said the goat, and butted the cat with his horns so that she rolled off the bridge, and fell into the water, and there she burst.

Then they all crawled out, and each went to his own place, all whom the cat had eaten up, and were every one of them as lively as before, the man in the house and the woman in the stable and the bell-cow at the manger and the leaf-sweeper in the orchard and the weasel on the stone-pile and the squirrel in the hazel-bush and the fox, the sly-boots, and the hopping hare and the wild wolf and little bear brown-coat and the biting mother bear and bruin good-fellow and the bridal party on the road and the funeral procession at the church and the moon in a cloud and the sun in the sky.

Fairy tale written by Peter Christen Asbjørnsen and Jørgen Engebretsen Moe

Let’s Chat About The Stories ~ Ideas for Talking With Kids

Greed, Truthfulness

1. The cat became very greedy eating all those people and animals, and eventually burst. What do you think the story tells us about being greedy?

Truthfulness

1. When the cat was asked what it had eaten that day, it spoke the truth. This eventually caused the billy-goat to butt the cat with his horns! Why do you think the cat was honest about what it had eaten?

The post The Cat Who Could Eat So Much first appeared on Bedtime Stories.

SHORT STORY FOR KIDS WRITTEN BY SAM WILSON

ILLUSTRATED BY DORIAN DUTRIEUX

DESIGNED BY KITSO SEDUMEDI

EDITED BY CARLA LEVER

Music Video by  Doobly Doo Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com), Blippy Trance Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com), Pookatori and Friends Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com) Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 License, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/

* THE STORY ‘TIG’S WORLD’ WAS CREATED BY BOOK DASH AND IS LICENSED UNDER A CREATIVE COMMONS ATTRIBUTION 4.0 LICENSE. MINOR FORMATTING CHANGES HAVE BEEN MADE TO THE ORIGINAL WORK FOR EASE OF READING ON OUR WEBSITE.

LET’S DISCUSS THE STORIES ~ IDEAS FOR TALKING WITH KIDS

Truthfulness, Creativity

1. Tig’s mother has a scientific explanation for why people don’t fall off the round Earth. Why do you think she tells Tig the scientific answer?

2. Tig’s father has a creative explanation for why people don’t fall off the round Earth. Why do you think he tells Tig a different explanation to his mother?

3. Do you think people must always tell the truth? Why or why not?

The post Tig’s World first appeared on Bedtime Stories.

“Gracious goodness me!” said Chicken-licken. “The sky must have fallen; I must go and tell the King.”

So Chicken-licken turned back, and met Henny-lenny.

“Well, Henny-lenny, where are you going?” said he.

“I’m going to the wood,” said she.

“Oh, Henny-lenny, don’t go!” said he. “For as I was going, the sky fell onto my head, and I’m going to tell the King.”

So Henny-lenny turned back with Chicken-licken, and met Cocky-locky.

“I’m going to the wood,” said he.

Then Henny-lenny said: “Oh Cocky-locky, don’t go, for I was going, and I met Chicken-licken, and Chicken-licken had been at the wood, and the sky had fallen onto his head, and we are going to tell the King.”

So Cocky-locky turned back, and they met Ducky-lucky.

“Well, Ducky-lucky, where are you going?”

And Ducky-lucky said: “I’m going to the wood.”

Then Cocky-locky said: “Oh! Ducky-lucky, don’t go, for I was going, and I met Henny-lenny, and Henny-lenny met Chicken-licken, and Chicken-licken had been at the wood, and the sky had fallen onto his head, and we are going to tell the King.”

So Ducky-lucky turned back, and met Drakey-lakey.

“Well, Drakey-lakey, where are you going?”

And Drakey-lakey said: “I’m going to the wood.”

Then Ducky-lucky said: “Oh! Drakey-lakey, don’t go, for I was going, and I met Cocky-locky, and Cocky-locky met Henny-lenny, and Henny-lenny met Chicken-licken, and Chicken-licken had been at the wood, and the sky had fallen on to his head, and we are going to tell the King.”

So Drakey-lakey turned back, and met Goosey-loosey.

“Well, Goosey-loosey, where are you going?”

And Goosey-loosey said: “I’m going to the wood.”

Then Drakey-lakey said: “Oh, Goosey-loosey, don’t go, for I was going, and I met Ducky-lucky, and Ducky-lucky met Cocky-locky, and Cocky-locky met Henny-lenny, and Henny-lenny met Chicken-licken, and Chicken-licken had been at the wood, and the sky had fallen onto his head, and we are going to tell the King.”

So Goosey-loosey turned back, and met Gander-lander.

“Well, Gander-lander, where are you going?”

And Gander-lander said: “I’m going to the wood.”

Then Goosey-loosey said: “Oh! Gander-lander, don’t go, for I was going, and I met Drakey-lakey, and Drakey-lakey met Ducky-lucky, and Ducky-lucky met Cocky-locky, and Cocky-locky met Henny-lenny, and Henny-lenny met Chicken-licken, and Chicken-licken had been at the wood, and the sky had fallen on to his head, and we are going to tell the King.”

So Gander-lander turned back, and met Turkey-lurkey.

“Well, Turkey-lurkey, where are you going?”

And Turkey-lurkey said: “I’m going to the wood.”

Then Gander-lander said: “Oh! Turkey-lurkey, don’t go, for I was going, and I met Goosey-loosey, and Goosey-loosey met Drakey-lakey, and Drakey-lakey met Ducky-lucky, and Ducky-lucky met Cocky-locky, and Cocky-locky met Henny-lenny, and Henny-lenny met Chicken-licken, and Chicken-licken had been at the wood, and the sky had fallen onto his head, and we are going to tell the King.”

So Turkey-lurkey turned back, and walked with Gander-lander, Goosey-loosey, Drakey-lakey, Ducky-lucky, Cocky-locky, Henny-lenny, and Chicken-licken.

And as they were going along, they met Foxy-loxy. And Foxy-loxy said:

“Where are you going?”

And they said: “Chicken-licken went to the wood, and the sky fell onto his head, and we are going to tell the King.”

And Foxy-loxy said: “Come along with me, and I will show you the way.”

