Long, long ago no one but animals lived upon the earth and sometimes they would hold great Councils. The Bear would be there,—the Bear, with his sharp claws, and his shiny coat, and his big, big growl; and the Deer, who was so proud of his antlers, for they came out of his head like trees; and all the animals, and all the birds would be present at the great Council. Little Turtle would go there, too. She was so small that she did not like to speak to anyone. But, she often wished:

“Oh, if only I could do some good deed! What could such a little creature as I do? Anyway,” she thought, “I’ll be on the watch,—and it may be that some time there will be a chance for me to do something for my people.”

Little Turtle never forgot about that good deed she had planned to perform. One day the opportunity came to her. She was at the Council, and the animals were saying:

“It is so dark here, we have only the Snowlight to see by. It is gloomy, too. Couldn’t we make a light and place it up in Skyland?” they asked.

Little Turtle said: “Please let me go up to Skyland? I am sure that I can make a light shine up there.”

They said that she might go, and they called Dark Cloud to carry Little Turtle there. Dark Cloud came.

Little Turtle saw that Thunder and Lightning were in Dark Cloud; and when she reached Skyland, she made the Sun from Lightning, and placed him in the Sky.

The Sun could not move, because he had no life, and all the world underneath was too hot to live upon.

“What shall we do?” the animals asked one another. Someone said:

“We must give the Sun life and spirit, and then he will move about in the sky.”

So they gave him life and spirit, and he moved about in the sky. Mud Turtle dug a hole through the earth for the Sun to travel through. Little Turtle made a wife for him out of some of the Lightning from Dark Cloud. She was the Moon. Their little children were the stars that played all over Skyland.

All this time, Little Turtle was taking care of Skyland. The animals below called her, She Who Takes Care of Skyland. And she was very happy, because she was doing her good deed.

Some of the animals became jealous of Little Turtle,—especially the Deer, who was so proud of his antlers. One day, Deer said to Rainbow:

“Rainbow, please take me up to Skyland where Little Turtle lives.”

Rainbow did not know whether it would be quite right to take Deer up to Little Turtle’s house, but he said:

“In the winter, when I rest upon the big mountain by the lake, then I will take you.”

This made the Deer glad. He did not tell anyone about the promise of Rainbow. All winter long, he waited and watched near the big mountain for Rainbow to come; but Rainbow did not come to him. In the spring, one day, Deer saw Rainbow beside the lake.

“Rainbow,” he asked, “why did you not keep your promise to me?” Rainbow made him another promise.

“Come to me by the lake, when you see me in the thick fog,” he said.

The Deer kept this promise a secret, too; because he hoped to go to Skyland alone. Day after day, he waited beside the lake. One day, when the thick fog was rising from the lake,—Deer saw the beautiful Rainbow.

Rainbow made an arch from the lake to the big mountain. Then a shining light fell about the Deer, and he saw a straight path shining with all the colours of the Rainbow. It led through a great forest.

“Follow the beautiful path through the great forest,” Rainbow said.

The Deer entered the shining pathway, and it led him straight to the house of Little Turtle in Skyland. And the Deer went about Skyland everywhere.

When the great Council met, Deer was not there. “The Deer is not come to the Council, where is the Deer?” they asked.

Hawk flew about the air everywhere, and could not find Deer in the air. Wolf searched the deep woods, and could not find Deer in the forests.

When Dark Cloud brought Little Turtle to the Council, Little Turtle told them how Rainbow had made a path for Deer to climb to Skyland. “There it is now,” said Little Turtle.

The animals looked over the lake, and they saw, there, the beautiful pathway. They had never seen it before.

“Why did not Deer wait for us? All of us should have gone to Skyland together,” they said.

Now, Brown Bear determined to follow that pathway the very next time he should see it.

One day when he was all alone, near the lake, he saw the shining path that led through the great forest. Soon he found himself in Skyland. The first person he met was the Deer.

“Why did you leave us? Why did you go to the land of Little Turtle without us? Why did you not wait for us?” he asked the Deer.

The Deer shook his antlers angrily. “What right have you to question me? No one but the Wolf may question why I came. I will kill you for your impertinence.”

The Deer arched his neck; he poised his antlered head; his eyes blazed with fury.

The Bear was not afraid. He stood up; his claws were sharp and strong; his hoarse growls sounded all over Skyland.

The battle of the Deer and the Bear shook Skyland. The animals looked up from the earth.

“Who will go? Who will go to Skyland and forbid the Deer to fight?”

“I will go,” said the Wolf. “I can run faster than anyone.” So Wolf ran along the shining pathway, and in a little while he had reached the place of the battle. Wolf made Deer stop fighting. Deer’s antlers were covered with blood, and when he shook them, great drops fell down, down through the air, and splashed against all the leaves of the forest. And the leaves became a beautiful red.

So, in the autumn, when you see the leaves turning red, you may know that it is because in the long ago, the Deer and the Bear fought a great battle in Skyland, in the land of Little Turtle who was doing her good deed.

Fairy tale written by Emelyn Newcomb Partridge, edited by Ada M. Skinner and Eleanor L. Skinner

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

Co-operation, Independent Thinking, Anger

1. Do you think there was any reason for the deer and bear to fight? What is another way that they might have sorted out their differences?

2. The Deer reacted with anger to the Bear’s questioning. Can you think of why Deer might have felt so angry when Bear questioned him?

3. In what kinds of situations do we often get most angry? Is it useful?

The post Why The Autumn Leaves Are Red 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.

There was once a girl who was wiser than the King and all his councilors; there never was anything like it. Her father was so proud of her that he boasted about her cleverness at home and abroad. He could not keep his tongue still about it. One day he was boasting to one of his neighbors, and he said, “The girl is so clever that not even the King himself could ask her a question she couldn’t answer, or read her a riddle she couldn’t unravel.”

Now it so chanced the King was sitting at a window near by, and he overheard what the girl’s father was saying. The next day he sent for the man to come before him. “I hear you have a daughter who is so clever that no one in the kingdom can equal her; and is that so?” asked the King.

Yes, it was no more than the truth. Too much could not be said of her wit and cleverness.

That was well, and the King was glad to hear it. He had thirty eggs; they were fresh and good, but it would take a clever person to hatch chickens out of them. He then bade his chancellor get the eggs and give them to the man.

“Take these home to your daughter,” said the King, “and bid her hatch them out for me. If she succeeds she shall have a bag of money for her pains, but if she fails you shall be beaten as a vain boaster.”

The man was troubled when he heard this. Still his daughter was so clever he was almost sure she could hatch out the eggs. He carried them home to her and told her exactly what the King had said, and it did not take the girl long to find out that the eggs had been boiled.

When she told her father that, he made a great to-do. That was a pretty trick for the King to have played upon him. Now he would have to take a beating and all the neighbors would hear about it. Would to Heaven he had never had a daughter at all if that was what came of it.

The girl, however, bade him be of good cheer. “Go to bed and sleep quietly,” said she. “I will think of some way out of the trouble. No harm shall come to you, even though I have to go to the palace myself and take the beating in your place.”

The next day the girl gave her father a bag of boiled beans and bade him take them out to a certain place where the King rode by every day. “Wait until you see him coming,” said she, “and then begin to sow the beans.” At the same time he was to call out this, that, and the other so loudly that the King could not help but hear him.

The man took the bag of beans and went out to the field his daughter had spoken of. He waited until he saw the King coming, and then he began to sow the beans, and at the same time to cry aloud, “Come sun, come rain! Heaven grant that these boiled beans may yield me a good crop.”

The King was surprised that any one should be so stupid as to think boiled beans would grow and yield a crop. He did not recognize the man, for he had only seen him once, and he stopped his horse to speak to him. “My poor man,” said he, “how can you expect boiled beans to grow? Do you not know that that is impossible?”

“Whatever the King commands should be possible,” answered the man, “and if chickens can hatch from boiled eggs why should not boiled beans yield a crop?”

When the King heard this he looked at the man more closely, and then he recognized him as the father of the clever daughter.

“You have indeed a clever daughter,” said he. “Take your beans home and bring me back the eggs I gave you.”

The man was very glad when he heard that, and made haste to obey. He carried the beans home and then took the eggs and brought them back to the palace of the King.

After the King had received the eggs he gave the man a handful of flax. “Take this to your clever daughter,” he said, “and bid her make for me within the week a full set of sails for a large ship. If she does this she shall receive the half of my kingdom as a reward, but if she fails you shall have a drubbing that you will not soon forget.”

The man returned to his home, loudly lamenting his hard lot.

“What is the matter?” asked his daughter. “Has the King set another task that I must do?”

Yes, that he had; and her father showed her the flax the King had sent her and gave her the message.

“Do not be troubled,” said the girl. “No harm shall come to you. Go to bed and sleep quietly, and to-morrow I will send the King an answer that will satisfy him.”

The man believed what his daughter said. He went to bed and slept quietly.

The next day the girl gave her father a small piece of wood. “Carry this to the King,” said she. “Tell him I am ready to make the sails, but first let him make me of this wood a large ship that I may fit the sails to it.”

The father did as the girl bade him, and the King was surprised at the cleverness of the girl in returning him such an answer.

“That is all very well,” said he, “and I will excuse her from this task. But here! Here is a glass mug. Take it home to your clever daughter. Tell her it is my command that she dip out the waters from the ocean bed so that I can ride over the bottom dry shod. If she does this, I will take her for my wife, but if she fails you shall be beaten within an inch of your life.”

The man took the mug and hastened home, weeping aloud and bemoaning his fate.

“Well, and what is it?” asked his daughter. “What does the King demand of me now?”

The man gave her the glass mug and told her what the King had said.

“Do not be troubled,” said the girl. “Go to bed and sleep in peace. You shall not be beaten, and soon I shall be reigning as Queen over all this land.”

The man had trust in her. He went to bed and slept and dreamed he saw her sitting by the King with a crown on her head.

The next day the girl gave her father a bunch of tow. “Take this to the King,” she said. “Tell him you have given me the mug, and I am willing to dip the sea dry, but first let him take this tow and stop up all the rivers that flow into the ocean.”

The man did as his daughter bade him. He took the tow to the King and told him exactly what the girl had said.

Then the King saw that the girl was indeed a clever one, and he sent for her to come before him.

She came just as she was, in her homespun dress and her rough shoes and with a cap on her head, but for all her mean clothing she was as pretty and fine as a flower, and the King was not slow to see it. Still he wanted to make sure for himself that she was as clever as her messages had been.

“Tell me,” said he, “what sound can be heard the farthest throughout the world?”

“The thunder that echoes through heaven and earth,” answered the girl, “and your own royal commands that go from lip to lip.”

This reply pleased the King greatly. “And now tell me,” said he, “exactly what is my royal sceptre worth?”

“It is worth exactly as much as the power for which it stands,” the girl replied.

The King was so well satisfied with the way the girl answered that he no longer hesitated; he determined that she should be his Queen, and that they should be married at once.

The girl had something to say to this, however. “I am but a poor girl,” said she, “and my ways are not your ways. It may well be that you will tire of me, or that you may be angry with me sometime, and send me back to my father’s house to live. Promise that if this should happen you will allow me to carry back with me from the castle the thing that has grown most precious to me.”

The King was willing to agree to this, but the girl was not satisfied until he had written down his promise and signed it with his own royal hand. Then she and the King were married with the greatest magnificence, and she came to live in the palace and reign over the land.

Now while the girl was still only a peasant she had been well content to dress in homespun and live as a peasant should, but after she became Queen she would wear nothing but the most magnificent robes and jewels and ornaments, for that seemed to her only right and proper for a Queen. But the King, who was of a very jealous nature, thought his wife did not care at all for him, but only for the fine things he could give her.

One time the King and Queen were to ride abroad together, and the Queen spent so much time in dressing herself that the King was kept waiting, and he became very angry. When she appeared before him, he would not even look at her. “You care nothing for me, but only for the jewels and fine clothes you wear,” he cried. “Take with you those that are the most precious to you, as I promised you, and return to your father’s house. I will no longer have a wife who cares only for my possessions and not at all for me.”

Very well; the girl was willing to go. “And I will be happier in my father’s house than I was when I first met you,” said she. Nevertheless she begged that she might spend one more night in the palace, and that she and the King might sup together once again before she returned home.

To this the King agreed, for he still loved her, even though he was so angry with her.

So he and his wife supped together that evening, and just at the last the Queen took a golden cup and filled it with wine. Then, when the King was not looking, she put a sleeping potion in the wine and gave it to him to drink.

