“There was one vacant space though. The woodchuck had not yet come.”

How the Squirrel Got Wings.

ONCE UPON A TIME
ANIMAL STORIES

BY
CAROLYN SHERWIN BAILEY
Author of
“For the Children’s Hour,” “Stories Children Need,”
“For the Story Teller,” “Tell Me Another
Story,” “Firelight Stories”

1918
MILTON BRADLEY COMPANY
Springfield, Massachusetts

Copyright, 1918, by
MILTON BRADLEY COMPANY
SPRINGFIELD, MASS.

INTRODUCTION.

Since the childhood of the races, certain old-world stories have appeared in different form in the folklore of different nations, all bearing the stamp of the same source; the interest of primitive people in attributing human impulses and human lines of conduct to the animal world.

Perhaps the earliest of all is The Kid Who Would Not Go, which corresponds to the old New England nursery tale of the Old Woman and Her Pig, and which, in its original form, dates back to Hebrew translations. How They Brought Hairlock Home is a typical cumulative tale of Norway. The Story of Ibbity is one of the few obtainable Madagascar folk tales, and symbolizes the search of a primitive people for the source of natural phenomena. Our own southern negroes have given us the stories of Mr. Elephant and Mr. Frog, Why the Bear Sleeps All Winter, Little Bear, and Brother Wolf and the Rock. The American Indians have given us a varied collection of animal myths including How the Rabbit Tried to Coast, How the Squirrel Got Wings, The Talking Grass, and many other camp fire tales that have a nature background.

The reason for using these animal stories for story telling and supplementary reading lies in the instinctive interest which all children have in those stories that express the interpretation of life made by primitive races. This interest, and the indirect moral teaching of many of the stories included in this volume, give them a point of departure over and above that held by the modern story.

Carolyn Sherwin Bailey.

New York, 1918.

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

HOW THE EAGLE
WENT HUNGRY.

Once upon a time, before there were white men on the earth, the Beavers were a family like men. They were thrifty and honest, and spent their time building in the lakes and ponds. They had hands like our hands. They were dressed in gray fur, warm enough for the winters, and dark enough for all the digging which they had to do.

There was no family of all the forest so hard working as the Beavers. The Beaver men had a secret trade of making arrows. They dug flint out of the rocks along the bank and shaped it into arrowheads. These had such magic that the Beavers always had dried meat hanging in their houses.

Most wonderful of all, though, was their skill in building. With no tools but their broad, flat hands, the Beavers built strong dams which made pools in the streams where the fish could hatch. They built their own homes, with many halls and rooms, of the mud at the bottom of the water. All the Beavers worked, even the women and children. Here they lived in honesty and peace and asked nothing of any one.

In the same days the Eagle was a proud warrior, dressed from head to foot in colored feathers. He lived on a mountain top, and when he came down to the forest he wished great honor. The winds blew their trumpets for him, and the thunder beat drums. All the creatures were asked to bow before the Eagle, and he expected fish and berries to be brought him for a feast.

One spring when the ice had gone out of the streams and ponds and the forest had put on new green leaves, the Eagle came down for a sudden visit. He stopped at the edge of a small lake, and there he saw an old Beaver woman digging in the mud. She bent low over her work. With her large, wrinkled hands she was making the clay into bricks for building a new wall for a Beaver house. The Eagle looked at her with scorn.

“I am hungry,” he said.

The Beaver woman raised her brown head out of the water, and looked up at the Eagle.

“The Beaver family would be hungry, too, sir,” she said, “if we did not work, all of us, to get a living.”

“But think of the kind of work you do,” screamed the Eagle, going up to the branch of a tree to sit so that he need not step in the mud.

“Look at your hands,” he went on. “They are not the hands of a person of rank, like myself, but are stained with earth. You live in houses that are made of mud. You cut down trees with your teeth, and eat weeds and bark. You were made only to wait on others such as myself.”

The Beaver woman went on with her work. When the Eagle had finished, she said:

“What do you want to eat?” she asked.

“We Beavers are humble, but there are no other workers in the forest like us. We deepen and dam the streams and make them more useful. Our work takes us into the mud. In the mud we must live, but we are honest, thrifty people, sir. What do you want to eat?” she asked.

“Fish,” said the Eagle. “Go down and catch some for me.”

The Beaver woman wiped her hands and then dived down into the water. The Eagle watched her go, for he was half starved. He longed for a meal of rich, freshly caught fish. He watched the smooth water for some time, but he could see not even a ripple. After he had waited an hour, the water stirred and the brown head of the Beaver woman showed.

“Your feast of fish awaits you, O Eagle,” the Beaver woman said.

“But where are the fish?” the Eagle demanded.

“They wait for you on my table, down in the Beaver lodge,” she said, and then she went under the water again.