But Foxy-loxy took them into the fox’s hole, and he and his young ones soon ate up poor Chicken-licken, Henny-lenny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-lucky, Drakey-lakey, Goosey-loosey, Gander-lander, and Turkey-lurkey; and they never saw the King to tell him that the sky had fallen.

Short story for kids edited by Hamilton Wright Mabie, Edward Everett Hale, and William Byron Forbush

Let’s Chat About The Stories ~ Ideas for Talking With Kids

Independent Thinking, Stranger Danger, Truthfulness

1. All the birds believe Chicken-licken’s story the moment he tells them the sky is falling down. By the end of the story, there are eight animals that believe the sky is falling down. Do you think the more people that believe something, the more likely it is to be true? Why or why not?

2. When Foxy-Loxy saw the six birds, he told them that he knew the way to the King’s home. What happened when they followed Foxy-Loxy? Can you think of some ways that they could have discovered that he was not telling the truth?

3. What do you think is a good thing to do before you believe anybody’s story? How are some ways that you can come to your own conclusions about things that happen in the world?

The post Chicken Licken first appeared on Bedtime Stories.

Edmund loved to find out about things. Perhaps you will think that in that case he was constant in his attendance at school, since there, if anywhere, we may learn whatever there is to be learned. But Edmund did not want to learn things: He wanted to find things out, which is quite different. His inquiring mind led him to take clocks to pieces to see what made them go, to take locks off doors to see what made them stick. It was Edmund who cut open the India rubber ball to see what made it bounce, and he never did see, any more than you did when you tried the same experiment.

Edmund lived with his grandmother. She loved him very much, in spite of his inquiring mind, and hardly scolded him at all when he frizzled up her tortoiseshell comb in his anxiety to find out whether it was made of real tortoiseshell or of something that would burn. Edmund went to school, of course, now and then, and sometimes he could not prevent himself from learning something, but he never did it on purpose.

“It is such waste of time,” said he. “They only know what everybody knows. I want to find out new things that nobody has thought of but me.”

“I don’t think you’re likely to find out anything that none of the wise men in the whole world have thought of all these thousands of years,” said Granny.

But Edmund did not agree with her. He played truant whenever he could, for he was a kindhearted boy, and could not bear to think of a master’s time and labor being thrown away on a boy like himself–who did not wish to learn, only to find out–when there were so many worthy lads thirsting for instruction in geography and history and reading and ciphering, and Mr. Smiles’s “Self-Help.”

Other boys played truant too, of course–and these went nutting or blackberrying or wild plum gathering, but Edmund never went on the side of the town where the green woods and hedges grew. He always went up the mountain where the great rocks were, and the tall, dark pine trees, and where other people were afraid to go because of the strange noises that came out of the caves.

Edmund was not afraid of these noises–though they were very strange and terrible. He wanted to find out what made them.

One day he did. He had invented, all by himself, a very ingenious and new kind of lantern, made with a turnip and a tumbler, and when he took the candle out of Granny’s bedroom candlestick to put in it, it gave quite a splendid light.

He had to go to school next day, and he was caned for being absent without leave–although he very straightforwardly explained that he had been too busy making the lantern to have time to come to school.

But the day after he got up very early and took the lunch Granny had ready for him to take to school–two boiled eggs and an apple turnover–and he took his lantern and went off as straight as a dart to
the mountains to explore the caves.

The caves were very dark, but his lantern lighted them up beautifully; and they were most interesting caves, with stalactites and stalagmites and fossils, and all the things you read about in the instructive books for the young. But Edmund did not care for any of these things just then. He wanted to find out what made the noises that people were afraid of, and there was nothing in the caves to tell him.

Presently he sat down in the biggest cave and listened very carefully, and it seemed to him that he could distinguish three different sorts of noises. There was a heavy rumbling sound, like a very large old gentleman asleep after dinner; and there was a smaller sort of rumble going on at the same time; and there was a sort of crowing, clucking sound, such as a chicken might make if it happened to be as big as a haystack.

“It seems to me,” said Edmund to himself, “that the clucking is nearer than the others.” So he started up again and explored the caves once more. He found out nothing, but about halfway up the wall of the cave, he saw a hole. And, being a boy, he climbed up to it and crept in; and it was the entrance to a rocky passage. And now the clucking sounded more plainly than before, and he could hardly hear the rumbling at all.

“I am going to find out something at last,” said Edmund, and on he went. The passage wound and twisted, and twisted and turned, and turned and wound, but Edmund kept on.

“My lantern’s burning better and better,” said he presently, but the next minute he saw that all the light did not come from his lantern. It was a pale yellow light, and it shone down the passage far ahead of him through what looked like the chink of a door.

“I expect it’s the fire in the middle of the earth,” said Edmund, who had not been able to help learning about that at school.

But quite suddenly the fire ahead gave a pale flicker and went down; and the clucking ceased.

The next moment Edmund turned a corner and found himself in front of a rocky door. The door was ajar. He went in, and there was a round cave, like the dome of St. Paul’s. In the middle of the cave was a hole like a very big hand-washing basin, and in the middle of the basin Edmund saw a large pale person sitting.

This person had a man’s face and a griffin’s body, and big feathery wings, and a snake’s tail, and a cock’s comb and neck feathers.

“Whatever are you?” said Edmund.

“I’m a poor starving cockatrice,” answered the pale person in a very faint voice, “and I shall die–oh, I know I shall! My fire’s gone out! I can’t think how it happened; I must have been asleep. I have to stir it seven times round with my tail once in a hundred years to keep it alight, and my watch must have been wrong. And now I shall die.”

I think I have said before what a kindhearted boy Edmund was.

“Cheer up,” said he. “I’ll light your fire for you.” And off he went, and in a few minutes he came back with a great armful of sticks from the pine trees outside, and with these and a lesson book or two that he had forgotten to lose before, and which, quite by an oversight, were safe in his pocket, he lit a fire all around the cockatrice. The wood blazed up, and presently something in the basin caught fire, and Edmund saw that it was a sort of liquid that burned like the brandy in a snapdragon. And now the cockatrice stirred it with his tail and flapped his wings in it so that some of it splashed out on Edmund’s hand and burnt it rather badly. But the cockatrice grew red and strong and happy, and its comb grew scarlet, and its feathers glossy, and it lifted itself up and crowed “Cock-a-trice-a-doodle-doo!” very loudly and clearly.