He took it and drank to the very last drop, suspecting nothing, but soon after he sank down among the cushions in a deep sleep. Then the Queen caused him to be carried to her father’s house and laid in the bed there.

When the King awoke the next morning he was very much surprised to find himself in the peasant’s cottage. He raised himself upon his elbow to look about him, and at once the girl came to the bedside, and she was again dressed in the coarse and common clothes she had worn before she was married.

“What means this?” asked the King, “and how came I here?”

“My dear husband,” said the girl, “your promise was that if you ever sent me back to my father’s house I might carry with me the thing that had become most precious to me in the castle. You are that most precious thing, and I care for nothing else except as it makes me pleasing in your sight.”

Then the King could no longer feel jealous or angry with her. He clasped her in his arms, and they kissed each other tenderly. That same day they returned to the palace, and from that time on the King and his peasant Queen lived together in the greatest love and happiness.

FAIRY TALES FOR CHILDREN BY KATHARINE PYLE

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

Independent Thinking

1. The girl is described as clever and wise by her father and the King. What things do you think that she did or said that might make her have seemed clever to him?

2. At the end of the story, the girl takes the King to live with her and her father in the peasant’s cottage. Why do you think the King was surprised to wake up there?

The post The Wise Girl first appeared on Bedtime Stories.

There was once a man who had one son, and he was so lazy that he would not work at all. The father apprenticed him to a tailor, but the lad went to sleep between the stitches. He apprenticed him to a cobbler and the lad only sat and yawned instead of driving pegs. What to do with him the man did not know.

“Come,” said the father one day, “we will go out into the wide world. It may be that somewhere or other we will find a master who can make you work.”

The lad was very good-natured. “Very well,” said he, “I am willing”; and he arose and stretched himself and yawned, and then he was ready to set out.

The father put on his cap and took a staff in his hand, and then he was ready, too.

The two of them journeyed along together, in step and out of step, and after a while they came to a deep wood. When they were well into it, the father grew so weary that he had to sit down and rest.

“Oh! what have I done that I should have such a lazy son!” he cried.

At once a little old, wrinkled, weazened man, all dressed in green, with a green face, green hair, and a green beard stood before them.

“Why did you call me,” said he, “and what do you want?”

“I did not call you,” answered the man.

“But you did call me, for I heard you. Did not you call ‘Oh’? And that is my name.”

“I said, ‘Oh, what have I done to have such a lazy son,’” replied the man, “but I did not call you, for I did not know that was your name.”

The Green one looked closely at the lad. “Is he so lazy?” he asked. “He looks a stout, healthy fellow.”

“That is the worst of it,” answered the father. “He is so stout and healthy that he eats me out of house and home, and not one stroke will he do to pay for it. I have tried to apprentice him to different masters, but they soon weary of him and drive him out.”

“Very well; I will take him as an apprentice myself,” answered the little man. “Leave him here with me for a year. Come back at the end of that time, and if you know him again and are able to choose him out from among my other apprentices, then you shall take him home with you, but if not, then he shall serve with me a year longer.”

Very well, the father was willing to agree to that. It would only be for a year, for of course he would recognize his own son anywhere. So he left the lad with Oh and went on home again.

Oh took the lad down into the country that lies beneath this earth, and the way was not long. There everything was green. Oh’s house was made of green rushes. His wife was green and his daughters were green and his dog was green, and when they gave the lad food to eat, it was green also.

The oldest daughter would have been a beauty if she had not been green all over—eyes, hair, and all. As soon as she saw the lad she loved him and would have been glad to have him for a husband, but he had no fancy for her.

“When I marry,” said he, “it shall be some girl who is good red and white flesh and blood like myself.”

“Never mind,” said Oh. “After you have lived here for a while you will be glad enough to have her for a wife.”

The lad lived down in the under country for a year, and Oh taught him much magic, and he was very useful to the old Green One.

But at the end of the year the father came back in search of his son. He stopped at the very same spot in the forest where he had stopped before and cried out in a loud voice, “Oh! Oh! I would like to see my son.”

At once Oh appeared before him. “Come with me,” he said, “but remember our bargain. If you know your son when you see him he is yours again, but if you do not know him, then he must stay with me and serve me still another year.”

The man was very willing to agree, for it would be a strange thing if he did not know his own son when he saw him.

Oh led him down the short way to the land that is under this, and when he got there the man stared about him in wonder. Never had he seen so many green things in all his life before.

Oh took a handful of corn and scattered it about, calling as he did so. Then a great number of cocks that were pecking about the place came running and began to pick up the corn.

“Tell me now, which of these is your son?” asked Oh, “for one of them is he.”

The man stared and scratched his head and stared again, but he could not tell, for one cock was just like another. He had to own that he could not tell which was his son.

“Very well,” said Oh. “Then you will have to go home without him. Come back at the end of another year, and then if you know him from his mates you shall take him home with you, but if not then he shall stay with me a twelvemonth longer.”

That did not suit the man at all, but he could not say no, for that was what the bargain had been.

At the end of the year the man came back to the forest again and called upon Oh, and Oh was quickly before him.

“Come along,” said Oh. “You surely ought to know your son when you see him. If you do he shall go home with you, and I shall not say no to it, but if not then he shall stay with me a year longer.”

When the man heard this he was troubled, for he feared the Green One meant to play some trick on him as he had before, and he wanted his son home again, lazy or not. Moreover the lad’s mother was grieving for him.

Oh led the man down to the underworld and over to a field where a flock of rams was grazing.

“All these are my servants,” said Oh, “and one of them is your son. Look well and tell me which is he, for unless you can choose him out he must stay here with me.”

The man looked and looked, but he could not tell which of the rams was his son, for they all looked alike to him, so he had to go home without him.

When the lad’s mother heard of this second trick the Green One had played on her husband she wept bitterly. “If we cannot find some way to get round him, we will never have the lad back again,” she said.

“That is true,” said the man; “but if our son looks like a cock, how can I tell him from other cocks; and if he looks like a ram, how can I tell him from other rams?”

Well, time slipped by, and the man and his wife grew poorer and poorer, for they were growing old, and they needed a young body in the house to work for them.

When it was about time for the man to set out for Oh’s house his wife said to him, “See now! we have nothing left in the house but a small loaf and a bit of honeycomb. But we can do better than fill our stomach with them. Do you take them to the old Wise Woman who lives over beyond the hill. Tell her they are a gift, and then ask her what we can do to meet the tricks of the little old Green One.”

The man did as his wife bade him, though he was hungry and would have been glad of a bit of the bread himself.

The Wise Woman was pleased with the gift, and thanked the man kindly. Then the man told her all his troubles and asked her how he was to get his son back again from Oh.

“Listen!” said the old woman. “Oh would gladly keep your son with him as a husband for his daughter, and if you do not bring the lad away with you this time, you will never have him back. This time Oh will show you a flock of doves, and one of them will be your son. Look closely at them, and the one that has tears in its eyes is he, for only a human soul can weep.”

The father thanked the old woman and hurried back home again, and very soon after it was time to set out for Oh’s house.

The man travelled along till he came to the wood and the place where he had come twice already, and he stood there and cried, “Oh! Oh!”

Then Oh appeared before him. “Here I am,” said Oh, “ready and waiting for you. This time, as before, I tell you that if you know your son when you see him you shall take him away with you, but if, this time, you do not know him, then he is mine forever.”

“Very well,” said the man, “that is a bargain.”

Then Oh took him down to the underworld. He called to a flock of doves that was perched on the roof and scattered a handful of peas on the ground for them. The doves flew down all about them and began to peck up the peas; but one dove would not eat but sat mournfully on a low bough and looked at them, and its eyes were full of tears.

“This one is my son,” cried the man, pointing to the dove that wept.

As soon as he said this the dove changed its shape and became a young man, and this was the son, though he had become so fine and tall and handsome in these three years that his father could scarcely recognize him.

Then Oh was in a fine rage. He danced with fury and tore his beard.

“Very well,” he cried, “he is yours now, but you shall not keep him long, and when I once get him back again he is mine forever.”

But the lad paid no heed to his threats. He and his father were soon on the upper earth again, and they set out for home, one foot before the other.

On the way the father told the lad how badly it had gone with him and the mother in the past years; of how poor they were, and of how their hut was tumbling to pieces, and how their cow had died.

“Never mind,” said the lad. “I learned quite a bit of magic from the Green One, and that should help us out now. Do you hear the huntsmen winding their horns farther on in the open?”

Yes, the father heard them.

“I will turn myself into a greyhound,” said the lad. “The hunt is coming this way, and when the huntsmen see me they will want to buy me. Ask them three hundred dollars for me; no more, no less, but when they take me do not leave the leash on me, whatever you do. Take it off and put it in your pocket, and then all will be well with me. Fail to do this, and misfortune will surely overtake me.”

The father promised to do as the son said, and then the lad turned himself into a greyhound, and he was so sleek and handsome that the man could not admire him enough; but about his neck was an old, worn leash that did not look as though it were worth a penny. It seemed a pity to leave it on the neck of such a handsome dog.

The man went on a little further and then he came to where a grand nobleman and his friends were hunting a hare. They had a pack of dogs with them but the hare had outrun them.

When the nobleman saw the man and the greyhound he stopped his horse.

“That is a fine greyhound you have there.”

“Yes, it is,” answered the man.

“Do you think it could course down the hare we are chasing?”

Yes, the man was sure it could.

“Then let me have it and I will pay you a good price for it.”

Very well, he could have it for three hundred dollars, but that was without the leash; the leash was not for sale.

The nobleman laughed aloud, “when the dog is mine,” he said, “he shall have a golden leash, for that one you have is fit for nothing but the ash heap.”

The nobleman then paid the man three hundred dollars and unfastened the leash from the dog’s neck.

Away he flew like the wind and soon caught the hare. But when the hunters reached the spot where the hare lay they could see nothing of the dog. Only a tall and handsome youth stood there, and he was flushed and hot as though he had been running.

“Have you seen my greyhound, a sleek and handsome dog?” asked the nobleman.

No, the youth had not seen any dog.

The nobleman called and whistled, and he and his huntsman hunted far and near, but they never found the greyhound.

As for the lad he set out on the road his father had taken and soon caught up with him.

“That was a very pretty trick,” said the father; “but after all three hundred dollars is not much. It will barely buy us a cow and clothes and put a new roof on the hut.”

“Yes, but that is not the only trick I know,” answered the son. “Look at the hill over yonder and tell me what you see.”

The father looked. “I see a company of fine ladies and gentlemen,” answered the father, “and they are flying their falcons.”

“I will change myself into a falcon, and when you have come to where they are you shall loose me, and I will strike down a quail. Then they will want to buy me. Sell me for three hundred dollars, no more, no less. But whatever you do take off my hood and keep it, or misfortune will surely overtake us.”

The father promised he would do this, and then the lad turned himself into a falcon and perched upon his father’s hand.

Presently the father came up to where the ladies and gentlemen were at their sport. They loosed their falcons, and the falcons flew after the quail, but always they failed to strike, and the quail escaped.

“That is poor sport,” said the man. “I can show you better.”

He took off the hood and cast his falcon at the quail, and it quickly struck down its prey.

The gentlemen and ladies were astonished at the quickness of the falcon and at the beauty of its feathers.

“Sell us the bird,” they said.

Yes, the man was willing to do that, but his price was three hundred dollars without the hood; the hood was not for sale for love nor money.

All the fine folk began to laugh. “What do we want with that old hood?” they cried. “We will give the bird a hood that is worthy of a king.”

So the man took the three hundred dollars and the hood and went on his way.

The one who had bought the falcon cast it at a quail, and it struck down its prey as before, but when the hunters reached the place where the birds had fallen they saw no falcon, but only a handsome young man who stood there looking down at the dead quail.

“What became of the falcon that was here?” they asked.

But the youth had seen no falcon.

He set out and soon overtook his father, who had not gone far. “And now art thou content?” he asked.

“Six hundred dollars is not a fortune,” answered the man. “Since you have done so well you might have done better.”

“Very well,” answered the son. “We are now coming to a town where they are holding a fair. I will change myself into a horse, and you shall take me there and sell me for a thousand dollars,—no more, no less. But heed what I say. Do not sell the halter whatever you do, or evil will surely come of it.”

“Very well,” said the father. “I will remember.”

The son then changed himself into a coal-black horse. His skin was like satin, his eyes like jewels, and when he moved, his hoofs scarcely seemed to touch the ground. But around his neck was an old leather halter that was scarcely fit for an old farm nag.

The father led the horse on to where the fair was being held, and at once a crowd gathered around him, all bidding for the horse. Some offered him more and some less.