The Eagle went hungry for a long time. Even now, when the Beaver family walks on four feet, and the Eagle is a bird, all go hungry who are too proud to work for their food.

LITTLE FOOTSTEPS
UPON THE WATER.

Once upon a time there was a little Indian boy, and his name was Footsteps Upon the Water because he could run so fast and so softly.

One day, little Footsteps Upon the Water was chasing a squirrel, and he ran so far and so wide that he lost sight of home, and he could not find his way back. On and on ran the squirrel until it came at last to a hollow tree, and it went inside to hide. Footsteps Upon the Water went inside, too, but he was not so small as the squirrel. Out of the log ran the squirrel, but the little boy could not get out. He was stuck fast inside the hollow tree.

His father looked for the little boy many moons. His mother sat at home in the wigwam, crying, but Footsteps Upon the Water did not come back. He lay in the log, and he pounded and shouted, and he thought no one was ever coming to let him out.

But one morning, as he rapped, he heard, on the outside, rap, rap, rap, and a shrill voice calling:

“Footsteps Upon the Water, are you there? Are you there?”

Then a wrinkled, brown face, with a fringe of arrows for a cap, peered in at the end of the log. It was Grandmother Porcupine come to help the little boy out.

“I traveled three days and three nights, little Footsteps Upon the Water, because I heard you cry,” said Grandmother Porcupine.

Then she scratched and she scratched at the end of the log, but she could not get the little boy out.

“I will bring my three grandsons,” said Grandmother Porcupine, and she hurried away to the old hemlock tree where her grandsons lived. She brought them back with her, and they all scratched at the end of the hollow log until at last the little boy was able to crawl out.

Footsteps Upon the Water winked and blinked his eyes when he came outside, for he had not seen the sun in many days. There, in a circle, sat Grandmother Porcupine, her three grandsons, the old Bear, the Deer, and the Wolf.

“Now, who will be a mother to this little boy?” said Grandmother Porcupine; “I am too old to take care of him.”

“I will be his mother,” said the Wolf.

“No, indeed,” said Grandmother Porcupine, “your teeth are too sharp.”

“I will be his mother,” said the Deer.

“No, indeed,” said Grandmother Porcupine, “you are always traveling. Your husband would carry little Footsteps Upon the Water on his back wherever he went, and the little boy would have no home in the winter.”

“I will be his mother,” said the good old Bear; “I have a warm house in the rocks with plenty to eat in my pantry,—berries, and nuts, and honey.”

“You may have little Footsteps Upon the Water,” said Grandmother Porcupine, “but be sure that your cubs do not teach him any rough tricks.”

So Footsteps Upon the Water went home to the Bear’s house, a cave in the rocks, with little rooms just like a real house. It was a fine place in which to live.

All summer the little boy played with the cubs. When it was late in the fall, and the days were short and dark, and the nights were cold, Mother Bear tucked them all in bed and they slept until spring.

Then came another summer, and other Bear people stopped to call upon them, saying:

“We know a fine berry patch.”

So they would all go away together to pick strawberries, or blackberries, or gooseberries. After a while, they went for chestnuts, and that was the most fun of all.

But Mother Bear taught Footsteps Upon the Water and the little cubs to run always when they saw a man with a bow and arrows. One day, a man came very close to the Bear’s house, but Mother Bear chased him with a forked stick, and he went away.

The next day, the man came again, just as the family was starting out for chestnuts. Mother Bear threw a bag of feathers at the man so that he was not able to see, and he ran away.

The third day, the man came again. Mother Bear was starting out for a neighbor’s house with a bundle upon her back. She chased the man with her forked stick, she threw some more feathers at him, but it did no good. The man shot an arrow at Mother Bear, and she fell to the ground.

“Oh, good Mother Bear,” cried little Footsteps Upon the Water, running out to help her, “such a cruel man to hurt my good Mother Bear!”

But the arrow had stuck fast in Mother Bear’s bundle, and she was not hurt at all. And the man ran up to little Footsteps Upon the Water, crying:

“My little lost boy, my little lost boy,” for it was Footsteps Upon the Water’s own father.

Then he told Mother Bear how sorry he was that he had tried to hurt her, and he invited her and all the cubs to come for a visit to the wigwam.

And little Footsteps Upon the Water went home, but he never forgot how good old Mother Bear had been to him.

THE STORY OF
LAMBIKIN.

Once upon a time there was a wee, wee Lambikin, and he thought he would go over the hill to see his granny.

So he frolicked along on his teetery legs, as happy and frisky as ever a Lambikin in the spring could be.

But he had not gone very far when he met a roaring lion, and the lion said:

“Lambikin, I will eat you.”

Then Lambikin could not think what to do, for he did not wish to be eaten just then. So he said to the lion:

“Lambikin goes to Grannikin,

Where fatter he will grow,

Then you may eat him so.”

