“I suspected as much,” returned the Stork, severely. “It’s a most immoral story, much worse than the stories about cutting off giants’ heads. There is no danger of a child growing up with an ambition to cut off a giant’s head, because, in the first place, there are no more giants, and, in the second place, if there were there’d be a law against it; but there is danger in letting children believe that it isn’t wrong to steal a bear’s porridge, and break his chair, and muss up his bed, as Goldenhair did.”
“It’s not so in my story book,” Buddie protested. “It was a naughty old woman who ate the bear’s porridge.”
“You must have a new version,” said the Stork. “It was time they did something about that story; it was making criminals of children every day. And how about Jack and the Beanstalk? It was a fine thing for Jack to steal the giant’s bag of gold, wasn’t it?”
“He was a wicked giant, and Jack’s mother was dreadfully poor,” said Buddie.
“Hoighty, toighty!” cried the Stork. “That’s a nice excuse, isn’t it? What do you expect will become of you, child?”
This was a hard question, which Buddie did not attempt to answer, and the Stork went on, in the same scolding tone:
“Then those ridiculous stories about dragons. Why do little boys torture cats, and little girls pull bluebottle flies to pieces?” Buddie couldn’t say. “Because they like to pretend that cats and bluebottle flies are dragons, and they’re pulling them to pieces for the good of the country. Why do little girls like pretty dresses and new hair-ribbons?” Buddie had never analyzed this natural desire. “Because their heads are full of nonsense about princesses gowned in silks and satins. Why do little girls throw crackers to swans in the parks?” This was entirely beyond Buddie. “Because each one thinks she may be doing a service to some king’s son, who has been transformed by enchantment into a swan, and who will reward her by carrying her off to his father’s kingdom in a golden chariot drawn by butterflies. Such books, I say, are poison to a child’s mind; and if I had my way I’d burn every one of them.”
“You shan’t burn mine,” declared Buddie, stoutly.
“Well, go your way,” said the Stork, sadly. “I wash my feet of you. If you come to a bad end, don’t blame me.”
Buddie was not alarmed by the Stork’s gloomy forebodings, but she was the least bit disturbed by his denunciation of fairy tales and picture-books.