“The price is a thousand dollars,” said the father, “no more, no less. But that is without the halter.”

Then the people all laughed. “Who wants the halter?” they cried. “What we offer is for the horse alone. The halter we would not take as a gift.”

Then a rough looking, black-haired gypsy elbowed his way through the crowd. He was really the Green One who had taken on this form, though this the man did not know.

“I will give you two thousand,” he cried. “One thousand for the horse and one thousand for the halter, but I will not have one without the other.”

When the crowd heard this they laughed louder than ever. They thought the gypsy was crazy to offer such a price.

As for the father he stood there gaping and he did not know what to do.

“The price of the horse is a thousand dollars,” he said.

“And a thousand for the halter,” said the gypsy.

Well, two thousand dollars seemed a fortune to the man. Moreover he did not see what harm it could do to sell the halter too.

So he let the gypsy have the horse and the halter as well, and the gypsy paid him two thousand dollars and led the horse away.

And now the lad could not change himself back into his human shape, because the halter held him, and this Oh knew very well.

He led the horse back to the forest and down to the world that is under this. “Now I have you again,” he said, “and this time you shall not escape me.”

Then he called to his youngest daughter and bade her take the horse down to the river to drink.

When she had brought the horse to the river bank it said to her. “Loosen, I pray of thee, the halter, that I may drink more easily.”

Then the girl, who was a stupid wench, loosened the halter. At once the lad slipped out of it and changed himself into a perch and fled away down the river.

But the Green One knew what had happened. He rushed down to the river and changed himself into a pike and pursued after the perch.

On and on they went, but the pike swam faster than the perch and was just about to catch it when the perch sprang clear out of the water.

The daughter of the Tsar was walking by the river, and she was such a beauty that it made the heart ache to look at her. On her arm she carried a basket.

As the perch leaped he changed himself into a ruby ring and fell into the basket.

The damsel was very much astonished to see the ring in her basket. She did not know where it had come from. She looked up, and she looked down, but she could see no one who could have thrown the ring.

Then she took it up and slid it upon her finger, and at once she loved it as she had never loved anything in all her life before.

She carried it to her father and said to him, “Look what a pretty ring I have found!”

“Yes,” answered her father, “but where did you find it?”

“I found it in my basket, but how it came there I do not know.”

The Tsaritsa’s mother also admired the ring very much. Never had they seen such a brilliant and flashing ruby before.

Now at first, after the perch leaped out of the river and into the Tsaritsa’s basket, Oh did not know what had become of him. He was obliged to go home and get out his magic books, and then he soon learned where the lad was.

He then changed himself into a venerable merchant, clothed in velvet robes and with a long white beard. He broke a stick from an ash tree and changed it into a horse, and mounted on it and rode away to the Tsar’s palace.

Then he asked to speak with the Tsar, and so old and venerable did he look that they would not refuse him, but brought him before the Tsar.

“What dost thou want, old man?” asked the Tsar.

“Your majesty,” answered the Green One, “I have had a great loss. I was crossing the river in a boat, and I had with me a very handsome ruby ring that I was carrying with me to my master, who is also a Tsar. Unfortunately I lost the ring overboard, and I thought it might perchance have washed up on the shore and have been picked up by one of thy servants.”

“What was thy ring like?” asked the Tsar.

Then the pretended merchant described the Tsaritsa’s ring exactly.

The Tsar sent for his daughter, and she came with the ring on her finger, for she would not take it off, either night or day.

“Let me see thy ring,” said the Tsar.

He took her hand in his and examined the ring carefully, and it was in every respect exactly as the Green One had described it.

“Is this thy ring?” the Tsar asked of the merchant.

“Yes, your majesty, it is.”

“Then,” said the Tsar to his daughter, “it is right that thou shouldst return it to him.”

The Tsaritsa wept and implored. She offered the merchant her pearls and every other gem she had if he would but let her keep the ring, but he refused.

“Very well, then, it shall be neither thine nor mine,” cried the Tsaritsa, and she drew the ring from her finger and dashed it against the wall.

At once the ring changed into a hundred millet seeds and was scattered all over the floor.

But the Green One as quickly changed himself into a cock and ran about this way and that, pecking up the millet seeds and swallowing them. Ninety-nine millet seeds he found and ate, but the hundredth he did not find, because it had fallen beside the Tsaritsa’s foot, and the hem of her robe covered it.

As soon as the cock had swallowed the ninety-ninth seed he sprang upon the window sill, and stretched his neck and crowed with triumph.

But the hundredth seed was really the lad, and in that moment he changed himself back into his human form, and before the cock knew what had happened, he caught hold of it and wrung its neck and that was the end of Oh and his magic.

As for the Tsaritsa, no sooner had she seen the lad than her heart went out to him, and she loved him even better than she had her ring, and she declared that he and he only should be her husband.

The Tsar did not know what to say to that, for it did not seem fitting that his daughter should marry a common man. But the Tsaritsa begged and plead with him till he could no longer withstand her.

So she and the lad were married with great pomp and magnificence.

His old father and mother were bidden to the wedding, and they could hardly believe their eyes when they saw their son stand there in those costly robes with a crown upon his head and the Tsaritsa beside him as his bride.

The old people were given a house to live in and plenty of money to spend, and they all lived in peace and happiness forever after.

FAIRY TALES FOR CHILDREN BY KATHARINE PYLE

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

Helping

1. In the story the father grows tired of his son not helping and eating him out of house and home. What do you think the father was trying to do by taking him out into the wide world?

Responsibility

1. The son has tried many jobs and falls asleep, although he does want to help his father by contributing. What kinds of things did he do to take responsibility for his role in the house when he moved back home?

The post Oh! first appeared on Bedtime Stories.

Upon the banks of the broad Ogechee River there once stood a little Indian village. The people who lived there were prosperous and happy. There were fish in the river and game in the forest, and no one lacked for anything.

But after a time a terrible misfortune fell upon the people. An ogre named Mudjee Monedo came to live near them. Upon an open plain he laid out a racecourse, and it was his amusement to challenge the young men of the village to race with him there. None dared to refuse, for the ogre was cruel and revengeful, and they feared what he might do to the old men and children if they should refuse; and yet to race with him meant death.

“Life against life,” the ogre would cry, laying his hand on the goal-post. “My life in wager against yours. This post is the goal, yonder charred stump the turning-point. The loser pays the forfeit with his life.”

But none of the Indian warriors ever could win in that race with Mudjee Monedo. The ogre had the power to turn himself at will into any four-footed animal that he might choose. If he found he was being outstripped in the race he would change himself into a wolf, a deer, or a buffalo, and so easily win the race against the swiftest runner of them all. So, one after another, the finest young men of the village were slain at the goal-post.

A deep gloom settled over those who were still left alive. They would have taken their wives and children and gone elsewhere to live, but they knew the ogre would follow on their tracks. Their only hope was that some time a warrior might rise among them who would be able to outwit the ogre and win the race.

Somewhat away from the other lodges, and in the shadow of the forest, lived a widow with a daughter and a young son. This son was a boy of twelve named Manedowa. The widow’s husband and her ten eldest sons had all raced with the ogre at one time or another, and all had paid the forfeit with their lives. Now Manedowa was fast growing tall and manly. Instead of being glad of this the widow was terrified. She dreaded the time when the ogre might think the boy old enough to race with him. Already Mudjee Monedo had his eye upon him. Often he would make some excuse to come to the lodge when the boy was busy there. Then the ogre would look him up and down.

“You are growing fast,” he would say. “You will make a famous runner. Some time you must come and look at my racecourse. Perhaps we may even run a friendly race together—though I am growing too old and stiff to have any chance against young limbs like yours.”

Then the widow would shudder and make some excuse to send the boy away out of sight. She knew that when he was fully grown it would not be for long that the ogre would spare him.

One day the boy was away fishing and the widow and her daughter were busy in the lodge together. Suddenly a shadow fell across the floor. They looked up in terror, expecting to see the ogre peering in. Instead, a handsome young warrior stood there in the doorway. He was a stranger. They had never seen him before. The sunshine played upon his shining limbs like fire. His eyes were bright and piercing, and above his forehead waved a plume of gorgeous feathers. For a moment he stood looking in upon them. Then he laid a deer down upon the threshold, and silently turned and disappeared in the green depths of the forest.

Wondering, the mother and her daughter stared after him. They did not know who he could be. They waited for some time, and then, as he did not return, they cut up the deer and hung it up to dry.

Two days after this the stranger again came to the lodge. As silently as before he laid a bear down before them, and again disappeared among the thickets; but that night they heard the sound of his pipe not far from the lodge; it was a love song to the girl that he was playing.

The next evening he came again, bringing more game, but this time he entered and sat down. After that he stayed in the widow’s lodge, and the girl became his wife. She was very happy, for no other hunter brought home such fine game as he, and no other was as handsome and as noble-looking.

Every morning he went away, gliding off silently into the depths of the forest and disappearing from their sight. Where he went they did not know, but every night he came again, bringing to them the choicest of game and fish. The plume above his forehead shone with strange colours, and sometimes it seemed as though the light about him came from himself, and not from the sunshine or the firelight. Neither the girl nor her mother dared to question him as to who he was or whence he came.

With so much game hanging about the lodge it was not long before Mudjee Monedo grew suspicious. He suspected that some warrior had come to live with the widow and her daughter and that they were hiding it from him. Often he stole up silently to the lodge hoping to find the hunter there, but he never saw him. At last he questioned the widow openly.

“All this game,” he said, trying to smile at her pleasantly, “where does it come from?”

The widow began to tremble. “My son—” she began.

“Your son!” interrupted the ogre. “Do you mean to tell me that your son could shoot a bear or a buffalo such as I have seen here?”

“He is very large and strong for his age,” said the poor widow.

“If he is old enough to shoot such game he is old enough to race with me,” cried the ogre. “I will come again when he is at home, and he and I will talk of it.”

The Mudjee Monedo turned on his heel and strode away through the forest, breaking the young trees and muttering to himself as he went.

The widow and her daughter were almost dead with fright. If they told the ogre of the strange warrior who had come to live in their lodge he would without doubt challenge the stranger to race with him. If they did not, it would be the boy who would be slain.

That night when the hunter returned as usual with his game the widow told him of all that had happened—of how Mudjee Monedo had come to the lodge and questioned her, of how she had pretended it was her son who had shot the game, and of the threat that the ogre had used.

The warrior listened to all she had to say in silence. When she had ended he answered calmly, “It is well. I will run a race with this Mudjee Monedo. To-morrow he will come this way again. Then ask him to stop and eat with you, and I too will be here.”

His wife and her mother began to beg and implore him not to let the ogre see him, but he silenced them. “Let it be as I say,” said he. “To-morrow do you put corn meal and herbs in a pot to cook, and add to it three birch buds. Mudjee Monedo and I will eat of it together.”

The next morning very early the ogre appeared at the lodge door, but the stranger had already gone into the forest. Mudjee Monedo looked about him and saw all the fresh meat. “Truly your son has become a mighty hunter,” he sneered.

“No, Mudjee Monedo,” answered the widow. “I knew it was useless to try to deceive you. It is not my son, but my son-in-law, who has shot all this game. He is a mighty warrior. He will soon return from the forest. Sit down, and when he comes you can eat together.”

“Did I not know it?” cried the ogre triumphantly. “No one may hope to deceive Mudjee Monedo for long.”

He entered the lodge and sat down. He had not been there long before the stranger appeared in the doorway. The brave was in the full dress of a warrior. Across his forehead was a broad band of red paint, and the feathers above his forehead were red and blue. The ogre’s eyes glistened at the sight of him. The hunter greeted Mudjee Monedo, and sat down not far from him.

Presently, while his wife and mother-in-law made ready the food, he and the ogre talked. Soon Mudjee Monedo asked the warrior whether he would not run a race with him upon his racecourse.

Calmly the stranger agreed.

“But I am growing old,” said Mudjee Monedo slyly. “I am not strong and tireless as I was once. Because of that, if I race with you you must let me set the wager.”

To this, also, the stranger agreed. Then the food was ready, and he courteously asked Mudjee Monedo to eat with him. The ogre could not refuse, but when he saw the dish that was set before them he became very uneasy. Well he knew that for him there was evil in that food. The strange warrior, however, took no notice of his confusion. He dipped into the dish and ate of it, and Mudjee Monedo was obliged to do likewise, though the herbs that were in it tickled his throat and set him coughing.

Finally the warrior lifted the dish, drank deep of it, and handed it to the other. The ogre hesitated a moment. The broth was hateful to him, but he was afraid to refuse. In haste to be done with it he raised it to his mouth and swallowed what was left of it at one gulp.