Edmund’s kindly nature was charmed to see the cockatrice so much improved in health, and he said: “Don’t mention it; delighted, I’m sure,” when the cockatrice began to thank him.

“But what can I do for you?” said the creature.

“Tell me stories,” said Edmund.

“What about?” said the cockatrice.

“About true things that they don’t know at school,” said Edmund.

So the cockatrice began, and he told him about mines and treasures and geological formations, and about gnomes and fairies and dragons, and about glaciers and the Stone Age and the beginning of the world, and about the unicorn and the phoenix, and about Magic, black and white.

And Edmund ate his eggs and his turnover, and listened. And when he got hungry again he said good-bye and went home. But he came again the next day for more stories, and the next day, and the next, for a long time.

He told the boys at school about the cockatrice and his wonderful true tales, and the boys liked the stories; but when he told the master he was caned for untruthfulness.

“But it’s true,” said Edmund. “Just you look where the fire burnt my hand.”

“I see you’ve been playing with fire–into mischief as usual,” said the master, and he caned Edmund harder than ever. The master was ignorant and unbelieving: but I am told that some schoolmasters are not like that.

Now, one day Edmund made a new lantern out of something chemical that he sneaked from the school laboratory. And with it he went exploring again to see if he could find the things that made the other sorts of noises. And in quite another part of the mountain he found a dark passage, all lined with brass, so that it was like the inside of a huge telescope, and at the very end of it he found a bright green door. There was a brass plate on the door that said MRS. D. KNOCK AND RING, and a white label that said CALL ME AT THREE. Edmund had a watch: It had been given to him on his birthday two days before, and he had not yet had time to take it to pieces and see what made it go, so it was still going. He looked at it now. It said a quarter to three.

Did I tell you before what a kindhearted boy Edmund was? He sat down on the brass doorstep and waited till three o’clock. Then he knocked and rang, and there was a rattling and puffing inside. The great door flew open, and Edmund had only just time to hide behind it when out came an immense yellow dragon, who wriggled off down the brass cave like a long, rattling worm–or perhaps more like a monstrous centipede.

Edmund crept slowly out and saw the dragon stretching herself on the rocks in the sun, and he crept past the great creature and tore down the hill into the town and burst into school, crying out: “There’s a great dragon coming! Somebody ought to do something, or we shall all be destroyed.”

He was caned for untruthfulness without any delay. His master was never one for postponing a duty.

“But it’s true,” said Edmund. “You just see if it isn’t.”

He pointed out of the window, and everyone could see a vast yellow cloud rising up into the air above the mountain.

“It’s only a thunder shower,” said the master, and caned Edmund more than ever. This master was not like some masters I know: He was very obstinate, and would not believe his own eyes if they told him anything different from what he had been saying before his eyes spoke.

So while the master was writing Lying is very wrong, and liars must be caned. It is all for their own good on the black-board for Edmund to copy out seven hundred times, Edmund sneaked out of school and ran for his life across the town to warn his granny, but she was not at home. So then he made off through the back door of the town, and raced up the hill to tell the cockatrice and ask for his help. It never occurred to him that the cockatrice might not believe him. You see, he had heard so many wonderful tales from him and had believed them all–and when you believe all a person’s stories they ought to believe yours. This is only fair.

At the mouth of the cockatrice’s cave Edmund stopped, very much out of breath, to look back at the town. As he ran he had felt his little legs tremble and shake, while the shadows of the great yellow cloud fell upon him. Now he stood once more between warm earth and blue sky, and looked down on the green plain dotted with fruit trees and red-roofed farms and plots of gold corn. In the middle of that plain the gray town lay, with its strong walls with the holes pierced for the archers, and its square towers with holes for dropping melted lead on the heads of strangers; its bridges and its steeples; the quiet river edged with willow and alder; and the pleasant green garden place in the middle of
the town, where people sat on holidays to smoke their pipes and listen to the band.

Edmund saw it all; and he saw, too, creeping across the plain, marking her way by a black line as everything withered at her touch, the great yellow dragon–and he saw that she was many times bigger than the whole town.

“Oh, my poor, dear granny,” said Edmund, for he had a feeling heart, as I ought to have told you before.

The yellow dragon crept nearer and nearer, licking her greedy lips with her long red tongue, and Edmund knew that in the school his master was still teaching earnestly and still not believing Edmund’s tale the least little bit.

“He’ll jolly well have to believe it soon, anyhow,” said Edmund to himself, and though he was a very tender-hearted boy–I think it only fair to tell you that he was this–I am afraid he was not as sorry as he ought to have been to think of the way in which his master was going to learn how to believe what Edmund said. Then the dragon opened her jaws wider and wider and wider. Edmund shut his eyes, for though his master was in the town, the amiable Edmund shrank from beholding the awful sight.

When he opened his eyes again there was no town–only a bare place where it had stood, and the dragon licking her lips and curling herself up to go to sleep, just as Kitty does when she has quite finished with a mouse. Edmund gasped once or twice, and then ran into the cave to tell the cockatrice.

“Well,” said the cockatrice thoughtfully, when the tale had been told. “What then?”

“I don’t think you quite understand,” said Edmund gently. “The dragon has swallowed up the town.”

“Does it matter?” said the cockatrice.

“But I live there,” said Edmund blankly.

“Never mind,” said the cockatrice, turning over in the pool of fire to warm its other side, which was chilly, because Edmund had, as usual, forgotten to close the cave door. “You can live here with me.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t made my meaning clear,” said Edmund patiently. “You see, my granny is in the town, and I can’t bear to lose my granny like this.”

“I don’t know what a granny may be,” said the cockatrice, who seemed to be growing weary of the subject, “but if it’s a possession to which you attach any importance—-”

“Of course it is,” said Edmund, losing patience at last. “Oh–do help me. What can I do?”

“If I were you,” said his friend, stretching itself out in the pool of flame so that the waves covered him up to his chin, “I should find the drakling and bring it here.”

“But why?” said Edmund. He had gotten into the habit of asking why at school, and the master had always found it trying. As for the cockatrice, he was not going to stand that sort of thing for a moment.