The lion wanted a very fat lamb to eat, so he let Lambikin go on his way, but he said:

“Be sure to come back this way, Lambikin.”

Lambikin frolicked along on his teetery legs a little farther, when he suddenly saw a great vulture, with a huge bill, flying toward him.

“I will eat you, Lambikin,” said the vulture.

Now Lambikin was not ready to be eaten yet, so he said to the vulture:

“Lambikin goes to Grannikin,

Where fatter he will grow,

Then you may eat him so.”

And the vulture flew off, but he said to Lambikin as he went:

“Be sure to come back this way, Lambikin.”

Lambikin frolicked along a little farther on his teetery legs, when he suddenly saw a striped tiger coming to meet him, and the tiger said to him:

“Lambikin, I will eat you.”

Now Lambikin did not wish to be eaten by a striped tiger, so he said:

“Lambikin goes to Grannikin,

Where fatter he will grow,

Then you may eat him so.”

The tiger was sure that a fat lamb would taste better than a wee, wee one with teetery legs, so he let Lambikin go along, but he said as he went:

“Be sure that you come back this way, Lambikin.”

Lambikin reached his granny’s house, and he told her how glad he was to see her, and then he said he was very hungry, and he would like something to eat.

“I must grow fat, granny,” said Lambikin.

So his granny led the way to the corn bin, and Lambikin ate and ate and ate until his sides stuck out, and his legs were not teetery any more, and he was a fat little lamb. But the more corn he ate and the fatter he grew the less did he want to be eaten. So he said to his granny:

“Grannikin, lion and vulture and tiger will eat Lambikin. What shall he do?”

Then said his granny:

“I will make a drum of a bit of old skin. Do you get inside and roll past the lion and the vulture and the tiger.”

So granny made a drum of a bit of skin, and Lambikin jumped inside the drum, and off he rolled toward home.

But before he had gone very far he met the lion, who was waiting for him, and the lion said:

“Drummikin, have you seen Lambikin?”

But Lambikin called out from inside the drum:

“Fallen into the fire, and so will you.

On, little Drummikin, tum, tum, too.”

Then the lion thought the woods must be on fire, so he ran off as fast as he could.

But Lambikin had not gone very far when the vulture flew down for his dinner.

“Drummikin, have you seen Lambikin?” asked the vulture.

“Fallen into the fire, and so will you.

On, little Drummikin, tum, tum, too,”

said Lambikin in a gruff voice from the inside of the drum.

Then the vulture thought that the woods must surely be on fire, so he flew far above the treetops.

The tiger caught his tail and was not able to move.

Lambikin rolled merrily along a little way farther, but soon he met the striped tiger, who was waiting for his dinner.

“Drummikin, have you seen Lambikin?” asked the striped tiger.

“Fallen into the fire, and so will you.

On, little Drummikin, tum, tum, too,”

said Lambikin; but the striped tiger had very sharp ears.

“Lambikin is inside Drummikin,” he said, and he started after the drum as fast as he could go. He nearly caught it, for he went so very fast, but they came to a bramble bush. The tiger caught his tail and was not able to move, and out of the drum jumped Lambikin.

Then off he frolicked home again as frisky and happy as ever a lamb could be.

BROTHER WOLF
AND THE ROCK.

Once upon a time Brother Wolf dressed himself up very finely, just like an Indian. He put feathers on his head, and moccasins on his feet, and beads around his neck. Then he bought a very gay blanket, just like a chief’s blanket. He wrapped it all around him, and then he started on a journey.

As he traveled, he came to a big Rock. Brother Wolf thought that he had never seen such a nice Rock, such a smooth, round, shining Rock. But Brother Wolf thought that the Rock looked cold. So he took off his blanket and wrapped it around the Rock to keep the old Rock warm.

Then Brother Wolf started traveling again, but he had not gone very far when he heard a loud noise—that was the thunder; and he saw a bright light—that was the lightning; and he felt something wet on his nose—that was the rain. So Brother Wolf ran back in great haste to the Rock.

“Oh, Rock,” cried Brother Wolf, “it is storming, and I shall be wet. Give me back my blanket to keep off the rain.”

But, no, Rock would not. Old Rock said he would just keep Brother Wolf’s blanket a little longer.

Then Brother Wolf hid under a tree, and, by and by, along came Brother Fox.

“Oh, Brother Fox,” said Brother Wolf, “go to Rock and bring back my blanket.”

So Brother Fox went to old Rock and told him that Brother Wolf wanted back his blanket to keep the rain off his nose. But, no, old Rock would not give up the blanket.

Then Brother Fox went back and told Brother Wolf, and Brother Wolf cried because he knew his feathers would be spoiled. They sat under a tree, and the rain poured and poured, the lightning flashed, and the thunder roared. Brother Wolf asked Brother Fox to please go again to old Rock and ask for the blanket, but Brother Fox said, “No.”