Suddenly he coughed and choked. One of the birch buds at the bottom of the pot had lodged in his windpipe. His face turned purple and his eyes seemed starting from their sockets. He got to his feet and staggered out into the open air. A moment he turned and tried to speak, but a violent fit of coughing stopped him, and he hurried away through the thickets, still wheezing and choking as he went.

By the next day the news had gone through the village that a strange warrior was to run a race with Mudjee Monedo, and a great crowd gathered on the hills near by to see the race.

When the stranger appeared upon the course a murmur of wonder arose. Never had the people seen such a warrior before. He was taller by a head than the tallest youth in the village, and his feet scarce seemed to touch the earth, so lightly did he walk. Then hope sprang up in the people’s hearts. Might it not be that this wondrous stranger would in some way win the race and free them from the power of the ogre.

Mudjee Monedo looked about him at the waiting people, and seemed to read what was in their hearts. His lips drew back in a cruel smile. Then he laid his hand upon the goal-post.

“You have let me choose my own wager,” he cried aloud, so that all might hear what he said to the stranger. “It is this: life against life; my life against yours. This post is the goal, yonder charred stump the turning-point. The loser pays the forfeit.”

“So be it,” answered the stranger in a clear ringing voice. “I will abide by the wager, as must you.”

At a signal he and the ogre sprang forward on the course. Mudjee Monedo ran well, but the stranger soon outstripped him. So swiftly he ran his feet scarce seemed to touch the ground. The light played about him, and his feathers streamed behind him in the wind. Never had the ogre been so easily outrun. Sooner than usual he was obliged to turn himself into a wolf or he would have been left too far behind. In that shape he tore past the warrior, but as he passed the stranger heard a wheezing in his throat and knew that the birch bud was still there.

A low moan sounded from the crowd of watching Indians on the hill-side as they saw the grey wolf leading in the race. But the next moment, the moan changed to a shout of surprise. The strange warrior had changed himself into a partridge; he rose swiftly in the air, flew past over Mudjee Monedo, and lighted on the course far ahead of him. Then he resumed his natural form and again ran forward.

The ogre did not know what had happened. He heard the shout and the whirr of wings above him, and now he saw the stranger far ahead. He was very much surprised, but again he used his magic and turned himself into a deer. With long leaps and bounds he overtook and passed beyond the running warrior.

Again there was a whirr of wings. The partridge flew past overhead, and a mocking voice cried in the ogre’s ear, “Mudjee Monedo, is this the best you can do?” A moment later the ogre saw the stranger once more far ahead, and running as lightly and gracefully as ever.

The charred stump was passed and Mudjee Monedo’s heart began to beat hard against his sides. Never had he had to strive so hard. For the third time he used his magic, and turned himself into his third and last form, that of a buffalo. It was in this shape that he generally won the race. With his great shaggy head down, his eyes as red as blood and his tongue lolling from his mouth, the ogre thundered past the stranger.

Once again there was a whirr of wings. The partridge rose from the ground and flew past over the head of the straining buffalo. “Mudjee Monedo,” he called from above, “is this the best you can do? I fear you will lose the wager.”

With despair the ogre saw that the stranger had once more flown far ahead of him, and was now almost within reach of the goal-post. Suddenly stopping, Mudjee Monedo resumed his natural form. “Hold! hold!” he called to the warrior. “A word with you.”

The stranger gave a mocking laugh. Springing forward he laid his hand upon the goal-post, and a mighty shout burst from the watching people on the hill. Then a stillness fell upon them. In silence they watched the ogre as he slowly went forward toward the goal-post.

As he drew near the stranger Mudjee Monedo tried to smile, but his pale lips trembled. “It was all a joke,” he muttered. “You will spare my life, as I would have spared yours. You run well and we must have many races together.”

“Wretch!” cried the stranger. “What was the wager? Life against life; the loser pays the forfeit.”

Swift as lightning he caught up the club that hung from the goal-post, and with one blow he struck the ogre to the earth. Then again a great shout arose from the people, and like a stream they flowed down from the hill-side and gathered around the warrior.

For a time there was great rejoicing. Fires were lighted and a great feast made. When night came and the stranger went back to his lodge a vast crowd followed him. It was growing dark, but suddenly a pale light shone about the warrior. He turned to them, and as they looked at his face they suddenly knew it was no human warrior who stood before them, but the Good Genius, Minno Monedo. Silent and in awe they drew back from him. He motioned them to leave him, and they obeyed him, still in awe and silence.

After they had all gone Minno Monedo turned to his wife and took her by the hand. “The time has now come,” he said, “when I must return to the Spirit-land. It is for you to choose whether you will come with me or stay here with your own people. Which shall it be?”

“I will go with you,” answered the wife.

So it was; she and the Good Genius disappeared from the earth, and her tribe saw them no more.

For a while her mother grieved for her, but Manedowa grew up strong and brave, and in time brought home a wife who bore him many children.

Grass grew over the course where the ogre had run his races; his lodge fell into ruins, but still around the camp-fires the Indians tell the story of Minno Monedo, and of how he came to save their tribe from Mudjee Monedo.

AMERICAN INDIAN BEDTIME STORY BY KATHERINE PYLE

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

Independent Thinking

1.Did the Mudjee Monedo deserve what happened to him? Why or why not?

2. Can you think of any ways that the villagers could have beaten the Mudjee Monedo without using violence?

The post Mudjee Monedo 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.

One evening, in times long ago, old Philemon and his old wife Baucis sat at their cottage door, enjoying the calm and beautiful sunset. They had already eaten their frugal supper, and intended now to spend a quiet hour or two before bedtime. So they talked together about their garden, and their cow, and their bees, and their grapevine, which clambered over the cottage wall, and on which the grapes were beginning to turn purple. But the rude shouts of children, and the fierce barking of dogs, in the village near at hand, grew louder and louder, until, at last, it was hardly possible for Baucis and Philemon to hear each other speak.

“Ah, wife,” cried Philemon, “I fear some poor traveler is seeking hospitality among our neighbors yonder, and, instead of giving him food and lodging, they have set their dogs at him, as their custom is!”

“Well-a-day!” answered old Baucis, “I do wish our neighbors felt a little more kindness for their fellow-creatures. And only think of bringing up their children in this naughty way, and patting them on the head when they fling stones at strangers!”

“Those children will never come to any good,” said Philemon, shaking his white head. “To tell you the truth, wife, I should not wonder if some terrible thing were to happen to all the people in the village, unless they mend their manners. But, as for you and me, so long as Providence affords us a crust of bread, let us be ready to give half to any poor, homeless stranger that may come along and need it.”

“That’s right, husband!” said Baucis. “So we will!”

These old folks, you must know, were quite poor, and had to work pretty hard for a living. Old Philemon toiled diligently in his garden, while Baucis was always busy with her distaff, or making a little butter and cheese with their cow’s milk, or doing one thing and another about the cottage. Their food was seldom anything but bread, milk, and vegetables, with sometimes a portion of honey from their beehive, and now and then a bunch of grapes, that had ripened against the cottage wall. But they were two of the kindest old people in the world, and would cheerfully have gone without their dinners, any day, rather than refuse a slice of their brown loaf, a cup of new milk, and a spoonful of honey, to the weary traveler who might pause before their door. They felt as if such guests had a sort of holiness, and that they ought, therefore, to treat them better and more bountifully than their own selves.

Their cottage stood on a rising ground, at some short distance from a village, which lay in a hollow valley, that was about half a mile in breadth. This valley, in past ages, when the world was new, had probably been the bed of a lake. There fishes had glided to and fro in the depths, and water-weeds had grown along the margin, and trees and hills had seen their reflected images in the broad and peaceful mirror. But, as the waters subsided, men had cultivated the soil, and built houses on it, so that it was now a fertile spot, and bore no traces of the ancient lake, except a very small brook, which meandered through the midst of the village, and supplied the inhabitants with water. The valley had been dry land so long that oaks had sprung up, and grown great and high, and perished with old age, and been succeeded by others, as tall and stately as the first. Never was there a prettier or more fruitful valley. The very sight of the plenty around them should have made the inhabitants kind and gentle, and ready to show their gratitude to Providence by doing good to their fellow-creatures.

But, we are sorry to say, the people of this lovely village were not worthy to dwell in a spot on which Heaven had smiled so beneficently. They were a very selfish and hard-hearted people, and had no pity for the poor, nor sympathy with the homeless. They would only have laughed, had anybody told them that human beings owe a debt of love to one another, because there is no other method of paying the debt of love and care which all of us owe to Providence. You will hardly believe what I am going to tell you. These naughty people taught their children to be no better than themselves, and used to clap their hands, by way of encouragement, when they saw the little boys and girls run after some poor stranger, shouting at his heels, and pelting him with stones. They kept large and fierce dogs, and whenever a traveler ventured to show himself in the village street, this pack of disagreeable curs scampered to meet him, barking, snarling, and showing their teeth. Then they would seize him by his leg, or by his clothes, just as it happened; and if he were ragged when he came, he was generally a pitiable object before he had time to run away. This was a very terrible thing to poor travelers, as you may suppose, especially when they chanced to be sick, or feeble, or lame, or old. Such persons (if they once knew how badly these unkind people, and their unkind children and curs, were in the habit of behaving) would go miles and miles out of their way, rather than try to pass through the village again.

What made the matter seem worse, if possible, was that when rich persons came in their chariots, or riding on beautiful horses, with their servants in rich liveries attending on them, nobody could be more civil and obsequious than the inhabitants of the village. They would take off their hats, and make the humblest bows you ever saw. If the children were rude, they were pretty certain to get their ears boxed; and as for the dogs, if a single cur in the pack presumed to yelp, his master instantly beat him with a club, and tied him up without any supper. This would have been all very well, only it proved that the villagers cared much about the money that a stranger had in his pocket, and nothing whatever for the human soul, which lives equally in the beggar and the prince.

So now you can understand why old Philemon spoke so sorrowfully, when he heard the shouts of the children and the barking of the dogs, at the farther extremity of the village street. There was a confused din, which lasted a good while, and seemed to pass quite through the breadth of the valley.

“I never heard the dogs so loud!” observed the good old man.

“Nor the children so rude!” answered his good old wife.

They sat shaking their heads, one to the other, while the noise came nearer and nearer; until, at the foot of the little eminence on which their cottage stood, they saw two travelers approaching on foot. Close behind them came the fierce dogs, snarling at their very heels. A little farther off ran a crowd of children, who sent up shrill cries, and flung stones at the two strangers, with all their might. Once or twice, the younger of the two men (he was a slender and very active figure) turned about and drove back the dogs with a staff which he carried in his hand. His companion, who was a very tall person, walked calmly along as if disdaining to notice either the naughty children or the pack of curs, whose manners the children seemed to imitate.

Both of the travelers were very humbly clad, and looked as if they might not have money enough in their pockets to pay for a night’s lodging. And this, I am afraid, was the reason why the villagers had allowed their children and dogs to treat them so rudely.

“Come, wife,” said Philemon to Baucis, “let us go and meet these poor people. No doubt, they feel almost too heavy-hearted to climb the hill.”

“Go you and meet them,” answered Baucis, “while I make haste within doors, and see whether we can get them anything for supper. A comfortable bowl of bread and milk would do wonders towards raising their spirits.”

Accordingly, she hastened into the cottage. Philemon, on his part, went forward, and extended his hand with so hospitable an aspect that there was no need of saying what nevertheless he did say, in the heartiest tone imaginable,—

“Welcome, strangers! welcome!”

“Thank you!” replied the younger of the two, in a lively kind of way, notwithstanding his weariness and trouble. “This is quite another greeting than we have met with yonder in the village. Pray, why do you live in such a bad neighborhood?”

“Ah!” observed old Philemon, with a quiet and benign smile, “Providence put me here, I hope, among other reasons, in order that I may make you what amends I can for the inhospitality of my neighbors.”

“Well said, old father!” cried the traveler, laughing; “and, if the truth must be told, my companion and myself need some amends. Those children (the little rascals!) have bespattered us finely with their mud-balls; and one of the curs has torn my cloak, which was ragged enough already. But I took him across the muzzle with my staff; and I think you may have heard him yelp, even thus far off.”