“Oh, don’t talk to me!” he said, splashing angrily in the flames. “I give you advice; take it or leave it–I shan’t bother about you anymore. If you bring the drakling here to me, I’ll tell you what to do next. If not, not.”

And the cockatrice drew the fire up close around his shoulders, tucked himself up in it, and went to sleep.

Now this was exactly the right way to manage Edmund, only no one had ever thought of trying to do it before.

He stood for a moment looking at the cockatrice; the cockatrice looked at Edmund out of the corner of his eye and began to snore very loudly, and Edmund understood, once and for all, that the cockatrice wasn’t going to put up with any nonsense. He respected the cockatrice very much from that moment, and set off at once to do exactly as he was told–for perhaps the first time in his life.

Though he had played truant so often, he knew one or two things that perhaps you don’t know, though you have always been so good and gone to school regularly. For instance, he knew that a drakling is a dragon’s baby, and he felt sure that what he had to do was to find the third of the three noises that people used to hear coming from the mountains. Of course, the clucking had been the cockatrice, and the big noise like a large gentleman asleep after dinner had been the big dragon. So the smaller rumbling must have been the drakling.

He plunged boldly into the caves and searched and wandered and wandered and searched, and at last he came to a third door in the mountain, and on it was written THE BABY IS ASLEEP. Just before the door stood fifty pairs of copper shoes, and no one could have looked at them for a moment without seeing what sort of feet they were made for, for each shoe had five holes in it for the drakling’s five claws. And there were fifty pairs because the drakling took after his mother, and had a hundred feet–no more and no less. He was the kind called Draco Centipedis in the learned books.

Edmund was a good deal frightened, but he remembered the grim expression of the cockatrice’s eye, and the fixed determination of his snore still rang in his ears, in spite of the snoring of the drakling, which was, in itself, considerable. He screwed up his courage, flung the door open, and called out: “Hello, you drakling. Get out of bed this minute.”

The drakling stopped snoring and said sleepily: “It ain’t time yet.”

“Your mother says you are to, anyhow; and look sharp about it, what’s more,” said Edmund, gaining courage from the fact that the drakling had not yet eaten him.

The drakling sighed, and Edmund could hear it getting out of bed. The next moment it began to come out of its room and to put on its shoes. It was not nearly so big as its mother; only about the size of a Baptist chapel.

“Hurry up,” said Edmund, as it fumbled clumsily with the seventeenth shoe.

“Mother said I was never to go out without my shoes,” said the drakling; so Edmund had to help it to put them on. It took some time, and was not a comfortable occupation.

At last the drakling said it was ready, and Edmund, who had forgotten to be frightened, said, “Come on then,” and they went back to the cockatrice.

The cave was rather narrow for the drakling, but it made itself thin, as you may see a fat worm do when it wants to get through a narrow crack in a piece of hard earth.

“Here it is,” said Edmund, and the cockatrice woke up at once and asked the drakling very politely to sit down and wait. “Your mother will be here presently,” said the cockatrice, stirring up its fire.

The drakling sat down and waited, but it watched the fire with hungry eyes.

“I beg your pardon,” it said at last, “but I am always accustomed to having a little basin of fire as soon as I get up, and I feel rather faint. Might I?”

It reached out a claw toward the cockatrice’s basin.

“Certainly not,” said the cockatrice sharply. “Where were you brought up? Did they never teach you that ‘we must not ask for all we see’? Eh?”

“I beg your pardon,” said the drakling humbly, “but I am really very hungry.”

The cockatrice beckoned Edmund to the side of the basin and whispered in his ear so long and so earnestly that one side of the dear boy’s hair was quite burnt off. And he never once interrupted the cockatrice to ask why. But when the whispering was over, Edmund–whose heart, as I may have mentioned, was very tender–said to the drakling: “If you are really hungry, poor thing, I can show you where there is plenty of fire.” And off he went through the caves, and the drakling followed.

When Edmund came to the proper place he stopped.

There was a round iron thing in the floor, like the ones the men shoot the coals down into your cellar, only much larger. Edmund heaved it up by a hook that stuck out at one side, and a rush of hot air came up that nearly choked him. But the drakling came close and looked down with one eye and sniffed, and said: “That smells good, eh?”

“Yes,” said Edmund, “well, that’s the fire in the middle of the earth. There’s plenty of it, all done to a turn. You’d better go down and begin your breakfast, hadn’t you?”

So the drakling wriggled through the hole, and began to crawl faster and faster down the slanting shaft that leads to the fire in the middle of the earth. And Edmund, doing exactly as he had been told, for a wonder, caught the end of the drakling’s tail and ran the iron hook through it so that the drakling was held fast. And it could not turn around and wriggle up again to look after its poor tail, because, as everyone knows, the way to the fires below is very easy to go down, but quite impossible to come back on. There is something about it in Latin, beginning: “Facilis descensus.”

So there was the drakling, fast by the silly tail of it, and there was Edmund very busy and important and very pleased with himself, hurrying back to the cockatrice.

“Now,” said he.

“Well, now,” said the cockatrice. “Go to the mouth of the cave and laugh at the dragon so that she hears you.”

Edmund very nearly said “Why?” but he stopped in time, and instead, said: “She won’t hear me–”

“Oh, very well,” said the cockatrice. “No doubt you know best,” and he began to tuck himself up again in the fire, so Edmund did as he was bid.

And when he began to laugh his laughter echoed in the mouth of the cave till it sounded like the laughter of a whole castleful of giants.

And the dragon, lying asleep in the sun, woke up and said very crossly: “What are you laughing at?”

“At you,” said Edmund, and went on laughing. The dragon bore it as long as she could, but, like everyone else, she couldn’t stand being made fun of, so presently she dragged herself up the mountain very slowly, because she had just had a rather heavy meal, and stood outside and said, “What are you laughing at?” in a voice that made Edmund feel as if he should never laugh again.

Then the good cockatrice called out: “At you! You’ve eaten your own drakling–swallowed it with the town. Your own little drakling! He, he, he! Ha, ha, ha!”

And Edmund found the courage to cry “Ha, ha!” which sounded like tremendous laughter in the echo of the cave.

