“Tell me everything, Mary, for you must have seen the fairies.”
“Then take me on your knee, mother, and listen. Last night a hundred fairies danced on lively feet to the merry music of nine harpers, but the merriest thing was the sound of the fairy talk.”
“What did you hear them say?”
“I’ll tell you, but let me do it in my own way. Some rolled water down the hill and said, ‘this will turn the poor old miller’s wheel, and a busy man he will be by morning. There has been no rain since the first of May, and how the jolly old miller will laugh till the tears fill his eyes when he sees the water rise in the milldam.’ And some seized the winds and put horns to their mouths and blew sharply. ‘And there!’ said they shrilly, ‘the merry winds go from every horn to clear the damp mildew from the blind old widow’s corn. Though she has been blind for a long time she’ll be merry enough when the corn stands up stiff and strong without any mildew!’ Then some brought flax seed and flung it down, saying, ‘by sunrise this will be growing in the weaver’s field, and how the poor lame fellow will laugh when he sees his vacant field filled with blue flax flowers in a single day.’ Then a brownie with a long beard spoke, ‘I have spun all the tow and I want more. I have spun a linen sheet for Mary’s bed and an apron for her mother.’ I couldn’t help but laugh out loud, and then I was alone. On the top of Caldon-Low, the mists were cold and gray and I could see nothing but mossy stones lying about me. But as I came down I heard the jolly miller laughing and his wheel going merrily. I peeped into the widow’s cornfield and, sure enough, the golden corn was free from mildew, and at the gate of the croft stood the weaver, whose eye told the good news about his flax field. Now that’s all I heard and all I saw, so please make my bed, mother, for I’m as tired as I can be.”
Rather a pretty story, even in plain prose, is it not? It is re-written just about as it would be told to a little child for the first time, a child interested in the good fairies who do good things for the poor and the suffering. Then a little later, when the child reads for himself he can see how much better Mary Howitt tells the story in verse. Nevertheless, some children will prefer it in prose and often may ask to have other poems “told in prose.” There is no reason for refusing. Story first, poem afterward, is a good rule to follow if you want to create a taste for poetry. Sometimes just a remark, “Let us see how this sounds in poetry,” will create enough interest to enable the parent to begin reading aloud to an attentive audience. Most children will not learn to like poetry if left to their own devices. It must be read aloud to them and its beauties pointed out occasionally to create a love for so artificial a thing as metrical composition.
Parents will find in the General Index at the end of this volume not only reference to the contents of Journeys by title and author, but also a classification of subject matter, so that it will be easy to find different examples of poetry,—lyric, ballad, sonnet,—and of prose,—fiction, adventure, history, etc., offering a wide range of selection for story-telling purposes.
Little Giffin of Tennessee
This little narrative poem (Volume IV, page 461), is intensely dramatic. Too abrupt in style for easy reading and filled with words the children may not understand, it is not well adapted to the very young. But there’s a story in it of courage and deep patriotism that will be an inspiration to every child who can hear it. What better subject can a parent find for his son’s encouragement than a tale told in his own words or read in the following?
Little Giffin of Tennessee was only a boy, only a boy of sixteen, not bigger nor stronger than Charlie, Thomas or George Jones whom you see going by to school every day. Yet he wasn’t running along bareheaded carrying a bat or swinging his books by a strap. Little Giffin was a poor wounded soldier boy who had been already in eighteen battles; more than one, you see, for every year of his short life.