Philemon was glad to see him in such good spirits; nor, indeed, would you have fancied, by the traveler’s look and manner, that he was weary with a long day’s journey, besides being disheartened by rough treatment at the end of it. He was dressed in rather an odd way, with a sort of cap on his head, the brim of which stuck out over both ears. Though it was a summer evening, he wore a cloak, which he kept wrapped closely about him, perhaps because his under garments were shabby. Philemon perceived, too, that he had on a singular pair of shoes; but, as it was now growing dusk, and as the old man’s eyesight was none the sharpest, he could not precisely tell in what the strangeness consisted. One thing, certainly, seemed queer. The traveler was so wonderfully light and active, that it appeared as if his feet sometimes rose from the ground of their own accord, or could only be kept down by an effort.

“I used to be light-footed, in my youth,” said Philemon to the traveler. “But I always found my feet grow heavier towards nightfall.”

“There is nothing like a good staff to help one along,” answered the stranger; “and I happen to have an excellent one, as you see.”

This staff, in fact, was the oddest-looking staff that Philemon had ever beheld. It was made of olive-wood, and had something like a little pair of wings near the top. Two snakes, carved in the wood, were represented as twining themselves about the staff, and were so very skillfully executed that old Philemon (whose eyes, you know, were getting rather dim) almost thought them alive, and that he could see them wriggling and twisting.

“A curious piece of work, sure enough!” said he. “A staff with wings! It would be an excellent kind of stick for a little boy to ride astride of!”

By this time Philemon and his two guests had reached the cottage door.

“Friends,” said the old man, “sit down and rest yourselves here on this bench. My good wife Baucis has gone to see what you can have for supper. We are poor folks; but you shall be welcome to whatever we have in the cupboard.”

The younger stranger threw himself carelessly on the bench, letting his staff fall, as he did so. And here happened something rather marvelous, though trifling enough, too. The staff seemed to get up from the ground of its own accord, and, spreading its little pair of wings, it half hopped, half flew, and leaned itself against the wall of the cottage. There it stood quite still, except that the snakes continued to wriggle. But, in my private opinion, old Philemon’s eyesight had been playing him tricks again.

Before he could ask any questions, the elder stranger drew his attention from the wonderful staff, by speaking to him.

“Was there not,” asked the stranger, in a remarkably deep tone of voice, “a lake, in very ancient times, covering the spot where now stands yonder village?”

“Not in my day, friend,” answered Philemon; “and yet I am an old man, as you see. There were always the fields and meadows, just as they are now, and the old trees, and the little stream murmuring through the midst of the valley. My father, nor his father before him, ever saw it otherwise, so far as I know; and doubtless it will still be the same, when old Philemon shall be gone and forgotten!”

“That is more than can be safely foretold,” observed the stranger; and there was something very stern in his deep voice. He shook his head, too, so that his dark and heavy curls were shaken with the movement. “Since the inhabitants of yonder village have forgotten the affections and sympathies of their nature, it were better that the lake should be rippling over their dwellings again!”

The traveler looked so stern that Philemon was really almost frightened; the more so, that, at his frown, the twilight seemed suddenly to grow darker, and that, when he shook his head, there was a roll as of thunder in the air.

But, in a moment afterwards, the stranger’s face became so kindly and mild that the old man quite forgot his terror. Nevertheless, he could not help feeling that this elder traveler must be no ordinary personage, although he happened now to be attired so humbly and to be journeying on foot. Not that Philemon fancied him a prince in disguise, or any character of that sort; but rather some exceedingly wise man, who went about the world in this poor garb, despising wealth and all worldly objects, and seeking everywhere to add a mite to his wisdom. This idea appeared the more probable, because, when Philemon raised his eyes to the stranger’s face, he seemed to see more thought there, in one look, than he could have studied out in a lifetime.

While Baucis was getting the supper, the travelers both began to talk very sociably with Philemon. The younger, indeed, was extremely loquacious, and made such shrewd and witty remarks that the good old man continually burst out a-laughing, and pronounced him the merriest fellow whom he had seen for many a day.

“Pray, my young friend,” said he, as they grew familiar together, “what may I call your name?”

“Why, I am very nimble, as you see,” answered the traveler. “So, if you call me Quicksilver, the name will fit tolerably well.”

“Quicksilver? Quicksilver?” repeated Philemon, looking in the traveler’s face, to see if he were making fun of him. “It is a very odd name! And your companion there? Has he as strange a one?”

“You must ask the thunder to tell it you!” replied Quicksilver, putting on a mysterious look. “No other voice is loud enough.”

This remark, whether it were serious or in jest, might have caused Philemon to conceive a very great awe of the elder stranger, if, on venturing to gaze at him, he had not beheld so much beneficence in his visage. But undoubtedly here was the grandest figure that ever sat so humbly beside a cottage door. When the stranger conversed, it was with gravity, and in such a way that Philemon felt irresistibly moved to tell him everything which he had most at heart. This is always the feeling that people have when they meet with any one wise enough to comprehend all their good and evil, and to despise not a tittle of it.

But Philemon, simple and kind-hearted old man that he was, had not many secrets to disclose. He talked, however, quite garrulously, about the events of his past life, in the whole course of which he had never been a score of miles from this very spot. His wife Baucis and himself had dwelt in the cottage from their youth upward, earning their bread by honest labor, always poor, but still contented. He told what excellent butter and cheese Baucis made, and how nice were the vegetables which he raised in his garden. He said, too, that, because they loved one another so very much, it was the wish of both that death might not separate them, but that they should die, as they had lived, together.

As the stranger listened, a smile beamed over his countenance, and made its expression as sweet as it was grand.

“You are a good old man,” said he to Philemon, “and you have a good old wife to be your helpmeet. It is fit that your wish be granted.”

And it seemed to Philemon, just then, as if the sunset clouds threw up a bright flash from the west, and kindled a sudden light in the sky.

Baucis had now got supper ready, and, coming to the door, began to make apologies for the poor fare which she was forced to set before her guests.

“Had we known you were coming,” said she, “my good man and myself would have gone without a morsel, rather than you should lack a better supper. But I took the most part of to-day’s milk to make cheese; and our last loaf is already half eaten. Ah me! I never feel the sorrow of being poor, save when a poor traveler knocks at our door.”

“All will be very well; do not trouble yourself, my good dame,” replied the elder stranger kindly. “An honest, hearty welcome to a guest works miracles with the fare, and is capable of turning the coarsest food to nectar and ambrosia.”

“A welcome you shall have,” cried Baucis, “and likewise a little honey that we happen to have left, and a bunch of purple grapes besides.”

“Why, Mother Baucis, it is a feast!” exclaimed Quicksilver, laughing; “an absolute feast! and you shall see how bravely I will play my part at it! I think I never felt hungrier in my life.”

“Mercy on us!” whispered Baucis to her husband. “If the young man has such a terrible appetite, I am afraid there will not be half enough supper!”

They all went into the cottage.

And now, my little auditors, shall I tell you something that will make you open your eyes very wide? It is really one of the oddest circumstances in the whole story. Quicksilver’s staff, you recollect, had set itself up against the wall of the cottage. Well, when its master entered the door, leaving this wonderful staff behind, what should it do but immediately spread its little wings, and go hopping and fluttering up the doorsteps! Tap, tap, went the staff, on the kitchen floor; nor did it rest until it had stood itself on end, with the greatest gravity and decorum, beside Quicksilver’s chair. Old Philemon, however, as well as his wife, was so taken up in attending to their guests that no notice was given to what the staff had been about.

As Baucis had said, there was but a scanty supper for two hungry travelers. In the middle of the table was the remnant of a brown loaf, with a piece of cheese on one side of it, and a dish of honeycomb on the other. There was a pretty good bunch of grapes for each of the guests. A moderately sized earthen pitcher, nearly full of milk, stood at a corner of the board; and when Baucis had filled two bowls, and set them before the strangers, only a little milk remained in the bottom of the pitcher. Alas! it is a very sad business, when a bountiful heart finds itself pinched and squeezed among narrow circumstances. Poor Baucis kept wishing that she might starve for a week to come, if it were possible, by so doing, to provide these hungry folks a more plentiful supper.

And, since the supper was so exceedingly small, she could not help wishing that their appetites had not been quite so large. Why, at their very first sitting down, the travelers both drank off all the milk in their two bowls, at a draught.

“A little more milk, kind Mother Baucis, if you please,” said Quicksilver. “The day has been hot, and I am very much athirst.”

“Now, my dear people,” answered Baucis, in great confusion, “I am so sorry and ashamed! But the truth is, there is hardly a drop more milk in the pitcher. O husband, husband, why didn’t we go without our supper?”

“Why, it appears to me,” cried Quicksilver, starting up from table and taking the pitcher by the handle, “it really appears to me that matters are not quite so bad as you represent them. Here is certainly more milk in the pitcher.”

So saying, and to the vast astonishment of Baucis, he proceeded to fill, not only his own bowl, but his companion’s likewise, from the pitcher that was supposed to be almost empty. The good woman could scarcely believe her eyes. She had certainly poured out nearly all the milk, and had peeped in afterwards, and seen the bottom of the pitcher, as she set it down upon the table.

“But I am old,” thought Baucis to herself, “and apt to be forgetful. I suppose I must have made a mistake. At all events, the pitcher cannot help being empty now, after filling the bowls twice over.”

“What excellent milk!” observed Quicksilver, after quaffing the contents of the second bowl. “Excuse me, my kind hostess, but I must really ask you for a little more.”

Now Baucis had seen, as plainly as she could see anything, that Quicksilver had turned the pitcher upside down, and consequently had poured out every drop of milk, in filling the last bowl. Of course, there could not possibly be any left. However, in order to let him know precisely how the case was, she lifted the pitcher, and made a gesture as if pouring milk into Quicksilver’s bowl, but without the remotest idea that any milk would stream forth. What was her surprise, therefore, when such an abundant cascade fell bubbling into the bowl, that it was immediately filled to the brim, and overflowed upon the table! The two snakes that were twisted about Quicksilver’s staff (but neither Baucis nor Philemon happened to observe this circumstance) stretched out their heads, and began to lap up the spilt milk.

And then what a delicious fragrance the milk had! It seemed as if Philemon’s only cow must have pastured, that day, on the richest herbage that could be found anywhere in the world. I only wish that each of you, my beloved little souls, could have a bowl of such nice milk, at supper-time!

“And now a slice of your brown loaf, Mother Baucis,” said Quicksilver, “and a little of that honey!”

Baucis cut him a slice accordingly; and though the loaf, when she and her husband ate of it, had been rather too dry and crusty to be palatable, it was now as light and moist as if but a few hours out of the oven. Tasting a crumb, which had fallen on the table, she found it more delicious than bread ever was before, and could hardly believe that it was a loaf of her own kneading and baking. Yet, what other loaf could it possibly be?

But oh, the honey! I may just as well let it alone, without trying to describe how exquisitely it smelt and looked. Its color was that of the purest and most transparent gold; and it had the odor of a thousand flowers; but of such flowers as never grew in an earthly garden, and to seek which the bees must have flown high above the clouds. The wonder is, that, after alighting on a flower-bed of so delicious fragrance and immortal bloom, they should have been content to fly down again to their hive in Philemon’s garden. Never was such honey tasted, seen, or smelt. The perfume floated around the kitchen, and made it so delightful, that, had you closed your eyes, you would instantly have forgotten the low ceiling and smoky walls, and have fancied yourself in an arbor, with celestial honeysuckles creeping over it.

Although good Mother Baucis was a simple old dame, she could not but think that there was something rather out of the common way in all that had been going on. So, after helping the guests to bread and honey, and laying a bunch of grapes by each of their plates, she sat down by Philemon, and told him what she had seen, in a whisper.

“Did you ever hear the like?” asked she.

“No, I never did,” answered Philemon, with a smile. “And I rather think, my dear old wife, you have been walking about in a sort of a dream. If I had poured out the milk, I should have seen through the business at once. There happened to be a little more in the pitcher than you thought,—that is all.”

“Ah, husband,” said Baucis, “say what you will, these are very uncommon people.”

“Well, well,” replied Philemon, still smiling, “perhaps they are. They certainly do look as if they had seen better days; and I am heartily glad to see them making so comfortable a supper.”

Each of the guests had now taken his bunch of grapes upon his plate. Baucis (who rubbed her eyes, in order to see the more clearly) was of opinion that the clusters had grown larger and richer, and that each separate grape seemed to be on the point of bursting with ripe juice. It was entirely a mystery to her how such grapes could ever have been produced from the old stunted vine that climbed against the cottage wall.

“Very admirable grapes these!” observed Quicksilver, as he swallowed one after another, without apparently diminishing his cluster. “Pray, my good host, whence did you gather them?”

“From my own vine,” answered Philemon. “You may see one of its branches twisting across the window, yonder. But wife and I never thought the grapes very fine ones.”