“Dear me,” said the dragon. “I thought the town stuck in my throat rather. I must take it out, and look through it more carefully.” And with that she coughed–and choked–and there was the town, on the hillside.

Edmund had run back to the cockatrice, and it had told him what to do. So before the dragon had time to look through the town again for her drakling, the voice of the drakling itself was heard howling miserably from inside the mountain, because Edmund was pinching its tail as hard as he could in the round iron door, like the one where the men pour the coals out of the sacks into the cellar. And the dragon heard the voice and said: “Why, whatever’s the matter with Baby? He’s not here!” and made herself thin, and crept into the mountain to find her drakling. The cockatrice kept on laughing as loud as it could, and Edmund kept on pinching, and presently the great dragon–very long and narrow she had made herself–found her head where the round hole was with the iron lid. Her tail was a mile or two off–outside the mountain. When Edmund heard her coming he gave one last nip to the drakling’s tail, and then heaved up the lid and stood behind it, so that the dragon could not see him. Then he loosed the drakling’s tail from the hook, and the dragon peeped down the hole just in time to see her drakling’s tail disappear down the smooth, slanting shaft with one last squeak of pain. Whatever may have been the poor dragon’s other faults, she was an excellent mother. She plunged headfirst into the hole, and slid down the shaft after her baby. Edmund watched her head go–and then the rest of her. She was so long, now she had stretched herself thin, that it took all night. It was like watching a goods train go by in Germany. When the last joint of her tail had gone Edmund slammed down the iron door. He was a kindhearted boy, as you have guessed, and he was glad to think that dragon and drakling would now have plenty to eat of their favorite food, forever and ever.

He thanked the cockatrice for his kindness, and got home just in time to have breakfast and get to school by nine. Of course, he could not have done this if the town had been in its old place by the river in the middle of the plain, but it had taken root on the hillside just where the dragon left it.

“Well,” said the master, “where were you yesterday?”

Edmund explained, and the master at once caned him for not speaking the truth.

“But it is true,” said Edmund. “Why, the whole town was swallowed by the dragon. You know it was–”

“Nonsense,” said the master. “There was a thunderstorm and an earthquake, that’s all.” And he caned Edmund more than ever.

“But,” said Edmund, who always would argue, even in the least favorable circumstances, “how do you account for the town being on the hillside now, instead of by the river as it used to be?”

“It was always on the hillside,” said the master. And all the class said the same, for they had more sense than to argue with a person who carried a cane.

“But look at the maps,” said Edmund, who wasn’t going to be beaten in argument, whatever he might be in the flesh. The master pointed to the map on the wall.

There was the town, on the hillside! And nobody but Edmund could see that of course the shock of being swallowed by the dragon had upset all the maps and put them wrong.

And then the master caned Edmund again, explaining that this time it was not for untruthfulness, but for his vexatious argumentative habits. This will show you what a prejudiced and ignorant man Edmund’s master was–how different from the revered Head of the nice school where your good parents are kind enough to send you.

The next day Edmund thought he would prove his tale by showing people the cockatrice, and he actually persuaded some people to go into the cave with him; but the cockatrice had bolted himself in and would not open the door–so Edmund got nothing by that except a scolding for taking people on a wild-goose chase.

“A wild goose,” said they, “is nothing like a cockatrice.”

And poor Edmund could not say a word, though he knew how wrong they were. The only person who believed him was his granny. But then she was very old and very kind, and had always said he was the best of boys.

Only one good thing came of all this long story. Edmund has never been quite the same boy since. He does not argue quite so much, and he agreed to be apprenticed to a locksmith, so that he might one day be able to pick the lock of the cockatrice’s front door–and learn some more of the things that other people don’t know.

But he is quite an old man now, and he hasn’t gotten that door open yet!

Bedtime Story by Edith Nesbit

LET’S CHAT ABOUT THE STORIES ~ IDEAS FOR TALKING WITH KIDS

Creativity

1. Edmund wants to find out new things that nobody has thought of but him. Granny says that’s impossible, as all the wise people in the world would have found it out first. What do you think? Do you think you would be able to discover and think about new things that nobody has ever discovered or thought about before? Why or why not?

Truthfulness

2. Edmund’s teacher never believes anything that Edmund says. Why do you think the teacher is so disbelieving of Edmund all the time? Do you think he is right to never believe him?

The post The Caves and the Cockatrice first appeared on Bedtime Stories.

This is a vintage fairy tale, and may contain violence. We would encourage parents to read beforehand  if your child is sensitive to such themes.

Once upon a time the king of the fishes fell ill, and no one knew what was the matter with him. All the doctors in the sea were called in, one after another, and not one of them could cure him.

Once when the fishes were talking about it, a turtle stuck its head out of a crack in a rock. “It is a pity,” said the turtle, “that no one has ever thought of asking my advice. I could cure the king in a twinkling. All he has to do is to swallow the eye of a live rabbit, and he will become perfectly well again.”

This the turtle said, not because he knew anything at all about the matter, but because he wished to appear wise before the fishes.

Now it so chanced that one of the fishes that heard him was the son of the king’s councillor, and he swam straight home and told his father what he had heard the turtle say. The councillor told the king, and the king, who was feeling very ill that day, bade them bring the turtle to him immediately.

When the messengers told the turtle that the king wished to speak to him, the turtle was very much frightened. He drew his head and his tail into his shell and pretended that he was asleep, but in the end he was obliged to go with the messengers.

They soon reached the palace, and the turtle was taken immediately to where the king was. He was lying on a bed of seaweed and looking very ill indeed, and all his doctors were gathered round him.

The king turned his eyes toward the turtle, and spoke in a weak voice. “Tell me, friend, is it true that you said you could cure me?”

Yes, it was true.

“And that all I have to do is to swallow the eye of a live rabbit, and I will be well again?”

Yes, that was true too.

“Then go get a live rabbit and bring it here immediately, that I may be well.”

When the turtle heard these words he was in despair. It did not seem at all likely that he could catch a rabbit and bring it down into the sea, but he was so much afraid of the king that he did not dare to explain this to him. He said nothing, but crawled away as soon as he could, wishing he could find some crack where he could hide himself and never be found again.