“I never tasted better,” said the guest. “Another cup of this delicious milk, if you please, and I shall then have supped better than a prince.”

This time, old Philemon bestirred himself, and took up the pitcher; for he was curious to discover whether there was any reality in the marvels which Baucis had whispered to him. He knew that his good old wife was incapable of falsehood, and that she was seldom mistaken in what she supposed to be true; but this was so very singular a case, that he wanted to see into it with his own eyes. On taking up the pitcher, therefore, he slyly peeped into it, and was fully satisfied that it contained not so much as a single drop. All at once, however, he beheld a little white fountain, which gushed up from the bottom of the pitcher, and speedily filled it to the brim with foaming and deliciously fragrant milk. It was lucky that Philemon, in his surprise, did not drop the miraculous pitcher from his hand.

“Who are ye, wonder-working strangers!” cried he, even more bewildered than his wife had been.

“Your guests, my good Philemon, and your friends,” replied the elder traveler, in his mild, deep voice, that had something at once sweet and awe-inspiring in it. “Give me likewise a cup of the milk; and may your pitcher never be empty for kind Baucis and yourself, any more than for the needy wayfarer!”

The supper being now over, the strangers requested to be shown to their place of repose. The old people would gladly have talked with them a little longer, and have expressed the wonder which they felt, and their delight at finding the poor and meagre supper prove so much better and more abundant than they hoped. But the elder traveler had inspired them with such reverence that they dared not ask him any questions. And when Philemon drew Quicksilver aside, and inquired how under the sun a fountain of milk could have got into an old earthen pitcher, this latter personage pointed to his staff.

“There is the whole mystery of the affair,” quoth Quicksilver; “and if you can make it out, I’ll thank you to let me know. I can’t tell what to make of my staff. It is always playing such odd tricks as this; sometimes getting me a supper, and, quite as often, stealing it away. If I had any faith in such nonsense, I should say the stick was bewitched!”

He said no more, but looked so slyly in their faces, that they rather fancied he was laughing at them. The magic staff went hopping at his heels, as Quicksilver quitted the room. When left alone, the good old couple spent some little time in conversation about the events of the evening, and then lay down on the floor, and fell fast asleep. They had given up their sleeping-room to the guests, and had no other bed for themselves, save these planks, which I wish had been as soft as their own hearts.

The old man and his wife were stirring, betimes, in the morning, and the strangers likewise arose with the sun, and made their preparations to depart. Philemon hospitably entreated them to remain a little longer, until Baucis could milk the cow, and bake a cake upon the hearth, and, perhaps, find them a few fresh eggs, for breakfast. The guests, however, seemed to think it better to accomplish a good part of their journey before the heat of the day should come on. They, therefore, persisted in setting out immediately, but asked Philemon and Baucis to walk forth with them a short distance, and show them the road which they were to take.

So they all four issued from the cottage, chatting together like old friends. It was very remarkable, indeed, how familiar the old couple insensibly grew with the elder traveler, and how their good and simple spirits melted into his, even as two drops of water would melt into the illimitable ocean. And as for Quicksilver, with his keen, quick, laughing wits, he appeared to discover every little thought that but peeped into their minds, before they suspected it themselves. They sometimes wished, it is true, that he had not been quite so quick-witted, and also that he would fling away his staff, which looked so mysteriously mischievous, with the snakes always writhing about it. But then, again, Quicksilver showed himself so very good-humored, that they would have been rejoiced to keep him in their cottage, staff, snakes, and all, every day, and the whole day long.

“Ah me! Well-a-day!” exclaimed Philemon, when they had walked a little way from their door. “If our neighbors only knew what a blessed thing it is to show hospitality to strangers, they would tie up all their dogs, and never allow their children to fling another stone.”

“It is a sin and shame for them to behave so,—that it is!” cried good old Baucis vehemently. “And I mean to go this very day, and tell some of them what naughty people they are!”

“I fear,” remarked Quicksilver; slyly smiling, “that you will find none of them at home.”

The elder traveler’s brow, just then, assumed such a grave, stern, and awful grandeur, yet serene withal, that neither Baucis nor Philemon dared to speak a word. They gazed reverently into his face, as if they had been gazing at the sky.

“When men do not feel towards the humblest stranger as if he were a brother,” said the traveler, in tones so deep that they sounded like those of an organ, “they are unworthy to exist on earth, which was created as the abode of a great human brotherhood!”

“And, by the by, my dear old people,” cried Quicksilver, with the liveliest look of fun and mischief in his eyes, “where is this same village that you talk about? On which side of us does it lie? Methinks I do not see it hereabouts.”

Philemon and his wife turned towards the valley, where, at sunset, only the day before, they had seen the meadows, the houses, the gardens, the clumps of trees, the wide, green-margined street, with children playing in it, and all the tokens of business, enjoyment, and prosperity. But what was their astonishment! There was no longer any appearance of a village! Even the fertile vale, in the hollow of which it lay, had ceased to have existence. In its stead, they beheld the broad, blue surface of a lake, which filled the great basin of the valley from brim to brim, and reflected the surrounding hills in its bosom with as tranquil an image as if it had been there ever since the creation of the world. For an instant, the lake remained perfectly smooth. Then a little breeze sprang up, and caused the water to dance, glitter, and sparkle in the early sunbeams, and to dash, with a pleasant rippling murmur, against the hither shore.

The lake seemed so strangely familiar, that the old couple were greatly perplexed, and felt as if they could only have been dreaming about a village having lain there. But, the next moment, they remembered the vanished dwellings, and the faces and characters of the inhabitants, far too distinctly for a dream. The village had been there yesterday, and now was gone!

“Alas!” cried these kind-hearted old people, “what has become of our poor neighbors?”

“They no longer exist as men and women,” said the elder traveler, in his grand and deep voice, while a roll of thunder seemed to echo it at a distance. “There was neither use nor beauty in such a life as theirs; for they never softened or sweetened the hard lot of mortality by the exercise of kindly affections between man and man. They retained no image of the better life in their bosoms; therefore, the lake, that was of old, has spread itself forth again, to reflect the sky!”

“And as for those foolish people,” said Quicksilver, with his mischievous smile, “they are all transformed to fishes. There needed but little change, for they were already a scaly set of rascals, and the coldest-blooded beings in existence. So, kind Mother Baucis, whenever you or your husband have an appetite for a dish of broiled trout, he can throw in a line, and pull out half a dozen of your old neighbors!”

“Ah,” cried Baucis shuddering, “I would not, for the world, put one of them on the gridiron!”

“No,” added Philemon, making a wry face, “we could never relish them!”

“As for you, good Philemon,” continued the elder traveler,—“and you, kind Baucis,—you, with your scanty means, have mingled so much heartfelt hospitality with your entertainment of the homeless stranger, that the milk became an inexhaustible fount of nectar, and the brown loaf and the honey were ambrosia. Thus, the divinities have feasted, at your board, off the same viands that supply their banquets on Olympus. You have done well, my dear old friends. Wherefore, request whatever favor you have most at heart, and it is granted.”

Philemon and Baucis looked at one another, and then—I know not which of the two it was who spoke, but that one uttered the desire of both their hearts.

“Let us live together, while we live, and leave the world at the same instant, when we die! For we have always loved one another!”

“Be it so!” replied the stranger, with majestic kindness. “Now, look towards your cottage!”

They did so. But what was their surprise on beholding a tall edifice of white marble, with a wide-open portal, occupying the spot where their humble residence had so lately stood!

“There is your home,” said the stranger, beneficently smiling on them both. “Exercise your hospitality in yonder palace as freely as in the poor hovel to which you welcomed us last evening.”

The old folks fell on their knees to thank him; but, behold! neither he nor Quicksilver was there.

So Philemon and Baucis took up their residence in the marble palace, and spent their time, with vast satisfaction to themselves, in making everybody jolly and comfortable who happened to pass that way. The milk-pitcher, I must not forget to say, retained its marvelous quality of being never empty, when it was desirable to have it full. Whenever an honest, good-humored, and free-hearted guest took a draught from this pitcher, he invariably found it the sweetest and most invigorating fluid that ever ran down his throat. But, if a cross and disagreeable curmudgeon happened to sip, he was pretty certain to twist his visage into a hard knot, and pronounce it a pitcher of sour milk!

Thus the old couple lived in their palace a great, great while, and grew older and older, and very old indeed. At length, however, there came a summer morning when Philemon and Baucis failed to make their appearance, as on other mornings, with one hospitable smile overspreading both their pleasant faces, to invite the guests of over-night to breakfast. The guests searched everywhere, from top to bottom of the spacious palace, and all to no purpose. But, after a great deal of perplexity, they espied, in front of the portal, two venerable trees, which nobody could remember to have seen there the day before. Yet there they stood, with their roots fastened deep into the soil, and a huge breadth of foliage overshadowing the whole front of the edifice. One was an oak, and the other a linden-tree. Their boughs—it was strange and beautiful to see—were intertwined together, and embraced one another, so that each tree seemed to live in the other tree’s bosom much more than in its own.

While the guests were marveling how these trees, that must have required at least a century to grow, could have come to be so tall and venerable in a single night, a breeze sprang up, and set their intermingled boughs astir. And then there was a deep, broad murmur in the air, as if the two mysterious trees were speaking.

“I am old Philemon!” murmured the oak.

“I am old Baucis!” murmured the linden-tree.

But, as the breeze grew stronger, the trees both spoke at once,—“Philemon! Baucis! Baucis! Philemon!”—as if one were both and both were one, and talking together in the depths of their mutual heart. It was plain enough to perceive that the good old couple had renewed their age, and were now to spend a quiet and delightful hundred years or so, Philemon as an oak, and Baucis as a linden-tree. And oh, what a hospitable shade did they fling around them! Whenever a wayfarer paused beneath it, he heard a pleasant whisper of the leaves above his head, and wondered how the sound should so much resemble words like these:—

“Welcome, welcome, dear traveler, welcome!”

And some kind soul, that knew what would have pleased old Baucis and old Philemon best, built a circular seat around both their trunks, where, for a great while afterwards, the weary, and the hungry, and the thirsty used to repose themselves, and quaff milk abundantly from the miraculous pitcher.

And I wish, for all our sakes, that we had the pitcher here now!

Children’s Short Story by Nathaniel Hawthorne

Vintage illustration by Water Crane

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

Community, Helping

1. This story is about a couple who are rewarded for helping two poor strangers. Why do you think it is a good thing to help people who are less lucky than we are?

2. The old couple didn’t have a lot to eat, but still managed to share their food. In real life, do you think you need a lot of something in order to be able to share it? Why or why not?

3. When the old couple helped the two poor strangers, those strangers helped the old couple in return. Can you think of some other ways this could happen in real life, if you were to help someone less lucky than you?

Gratitude

4. The old couple were given the opportunity to wish for anything they wanted. Why do you think they didn’t wish for riches, a beautiful house, or youth?

Stranger Danger

5. The old couple let the poor travellers into their home even though they didn’t know who they were. Do you think this was dangerous? Why do you think they decided to trust the strangers?

6. What did the old couple gain from being kind to the strangers?

7. What is the difference between an old couple letting strangers into their home, and you doing it?

The post The Miraculous Pitcher 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, there lived a very rich man, and a king besides, whose name was Midas; and he had a little daughter, whom nobody but myself ever heard of, and whose name I either never knew or have entirely forgotten. So, because I love odd names for little girls, I choose to call her Marygold.

This King Midas was fonder of gold than of anything else in the world. He valued his royal crown chiefly because it was composed of that precious metal. If he loved anything better, or half so well, it was the one little maiden who played so merrily around her father’s footstool. But the more Midas loved his daughter, the more did he desire and seek for wealth. He thought, foolish man! that the best thing he could possibly do for this dear child would be to bequeath her the immensest pile of yellow, glistening coin, that had ever been heaped together since the world was made.

Thus, he gave all his thoughts and all his time to this one purpose. If ever he happened to gaze for an instant at the gold-tinted clouds of sunset, he wished that they were real gold, and that they could be squeezed safely into his strong box. When little Marygold ran to meet him with a bunch of buttercups and dandelions, he used to say, “Poh, poh, child! If these flowers were as golden as they look, they would be worth the plucking!”

And yet, in his earlier days, before he was so entirely possessed of this insane desire for riches, King Midas had shown a great taste for flowers. He had planted a garden, in which grew the biggest and beautifullest and sweetest roses that any mortal ever saw or smelt. These roses were still growing in the garden, as large, as lovely, and as fragrant as when Midas used to pass whole hours in gazing at them and inhaling their perfume. But now, if he looked at them at all, it was only to calculate how much the garden would be worth if each of the innumerable rose-petals were a thin plate of gold. And though he once was fond of music (in spite of an idle story about his ears, which were said to resemble those of an ass), the only music for poor Midas, now, was the chink of one coin against another.

At length (as people always grow more and more foolish, unless they take care to grow wiser and wiser), Midas had got to be so exceedingly unreasonable, that he could scarcely bear to see or touch any object that was not gold. He made it his custom, therefore, to pass a large portion of every day in a dark and dreary apartment, under ground, at the basement of his palace. It was here that he kept his wealth.

To this dismal hole—for it was little better than a dungeon—Midas betook himself, whenever he wanted to be particularly happy. Here, after carefully locking the door, he would take a bag of gold coin, or a gold cup as big as a washbowl, or a heavy golden bar, or a peck-measure of gold-dust, and bring them from the obscure corners of the room into the one bright and narrow sunbeam that fell from the dungeon-like window. He valued the sunbeam for no other reason but that his treasure would not shine without its help. And then would he reckon over the coins in the bag; toss up the bar, and catch it as it came down; sift the gold-dust through his fingers; look at the funny image of his own face, as reflected in the burnished circumference of the cup; and whisper to himself, “O Midas, rich King Midas, what a happy man art thou!”

But it was laughable to see how the image of his face kept grinning at him, out of the polished surface of the cup. It seemed to be aware of his foolish behavior, and to have a naughty inclination to make fun of him.

Midas called himself a happy man, but felt that he was not yet quite so happy as he might be. The very tiptop of enjoyment would never be reached, unless the whole world were to become his treasure-room, and be filled with yellow metal which should be all his own.

Now, I need hardly remind such wise little people as you are, that in the old, old times, when King Midas was alive, a great many things came to pass, which we should consider wonderful if they were to happen in our own day and country. And, on the other hand, a great many things take place nowadays, which seem not only wonderful to us, but at which the people of old times would have stared their eyes out. On the whole, I regard our own times as the strangest of the two; but, however that may be, I must go on with my story.

Midas was enjoying himself in his treasure-room, one day, as usual, when he perceived a shadow fall over the heaps of gold; and, looking suddenly up, what should he behold but the figure of a stranger, standing in the bright and narrow sunbeam! It was a young man, with a cheerful and ruddy face.

Whether it was that the imagination of King Midas threw a yellow tinge over everything, or whatever the cause might be, he could not help fancying that the smile with which the stranger regarded him had a kind of golden radiance in it. Certainly, although his figure intercepted the sunshine, there was now a brighter gleam upon all the piled-up treasures than before. Even the remotest corners had their share of it, and were lighted up, when the stranger smiled, as with tips of flame and sparkles of fire.

As Midas knew that he had carefully turned the key in the lock, and that no mortal strength could possibly break into his treasure-room, he, of course, concluded that his visitor must be something more than mortal. It is no matter about telling you who he was. In those days, when the earth was comparatively a new affair, it was supposed to be often the resort of beings endowed with supernatural power, and who used to interest themselves in the joys and sorrows of men, women, and children, half playfully and half seriously.

Midas had met such beings before now, and was not sorry to meet one of them again. The stranger’s aspect, indeed, was so good-humored and kindly, if not beneficent, that it would have been unreasonable to suspect him of intending any mischief. It was far more probable that he came to do Midas a favor. And what could that favor be, unless to multiply his heaps of treasure?

The stranger gazed about the room; and when his lustrous smile had glistened upon all the golden objects that were there, he turned again to Midas.

“You are a wealthy man, friend Midas!” he observed. “I doubt whether any other four walls, on earth, contain so much gold as you have contrived to pile up in this room.”

“I have done pretty well,—pretty well,” answered Midas, in a discontented tone. “But, after all, it is but a trifle, when you consider that it has taken me my whole life to get it together. If one could live a thousand years, he might have time to grow rich!”

“What!” exclaimed the stranger. “Then you are not satisfied?”

Midas shook his head.

“And pray what would satisfy you?” asked the stranger. “Merely for the curiosity of the thing, I should be glad to know.”

Midas paused and meditated. He felt a presentiment that this stranger, with such a golden lustre in his good-humored smile, had come hither with both the power and the purpose of gratifying his utmost wishes. Now, therefore, was the fortunate moment, when he had but to speak, and obtain whatever possible, or seemingly impossible thing, it might come into his head to ask. So he thought, and thought, and thought, and heaped up one golden mountain upon another, in his imagination, without being able to imagine them big enough. At last, a bright idea occurred to King Midas. It seemed really as bright as the glistening metal which he loved so much.

Raising his head, he looked the lustrous stranger in the face.

“Well, Midas,” observed his visitor, “I see that you have at length hit upon something that will satisfy you. Tell me your wish.”

“It is only this,” replied Midas. “I am weary of collecting my treasures with so much trouble, and beholding the heap so diminutive, after I have done my best. I wish everything that I touch to be changed to gold!”

The stranger’s smile grew so very broad, that it seemed to fill the room like an outburst of the sun, gleaming into a shadowy dell where the yellow autumnal leaves—for so looked the lumps and particles of gold—lie strewn in the glow of light.

“The Golden Touch!” exclaimed he. “You certainly deserve credit, friend Midas, for striking out so brilliant a conception. But are you quite sure that this will satisfy you?”

“How could it fail?” said Midas.

“And will you never regret the possession of it?”

“What could induce me?” asked Midas. “I ask nothing else, to render me perfectly happy.”

“Be it as you wish, then,” replied the stranger, waving his hand in token of farewell. “To-morrow, at sunrise, you will find yourself gifted with the Golden Touch.”

The figure of the stranger then became exceedingly bright, and Midas involuntarily closed his eyes. On opening them again, he beheld only one yellow sunbeam in the room, and, all around him, the glistening of the precious metal which he had spent his life in hoarding up.

Whether Midas slept as usual that night, the story does not say. Asleep or awake, however, his mind was probably in the state of a child’s, to whom a beautiful new plaything has been promised in the morning. At any rate, day had hardly peeped over the hills, when King Midas was broad awake, and, stretching his arms out of bed, began to touch the objects that were within reach. He was anxious to prove whether the Golden Touch had really come, according to the stranger’s promise.

So he laid his finger on a chair by the bedside, and on various other things, but was grievously disappointed to perceive that they remained of exactly the same substance as before. Indeed, he felt very much afraid that he had only dreamed about the lustrous stranger, or else that the latter had been making game of him. And what a miserable affair would it be, if, after all his hopes, Midas must content himself with what little gold he could scrape together by ordinary means, instead of creating it by a touch!

All this while it was only the gray of the morning, with but a streak of brightness along the edge of the sky, where Midas could not see it. He lay in a very disconsolate mood, regretting the downfall of his hopes, and kept growing sadder and sadder, until the earliest sunbeam shone through the window, and gilded the ceiling over his head. It seemed to Midas that this bright yellow sunbeam was reflected in rather a singular way on the white covering of the bed. Looking more closely, what was his astonishment and delight, when he found that this linen fabric had been transmuted to what seemed a woven texture of the purest and brightest gold! The Golden Touch had come to him with the first sunbeam!

Midas started up, in a kind of joyful frenzy, and ran about the room, grasping at everything that happened to be in his way. He seized one of the bed-posts, and it became immediately a fluted golden pillar. He pulled aside a window-curtain, in order to admit a clear spectacle of the wonders which he was performing; and the tassel grew heavy in his hand,—a mass of gold. He took up a book from the table. At his first touch, it assumed the appearance of such a splendidly bound and gilt-edged volume as one often meets with, nowadays; but, on running his fingers through the leaves, behold! it was a bundle of thin golden plates, in which all the wisdom of the book had grown illegible.

He hurriedly put on his clothes, and was enraptured to see himself in a magnificent suit of gold cloth, which retained its flexibility and softness, although it burdened him a little with its weight. He drew out his handkerchief, which little Marygold had hemmed for him. That was likewise gold, with the dear child’s neat and pretty stitches running all along the border, in gold thread!

Somehow or other, this last transformation did not quite please King Midas. He would rather that his little daughter’s handiwork should have remained just the same as when she climbed his knee and put it into his hand.

But it was not worth while to vex himself about a trifle. Midas now took his spectacles from his pocket, and put them on his nose, in order that he might see more distinctly what he was about. In those days, spectacles for common people had not been invented, but were already worn by kings; else, how could Midas have had any? To his great perplexity, however, excellent as the glasses were, he discovered that he could not possibly see through them. But this was the most natural thing in the world; for on taking them off, the transparent crystals turned out to be plates of yellow metal, and, of course, were worthless as spectacles, though valuable as gold. It struck Midas as rather inconvenient that, with all his wealth, he could never again be rich enough to own a pair of serviceable spectacles.

“It is no great matter, nevertheless,” said he to himself, very philosophically. “We cannot expect any great good, without its being accompanied with some small inconvenience. The Golden Touch is worth the sacrifice of a pair of spectacles, at least, if not of one’s very eyesight. My own eyes will serve for ordinary purposes, and little Marygold will soon be old enough to read to me.”

Wise King Midas was so exalted by his good fortune that the palace seemed not sufficiently spacious to contain him. He therefore went downstairs, and smiled, on observing that the balustrade of the staircase became a bar of burnished gold, as his hand passed over it in his descent. He lifted the door-latch (it was brass only a moment ago, but golden when his fingers quitted it), and emerged into the garden. Here, as it happened, he found a great number of beautiful roses in full bloom, and others in all the stages of lovely bud and blossom. Very delicious was their fragrance in the morning breeze. Their delicate blush was one of the fairest sights in the world; so gentle, so modest, and so full of sweet tranquillity did these roses seem to be.

But Midas knew a way to make them far more precious, according to his way of thinking, than roses had ever been before. So he took great pains in going from bush to bush, and exercised his magic touch most indefatigably; until every individual flower and bud, and even the worms at the heart of some of them, were changed to gold. By the time this good work was completed, King Midas was summoned to breakfast; and as the morning air had given him an excellent appetite, he made haste back to the palace.

What was usually a king’s breakfast in the days of Midas, I really do not know, and cannot stop now to investigate. To the best of my belief, however, on this particular morning, the breakfast consisted of hot cakes, some nice little brook trout, roasted potatoes, fresh boiled eggs, and coffee, for King Midas himself, and a bowl of bread and milk for his daughter Marygold. At all events, this is a breakfast fit to set before a king; and, whether he had it or not, King Midas could not have had a better.

Little Marygold had not yet made her appearance. Her father ordered her to be called, and, seating himself at table, awaited the child’s coming, in order to begin his own breakfast. To do Midas justice, he really loved his daughter, and loved her so much the more this morning, on account of the good fortune which had befallen him. It was not a great while before he heard her coming along the passage-way crying bitterly. This circumstance surprised him, because Marygold was one of the cheerfullest little people whom you would see in a summer’s day, and hardly shed a thimbleful of tears in a twelvemonth. When Midas heard her sobs, he determined to put little Marygold into better spirits, by an agreeable surprise; so, leaning across the table, he touched his daughter’s bowl (which was a China one, with pretty figures all around it), and transmuted it to gleaming gold.

Meanwhile, Marygold slowly and disconsolately opened the door, and showed herself with her apron at her eyes, still sobbing as if her heart would break.

“How now, my little lady!” cried Midas. “Pray what is the matter with you, this bright morning?”

Marygold, without taking the apron from her eyes, held out her hand, in which was one of the roses which Midas had so recently transmuted.

“Beautiful!” exclaimed her father. “And what is there in this magnificent golden rose to make you cry?”

“Ah, dear father!” answered the child, as well as her sobs would let her; “it is not beautiful, but the ugliest flower that ever grew! As soon as I was dressed I ran into the garden to gather some roses for you; because I know you like them, and like them the better when gathered by your little daughter. But, oh dear, dear me! What do you think has happened? Such a misfortune! All the beautiful roses, that smelled so sweet and had so many lovely blushes, are blighted and spoilt! They are grown quite yellow, as you see this one, and have no longer any fragrance! What can have been the matter with them?”

“Poh, my dear little girl,—pray don’t cry about it!” said Midas, who was ashamed to confess that he himself had wrought the change which so greatly afflicted her. “Sit down and eat your bread and milk! You will find it easy enough to exchange a golden rose like that (which will last hundreds of years) for an ordinary one which would wither in a day.”

“I don’t care for such roses as this!” cried Marygold, tossing it contemptuously away. “It has no smell, and the hard petals prick my nose!”