Suddenly he remembered he had once seen a rabbit frisking about on a hill not far from the seashore, and he determined to set out to find it.

He crawled out of the sea and started up the hill. He climbed and he climbed, and after a while he came to the top, and there he sat down to rest.

Presently along came the rabbit, and it stopped to speak to him.

“Good day,” said the rabbit.

“Good day,” said the turtle.

“And what are you doing so far away from the sea?” asked the rabbit.

“Oh, I only came up here to look about and see what the green world was like,” answered the turtle.

“And what do you think of it, now you are here?”

“Oh, it’s not so bad; but you ought to see the beautiful palaces and gardens we have down under the sea.” The turtle began telling the rabbit about them, and he talked so long and said so many fine things about them, that the rabbit began to wish to see them for himself.

“Would it be very hard for me to live down under the water?” he asked.

“Oh, no,” said the turtle. “It might be a little inconvenient at first, but that would not last long. If you like, I will take you on my back and carry you down to the bottom of the sea, and then you can see whether it is not all just as grand and beautiful as I have been telling you.”

Well, the rabbit could not resist his curiosity, and he agreed to go with the turtle.

They went to the edge of the sea, and then the rabbit got on the turtle’s back, and down they went through the water to the very bottom of the sea. The rabbit did not like it at first, but he soon grew used to it, and when he saw all the fine palaces and gardens that were there, he was filled with wonder.

The turtle took him directly to the palace of the king. There he bade the rabbit get down and wait awhile, and he promised that presently he would show him the king of all this magnificence.

The rabbit was delighted and willingly agreed to wait there while the turtle went to announce him.

But while the turtle was away the rabbit heard two fishes talking in the room next to where he was. He was very inquisitive, so he cocked his ears forward and listened to what they were saying. What was his horror to find that they were talking about taking out his eyes and giving them to the king. The rabbit did not know what to do, nor how he was to escape from the dangerous position he was in.

Presently the turtle came back, and the chief councillor came with him, and immediately the rabbit began to talk. “Well,” said he, “it all seems very fine here, and I am glad I came, but I wish now I had brought my own eyes with me so that I could see it better. You see, the eyes I have in my head now are only glass eyes. I am so afraid of getting my own eyes hurt or dusty that I generally keep them in a safe place, and wear these glass eyes instead. But if I had only known how much there would be to look at, I would certainly have brought my own eyes.”

When the turtle and the councillor heard this, they were very much disappointed, for they believed the rabbit was speaking the truth, and that the eyes he had in his head at the time were only glass eyes.

“I will take you back to the shore,” said the turtle, “and then you can go and get your real eyes and come back again, for there are many more things for you to see here—things more wonderful and beautiful than anything I have yet shown you.”

Well, the rabbit was willing to do that, so he got upon the turtle’s back, and the turtle swam up and up with him through the sea.

As soon as they reached the shore the rabbit leaped from the turtle’s back, and away he went up the hill as fast as he could scamper, and he was glad enough to be out of that scrape, I can tell you. But the turtle waited, and he waited, and he waited, but the rabbit never did come back, and at last the turtle was obliged to go home without him.

As for the king of the fishes, if he ever got well, it was not the eye of a live rabbit that cured him; of that you may be sure.

KOREAN SHORT STORY FOR CHILDREN BY KATHERINE PYLE

LET’S CHAT ABOUT THE STORIES ~ IDEAS FOR TALKING WITH KIDS

Truthfulness

1. Sometimes we say something we don’t mean. The turtle did this when he said something untruthful in order to impress the fishes. How do you think the turtle might have made things better when the fishes asked him to visit the king?

Stranger Danger

1. The rabbit was very trusting when the turtle told him about all the magnificent things there were to see under the ocean. Should the rabbit have gone with the turtle?

2. How could the rabbit have declined the turtles invitation?

The post Rabbit’s Eyes first appeared on Bedtime Stories.

Once upon a time there was a Pussy-cat called Ribby, who invited a little dog called Duchess, to tea.

“Come in good time, my dear Duchess,” said Ribby’s letter, “and we will have something so very nice. I am baking it in a pie-dish—a pie-dish with a pink rim. You never tasted anything so good! And you shall eat it all! I will eat muffins, my dear Duchess!” wrote Ribby.

Duchess read the letter and wrote an answer:—”I will come with much pleasure at a quarter past four. But it is very strange. I was just going to invite you to come here, to supper, my dear Ribby, to eat something most delicious.

“I will come very punctually, my dear Ribby,” wrote Duchess; and then at the end she added—”I hope it isn’t mouse?”

And then she thought that did not look quite polite; so she scratched out “isn’t mouse” and changed it to “I hope it will be fine,” and she gave her letter to the postman.

But she thought a great deal about Ribby’s pie, and she read Ribby’s letter over and over again.

“I am dreadfully afraid it will be mouse!” said Duchess to herself—”I really couldn’t, couldn’t eat mouse pie. And I shall have to eat it, because it is a party. And my pie was going to be veal and ham. A pink and white pie-dish! and so is mine; just like Ribby’s dishes; they were both bought at Tabitha Twitchit’s.”

Duchess went into her larder and took the pie off a shelf and looked at it.

“It is all ready to put into the oven. Such lovely pie-crust; and I put in a little tin patty-pan to hold up the crust; and I made a hole in the middle with a fork to let out the steam—Oh I do wish I could eat my own pie, instead of a pie made of mouse!”

Duchess considered and considered and read Ribby’s letter again—

“A pink and white pie-dish—and you shall eat it all. ‘You’ means me—then Ribby is not going to even taste the pie herself? A pink and white pie-dish! Ribby is sure to go out to buy the muffins…. Oh what a good idea! Why shouldn’t I rush along and put my pie into Ribby’s oven when Ribby isn’t there?”

Duchess was quite delighted with her own cleverness!

Ribby in the meantime had received Duchess’s answer, and as soon as she was sure that the little dog could come—she popped her pie into the oven. There were two ovens, one above the other; some other knobs and handles were only ornamental and not intended to open. Ribby put the pie into the lower oven; the door was very stiff.

“The top oven bakes too quickly,” said Ribby to herself. “It is a pie of the most delicate and tender mouse minced up with bacon. And I have taken out all the bones; because Duchess did nearly choke herself with a fish-bone last time I gave a party. She eats a little fast—rather big mouthfuls. But a most genteel and elegant little dog; infinitely superior company to Cousin Tabitha Twitchit.”

Ribby put on some coal and swept up the hearth. Then she went out with a can to the well, for water to fill up the kettle.

Then she began to set the room in order, for it was the sitting-room as well as the kitchen. She shook the mats out at the front-door and put them straight; the hearthrug was a rabbit-skin. She dusted the clock and the ornaments on the mantelpiece, and she polished and rubbed the tables and chairs.

Then she spread a very clean white table-cloth, and set out her best china tea-set, which she took out of a wall-cupboard near the fireplace. The tea-cups were white with a pattern of pink roses; and the dinner-plates were white and blue.

When Ribby had laid the table she took a jug and a blue and white dish, and went out down the field to the farm, to fetch milk and butter.

When she came back, she peeped into the bottom oven; the pie looked very comfortable.

Ribby put on her shawl and bonnet and went out again with a basket, to the village shop to buy a packet of tea, a pound of lump sugar, and a pot of marmalade.

And just at the same time, Duchess came out of her house, at the other end of the village.

Ribby met Duchess half-way down the street, also carrying a basket, covered with a cloth. They only bowed to one another; they did not speak, because they were going to have a party.

As soon as Duchess had got round the corner out of sight—she simply ran! Straight away to Ribby’s house!

Ribby went into the shop and bought what she required, and came out, after a pleasant gossip with Cousin Tabitha Twitchit.

Cousin Tabitha was disdainful afterwards in conversation—

“A little dog indeed! Just as if there were no CATS in Sawrey! And a pie for afternoon tea! The very idea!” said Cousin Tabitha Twitchit.

Ribby went on to Timothy Baker’s and bought the muffins. Then she went home.

There seemed to be a sort of scuffling noise in the back passage, as she was coming in at the front door.

“I trust that is not that Pie: the spoons are locked up, however,” said Ribby.

But there was nobody there. Ribby opened the bottom oven door with some difficulty, and turned the pie. There began to be a pleasing smell of baked mouse!

Duchess in the meantime, had slipped out at the back door.

“It is a very odd thing that Ribby’s pie was not in the oven when I put mine in! And I can’t find it anywhere; I have looked all over the house. I put my pie into a nice hot oven at the top. I could not turn any of the other handles; I think that they are all shams,” said Duchess, “but I wish I could have removed the pie made of mouse! I cannot think what she has done with it? I heard Ribby coming and I had to run out by the back door!”

Duchess went home and brushed her beautiful black coat; and then she picked a bunch of flowers in her garden as a present for Ribby; and passed the time until the clock struck four.

Ribby—having assured herself by careful search that there was really no one hiding in the cupboard or in the larder—went upstairs to change her dress.

She put on a lilac silk gown, for the party, and an embroidered muslin apron and tippet.

“It is very strange,” said Ribby, “I did not think I left that drawer pulled out; has somebody been trying on my mittens?”

She came downstairs again, and made the tea, and put the teapot on the hob. She peeped again into the bottom oven, the pie had become a lovely brown, and it was steaming hot.

She sat down before the fire to wait for the little dog. “I am glad I used the bottom oven,” said Ribby, “the top one would certainly have been very much too hot. I wonder why that cupboard door was open? Can there really have been someone in the house?”

Very punctually at four o’clock, Duchess started to go to the party. She ran so fast through the village that she was too early, and she had to wait a little while in the lane that leads down to Ribby’s house.

“I wonder if Ribby has taken my pie out of the oven yet?” said Duchess, “and whatever can have become of the other pie made of mouse?”

At a quarter past four to the minute, there came a most genteel little tap-tappity. “Is Mrs. Ribston at home?” inquired Duchess in the porch.

“Come in! and how do you do, my dear Duchess?” cried Ribby. “I hope I see you well?”

“Quite well, I thank you, and how do you do, my dear Ribby?” said Duchess. “I’ve brought you some flowers; what a delicious smell of pie!”

“Oh, what lovely flowers! Yes, it is mouse and bacon!”

“Do not talk about food, my dear Ribby,” said Duchess; “what a lovely white tea-cloth!… Is it done to a turn? Is it still in the oven?”

“I think it wants another five minutes,” said Ribby. “Just a shade longer; I will pour out the tea, while we wait. Do you take sugar, my dear Duchess?”

“Oh yes, please! my dear Ribby; and may I have a lump upon my nose?”

“With pleasure, my dear Duchess; how beautifully you beg! Oh, how sweetly pretty!”

Duchess sat up with the sugar on her nose and sniffed—

“How good that pie smells! I do love veal and ham—I mean to say mouse and bacon—”

She dropped the sugar in confusion, and had to go hunting under the tea-table, so did not see which oven Ribby opened in order to get out the pie.

Ribby set the pie upon the table; there was a very savoury smell.

Duchess came out from under the table-cloth munching sugar, and sat up on a chair.

“I will first cut the pie for you; I am going to have muffin and marmalade,” said Ribby.

“Do you really prefer muffin? Mind the patty-pan!”

“I beg your pardon?” said Ribby.

“May I pass you the marmalade?” said Duchess hurriedly.

The pie proved extremely toothsome, and the muffins light and hot. They disappeared rapidly, especially the pie!

“I think”—(thought the Duchess to herself)—”I think it would be wiser if I helped myself to pie; though Ribby did not seem to notice anything when she was cutting it. What very small fine pieces it has cooked into! I did not remember that I had minced it up so fine; I suppose this is a quicker oven than my own.”

“How fast Duchess is eating!” thought Ribby to herself, as she buttered her fifth muffin.

The pie-dish was emptying rapidly! Duchess had had four helps already, and was fumbling with the spoon. “A little more bacon, my dear Duchess?” said Ribby.

“Thank you, my dear Ribby; I was only feeling for the patty-pan.”

“The patty-pan? my dear Duchess?”

“The patty-pan that held up the pie-crust,” said Duchess, blushing under her black coat.

“Oh, I didn’t put one in, my dear Duchess,” said Ribby; “I don’t think that it is necessary in pies made of mouse.”