The child now sat down to table, but was so occupied with her grief for the blighted roses that she did not even notice the wonderful transmutation of her China bowl. Perhaps this was all the better; for Marygold was accustomed to take pleasure in looking at the queer figures, and strange trees and houses, that were painted on the circumference of the bowl; and these ornaments were now entirely lost in the yellow hue of the metal.

Midas, meanwhile, had poured out a cup of coffee, and, as a matter of course, the coffee-pot, whatever metal it may have been when he took it up, was gold when he set it down. He thought to himself, that it was rather an extravagant style of splendor, in a king of his simple habits, to breakfast off a service of gold, and began to be puzzled with the difficulty of keeping his treasures safe. The cupboard and the kitchen would no longer be a secure place of deposit for articles so valuable as golden bowls and coffee-pots.

Amid these thoughts, he lifted a spoonful of coffee to his lips, and, sipping it, was astonished to perceive that the instant his lips touched the liquid, it became molten gold, and the next moment, hardened into a lump!

“Ha!” exclaimed Midas, rather aghast.

“What is the matter, father?” asked little Marygold, gazing at him, with the tears still standing in her eyes.

“Nothing, child, nothing!” said Midas. “Eat your milk, before it gets quite cold.”

He took one of the nice little trouts on his plate, and, by way of experiment, touched its tail with his finger. To his horror, it was immediately transmuted from an admirably fried brook trout into a gold-fish, though not one of those gold-fishes which people often keep in glass globes, as ornaments for the parlor. No; but it was really a metallic fish, and looked as if it had been very cunningly made by the nicest goldsmith in the world. Its little bones were now golden wires; its fins and tail were thin plates of gold; and there were the marks of the fork in it, and all the delicate, frothy appearance of a nicely fried fish, exactly imitated in metal. A very pretty piece of work, as you may suppose; only King Midas, just at that moment, would much rather have had a real trout in his dish than this elaborate and valuable imitation of one.

“I don’t quite see,” thought he to himself, “how I am to get any breakfast!”

He took one of the smoking-hot cakes, and had scarcely broken it, when, to his cruel mortification, though, a moment before, it had been of the whitest wheat, it assumed the yellow hue of Indian meal. To say the truth, if it had really been a hot Indian cake, Midas would have prized it a good deal more than he now did, when its solidity and increased weight made him too bitterly sensible that it was gold.

Almost in despair, he helped himself to a boiled egg, which immediately underwent a change similar to those of the trout and the cake. The egg, indeed, might have been mistaken for one of those which the famous goose, in the story-book, was in the habit of laying; but King Midas was the only goose that had had anything to do with the matter.

“Well, this is a quandary!” thought he, leaning back in his chair, and looking quite enviously at little Marygold, who was now eating her bread and milk with great satisfaction. “Such a costly breakfast before me, and nothing that can be eaten!”

Hoping that, by dint of great dispatch, he might avoid what he now felt to be a considerable inconvenience, King Midas next snatched a hot potato, and attempted to cram it into his mouth, and swallow it in a hurry. But the Golden Touch was too nimble for him. He found his mouth full, not of mealy potato, but of solid metal, which so burnt his tongue that he roared aloud, and, jumping up from the table, began to dance and stamp about the room, both with pain and affright.

“Father, dear father!” cried little Marygold, who was a very affectionate child, “pray what is the matter? Have you burnt your mouth?”

“Ah, dear child,” groaned Midas dolefully, “I don’t know what is to become of your poor father!”

And, truly, my dear little folks, did you ever hear of such a pitiable case in all your lives? Here was literally the richest breakfast that could be set before a king, and its very richness made it absolutely good for nothing. The poorest laborer, sitting down to his crust of bread and cup of water, was far better off than King Midas, whose delicate food was really worth its weight in gold.

And what was to be done? Already, at breakfast, Midas was excessively hungry. Would he be less so by dinner-time? And how ravenous would be his appetite for supper, which must undoubtedly consist of the same sort of indigestible dishes as those now before him! How many days, think you, would he survive a continuance of this rich fare?

These reflections so troubled wise King Midas, that he began to doubt whether, after all, riches are the one desirable thing in the world, or even the most desirable. But this was only a passing thought. So fascinated was Midas with the glitter of the yellow metal, that he would still have refused to give up the Golden Touch for so paltry a consideration as a breakfast. Just imagine what a price for one meal’s victuals! It would have been the same as paying millions and millions of money (and as many millions more as would take forever to reckon up) for some fried trout, an egg, a potato, a hot cake, and a cup of coffee!

“It would be quite too dear,” thought Midas.

Nevertheless, so great was his hunger, and the perplexity of his situation, that he again groaned aloud, and very grievously too. Our pretty Marygold could endure it no longer. She sat, a moment, gazing at her father, and trying with all the might of her little wits to find out what was the matter with him. Then, with a sweet and sorrowful impulse to comfort him, she started from her chair, and, running to Midas, threw her arms affectionately about his knees. He bent down and kissed her. He felt that his little daughter’s love was worth a thousand times more than he had gained by the Golden Touch.

“My precious, precious Marygold!” cried he.

But Marygold made no answer.

Alas, what had he done? How fatal was the gift which the stranger bestowed! The moment the lips of Midas touched Marygold’s forehead, a change had taken place. Her sweet, rosy face, so full of affection as it had been, assumed a glittering yellow color, with yellow teardrops congealing on her cheeks. Her beautiful brown ringlets took the same tint. Her soft and tender little form grew hard and inflexible within her father’s encircling arms. Oh, terrible misfortune! The victim of his insatiable desire for wealth, little Marygold was a human child no longer, but a golden statue!

Yes, there she was, with the questioning look of love, grief, and pity, hardened into her face. It was the prettiest and most woeful sight that ever mortal saw. All the features and tokens of Marygold were there; even the beloved little dimple remained in her golden chin. But the more perfect was the resemblance, the greater was the father’s agony at beholding this golden image, which was all that was left him of a daughter.

It had been a favorite phrase of Midas, whenever he felt particularly fond of the child, to say that she was worth her weight in gold. And now the phrase had become literally true. And now, at last, when it was too late, he felt how infinitely a warm and tender heart, that loved him, exceeded in value all the wealth that could be piled up betwixt the earth and sky!

It would be too sad a story, if I were to tell you how Midas, in the fullness of all his gratified desires, began to wring his hands and bemoan himself; and how he could neither bear to look at Marygold, nor yet to look away from her. Except when his eyes were fixed on the image, he could not possibly believe that she was changed to gold.

But stealing another glance, there was the precious little figure, with a yellow tear-drop on its yellow cheek, and a look so piteous and tender that it seemed as if that very expression must needs soften the gold, and make it flesh again. This, however, could not be. So Midas had only to wring his hands, and to wish that he were the poorest man in the wide world, if the loss of all his wealth might bring back the faintest rose-color to his dear child’s face.

While he was in this tumult of despair, he suddenly beheld a stranger standing near the door. Midas bent down his head, without speaking; for he recognized the same figure which had appeared to him, the day before, in the treasure-room, and had bestowed on him this disastrous faculty of the Golden Touch. The stranger’s countenance still wore a smile, which seemed to shed a yellow lustre all about the room, and gleamed on little Marygold’s image, and on the other objects that had been transmuted by the touch of Midas.

“Well, friend Midas,” said the stranger, “pray how do you succeed with the Golden Touch?”

Midas shook his head.

“I am very miserable,” said he.

“Very miserable, indeed!” exclaimed the stranger. “And how happens that? Have I not faithfully kept my promise with you? Have you not everything that your heart desired?”

“Gold is not everything,” answered Midas. “And I have lost all that my heart really cared for.”

“Ah! So you have made a discovery, since yesterday?” observed the stranger. “Let us see, then. Which of these two things do you think is really worth the most,—the gift of the Golden Touch, or one cup of clear cold water?”

“O blessed water!” exclaimed Midas. “It will never moisten my parched throat again!”

“The Golden Touch,” continued the stranger, “or a crust of bread?”

“A piece of bread,” answered Midas, “is worth all the gold on earth!”

“The Golden Touch,” asked the stranger, “or your own little Marygold, warm, soft, and loving as she was an hour ago?”

“Oh, my child, my dear child!” cried poor Midas, wringing his hands. “I would not have given that one small dimple in her chin for the power of changing this whole big earth into a solid lump of gold!”

“You are wiser than you were, King Midas!” said the stranger, looking seriously at him. “Your own heart, I perceive, has not been entirely changed from flesh to gold. Were it so, your case would indeed be desperate. But you appear to be still capable of understanding that the commonest things, such as lie within everybody’s grasp, are more valuable than the riches which so many mortals sigh and struggle after. Tell me, now, do you sincerely desire to rid yourself of this Golden Touch?”

“It is hateful to me!” replied Midas.

A fly settled on his nose, but immediately fell to the floor; for it, too, had become gold. Midas shuddered.

“Go, then,” said the stranger, “and plunge into the river that glides past the bottom of your garden. Take likewise a vase of the same water, and sprinkle it over any object that you may desire to change back again from gold into its former substance. If you do this in earnestness and sincerity, it may possibly repair the mischief which your avarice has occasioned.”

King Midas bowed low; and when he lifted his head, the lustrous stranger had vanished.

You will easily believe that Midas lost no time in snatching up a great earthen pitcher (but, alas me! it was no longer earthen after he touched it), and hastening to the riverside. As he scampered along, and forced his way through the shrubbery, it was positively marvelous to see how the foliage turned yellow behind him, as if the autumn had been there, and nowhere else. On reaching the river’s brink, he plunged headlong in, without waiting so much as to pull off his shoes.

“Poof! poof! poof!” snorted King Midas, as his head emerged out of the water. “Well; this is really a refreshing bath, and I think it must have quite washed away the Golden Touch. And now for filling my pitcher!”

As he dipped the pitcher into the water, it gladdened his very heart to see it change from gold into the same good, honest earthen vessel which it had been before he touched it. He was conscious, also, of a change within himself. A cold, hard, and heavy weight seemed to have gone out of his bosom. No doubt his heart had been gradually losing its human substance, and transmuting itself into insensible metal, but had now softened back again into flesh. Perceiving a violet, that grew on the bank of the river, Midas touched it with his finger, and was overjoyed to find that the delicate flower retained its purple hue, instead of undergoing a yellow blight. The curse of the Golden Touch had therefore really been removed from him.

King Midas hastened back to the palace; and I suppose the servants knew not what to make of it when they saw their royal master so carefully bringing home an earthen pitcher of water. But that water, which was to undo all the mischief that his folly had wrought, was more precious to Midas, than an ocean of molten gold could have been. The first thing he did, as you need hardly be told, was to sprinkle it by handfuls over the golden figure of little Marygold.

No sooner did it fall on her than you would have laughed to see how the rosy color came back to the dear child’s cheek! and how she began to sneeze and sputter!—and how astonished she was to find herself dripping wet, and her father still throwing more water over her!

“Pray do not, dear father!” cried she. “See how you have wet my nice frock, which I put on only this morning!”

For Marygold did not know that she had been a little golden statue; nor could she remember anything that had happened since the moment when she ran with outstretched arms to comfort poor King Midas.

Her father did not think it necessary to tell his beloved child how very foolish he had been, but contented himself with showing how much wiser he had now grown. For this purpose he led little Marygold into the garden, where he sprinkled all the remainder of the water over the rose-bushes, and with such good effect that above five thousand roses recovered their beautiful bloom.

There were two circumstances, however, which, as long as he lived, used to put King Midas in mind of the Golden Touch. One was, that the sands of the river sparkled like gold; the other, that little Marygold’s hair had now a golden tinge, which he had never observed in it before she had been transmuted by the effect of his kiss. This change of hue was really an improvement, and made Marygold’s hair richer than in her babyhood.

When King Midas had grown quite an old man, and used to trot Marygold’s children on his knee, he was fond of telling them this marvelous story, pretty much as I have now told it to you. And then would he stroke their glossy ringlets, and tell them that their hair, likewise, had a rich shade of gold, which they had inherited from their mother.

“And to tell you the truth, my precious little folks,” said King Midas, diligently trotting the children all the while, “ever since that morning, I have hated the very sight of all other gold, save this!”

Short story for children by Nathaniel Hawthorne

Vintage illustration by Walter Crane

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

Greed

1. Why do you think King Midas liked gold so much?

Independent Thinking

2. Nowadays, we often don’t collect gold, but use something else instead which is a little the same. Do you know what this might be?

3. What do you think this story says about money? Do you agree? Why or why not?

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