Duchess fumbled with the spoon—”I can’t find it!” she said anxiously.

“There isn’t a patty-pan,” said Ribby, looking perplexed.

“Yes, indeed, my dear Ribby; where can it have gone to?” said Duchess.

“There most certainly is not one, my dear Duchess. I disapprove of tin articles in puddings and pies. It is most undesirable—(especially when people swallow in lumps!)” she added in a lower voice.

Duchess looked very much alarmed, and continued to scoop the inside of the pie-dish.

“My Great-aunt Squintina (grandmother of Cousin Tabitha Twitchit)—died of a thimble in a Christmas plum-pudding. I never put any article of metal in my puddings or pies.”

Duchess looked aghast, and tilted up the pie-dish.

“I have only four patty-pans, and they are all in the cupboard.”

Duchess set up a howl.

“I shall die! I shall die! I have swallowed a patty-pan! Oh, my dear Ribby, I do feel so ill!”

“It is impossible, my dear Duchess; there was not a patty-pan.”

Duchess moaned and whined and rocked herself about.

“Oh I feel so dreadful, I have swallowed a patty-pan!”

“There was nothing in the pie,” said Ribby severely.

“Yes there was, my dear Ribby, I am sure I have swallowed it!”

“Let me prop you up with a pillow, my dear Duchess; where do you think you feel it?”

“Oh I do feel so ill all over me, my dear Ribby; I have swallowed a large tin patty-pan with a sharp scalloped edge!”

“Shall I run for the doctor? I will just lock up the spoons!”

“Oh yes, yes! fetch Dr. Maggotty, my dear Ribby: he is a Pie himself, he will certainly understand.”

Ribby settled Duchess in an armchair before the fire, and went out and hurried to the village to look for the doctor.

She found him at the smithy.

He was occupied in putting rusty nails into a bottle of ink, which he had obtained at the post office.

“Gammon? ha! HA!” said he, with his head on one side.

Ribby explained that her guest had swallowed a patty-pan.

“Spinach? ha! HA!” said he, and accompanied her with alacrity.

He hopped so fast that Ribby had to run. It was most conspicuous. All the village could see that Ribby was fetching the doctor.

“I knew they would over-eat themselves!” said Cousin Tabitha Twitchit.

But while Ribby had been hunting for the doctor—a curious thing had happened to Duchess, who had been left by herself, sitting before the fire, sighing and groaning and feeling very unhappy.

“How could I have swallowed it! such a large thing as a patty-pan!”

She got up and went to the table, and felt inside the pie-dish again with a spoon.

“No; there is no patty-pan, and I put one in; and nobody has eaten pie except me, so I must have swallowed it!”

She sat down again, and stared mournfully at the grate. The fire crackled and danced, and something sizz-z-zled!

Duchess started! She opened the door of the top oven; out came a rich steamy flavour of veal and ham, and there stood a fine brown pie,—and through a hole in the top of the pie-crust there was a glimpse of a little tin patty-pan!

Duchess drew a long breath—

“Then I must have been eating MOUSE!… No wonder I feel ill…. But perhaps I should feel worse if I had really swallowed a patty-pan!” Duchess reflected—”What a very awkward thing to have to explain to Ribby! I think I will put my pie in the back-yard and say nothing about it. When I go home, I will run round and take it away.” She put it outside the back-door, and sat down again by the fire, and shut her eyes; when Ribby arrived with the doctor, she seemed fast asleep.

“Gammon, ha, HA?” said the doctor.

“I am feeling very much better,” said Duchess, waking up with a jump.

“I am truly glad to hear it! He has brought you a pill, my dear Duchess!”

“I think I should feel quite well if he only felt my pulse,” said Duchess, backing away from the magpie, who sidled up with something in his beak.

“It is only a bread pill, you had much better take it; drink a little milk, my dear Duchess!”

“Gammon? Gammon?” said the doctor, while Duchess coughed and choked.

“Don’t say that again!” said Ribby, losing her temper—”Here, take this bread and jam, and get out into the yard!”

“Gammon and Spinach! ha ha HA!” shouted Dr. Maggotty triumphantly outside the back door.

“I am feeling very much better my dear Ribby,” said Duchess. “Do you not think that I had better go home before it gets dark?”

“Perhaps it might be wise, my dear Duchess. I will lend you a nice warm shawl, and you shall take my arm.”

“I would not trouble you for worlds; I feel wonderfully better. One pill of Dr. Maggotty—”

“Indeed it is most admirable, if it has cured you of a patty-pan! I will call directly after breakfast to ask how you have slept.”

Ribby and Duchess said goodbye affectionately, and Duchess started home. Half-way up the lane she stopped and looked back; Ribby had gone in and shut her door. Duchess slipped through the fence, and ran round to the back of Ribby’s house, and peeped into the yard.

Upon the roof of the pig-stye sat Dr. Maggotty and three jackdaws. The jackdaws were eating pie-crust, and the magpie was drinking gravy out of a patty-pan.

“Gammon, ha, HA!” he shouted when he saw Duchess’s little black nose peeping round the corner.

Duchess ran home feeling uncommonly silly!

When Ribby came out for a pailful of water to wash up the tea-things, she found a pink and white pie-dish lying smashed in the middle of the yard. The patty-pan was under the pump, where Dr. Maggotty had considerately left it.

Ribby stared with amazement—”Did you ever see the like! so there really was a patty-pan?… But my patty-pans are all in the kitchen cupboard. Well I never did!… Next time I want to give a party—I will invite Cousin Tabitha Twitchit!”

Short story for children written by Beatrix Potter

Vintage Children’s Book Illustrations by Beatrix Potter

Let’s Chat About The Stories ~ Ideas for Talking With Kids

Communication

1. Duchess the Dog caused a lot of trouble because she did not want to eat a mouse pie! But she still ended up eating the mouse pie, and missed out on eating her own delicious veal one. What might have been a better thing for her to do in order not to eat the mouse pie, rather than being deceitful?

2. How could Duchess have told Ribby that she didn’t like to eat mouse, without hurting her feelings?

Truthfulness

3. When we tell a story that isn’t true, it often becomes difficult to keep the story sounding truthful. How did this happen in The Pie and the Patty Can?

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