After a while they heard a great noise, and a loud roaring. The stones in the road began to come skipping by. Brother Wolf peeped out from under the tree. There was old Rock rolling down the road. The rain had started him, and he was coming so hard that he tore great furrows of earth, and uprooted the trees. He came so fast that he could not stop himself.

Brother Fox scampered into a hole to hide, but he left the tip end of his tail sticking out. Old Rock just grazed it as he went by, and that is why the tip of Brother Fox’s tail is pointed.

On and on went old Rock until he came to a river. Splash, in he went, and that was the last that anybody saw of Rock, for he went straight to the bottom.

When the rain was over, Brother Wolf and Brother Fox went down to the river bank to look for old Rock, but they could not find him anywhere. On the top of the water floated Brother Wolf’s gay blanket, so they waited until it came ashore, and they dried it in the sun.

Then Brother Wolf said “Good-by” to Brother Fox, and put on his blanket again, and traveled.

LITTLE BEAR.

Once upon a time, there was an Indian boy and he had a little sister. Now the little sister was not like an Indian child, for she was a bear.

Early one morning the boy started out to seek his fortune, but Little Bear wished to go too.

“No, no, Little Bear, you cannot go. You must stay at home and watch the fire,” said her brother. Then he tied Little Bear to the door posts that she might not run away.

He had not gone very far on his journey when he heard TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP, in the path behind him. There was Little Bear following with the door posts on her back.

“Oh, Little Bear, I told you to stay at home and watch the fire,” said the boy.

He led Little Bear back, and this time he tied her to a pine tree.

He had not gone very far when he heard once more, TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP, in the path behind him. There was Little Bear following with the pine tree on her back.

“Oh, Little Bear, you must stay at home and watch the fire,” said the boy.

He led Little Bear back, and this time he tied her to a rock.

He started on his journey again, but he had not gone a stone’s throw, when he heard THUMP, THUMP, THUMP, in the path behind him. There was Little Bear following him with the rock on her back.

“What shall I do with you, Little Bear?” said the boy. But just then they came to a wide brook with no bridge to span it.

“How shall I cross?” said the little boy.

Little Bear pushed the rock into the water. She laid the pine tree across the rock for a bridge. They both walked across the brook in safety.

“Well, you may come with me, Little Bear,” said the boy.

They journeyed for many days until they came, at last, to some very dark woods. In the woods they met Brother Wolf carrying a candle to light him on his way.

“The sun is lost from the sky,” said Brother Wolf; “the old squaw pulled it down.”

“Oho, I can find the sun,” said Little Bear, “but you must first give me two lumps of maple sugar.”

Brother Wolf gave Little Bear two lumps of maple sugar and she hurried along until she came to the old squaw’s wigwam. The old squaw was stirring a kettle of rice over her fire. Little Bear crept up behind her. Little Bear dropped the two lumps of maple sugar into the kettle. As the old squaw stirred, she tasted her rice.

“It is too sweet,” she said; “I must go to the field for more.”

While she was gone, Little Bear found the sun, which the old squaw had hid in her wigwam. Little Bear tossed it back to the sky again.

When the old squaw came back from the rice fields and missed her sun, she was very angry. She looked for it many, many days, but the clouds hid it from her. Then, one night, she pulled the moon down, and hid that away in her wigwam.

So there was no light in the evening. Brother Wolf lighted his candle again, and he hurried after the boy and Little Bear, who had started on their journey again.

“The moon is gone from the sky,” said Brother Wolf, “the old squaw has pulled it down.”

“Oho, I can find the moon,” said Little Bear; “give me two pinches of salt, Brother Wolf.”

Brother Wolf gave Little Bear two pinches of salt, and Little Bear crept up to the old squaw again, and threw the salt in her kettle of rice.

“The rice is too salty,” said the old squaw, tasting as she stirred; “I must go to the field for more.”

While she was gone, Little Bear snatched the moon from the wigwam, where the old squaw had hid it, and tossed it up to the sky again.

Brother Wolf snuffed his candle, for he did not need it any more, but the old squaw was very angry. The old squaw ran after Little Bear. She caught her, and she put her in a bag, and tied the bag to a tree. Then she went for her spoon with which to beat Little Bear.

But while she was gone, Little Bear bit a hole in the bag with her teeth. She slipped out. Then she filled the bag with the old squaw’s pots and pans. When the old squaw came back, and began beating the bag, she broke all her dishes.

Then the boy and Little Bear picked up enough sun gold and moon silver which had fallen by the road to make them rich for always. And Little Bear traveled with her brother wherever he went after that. Was she not a clever Little Bear?

HOW THE PIGS CAN
SEE THE WIND.

Once upon a time, Mrs. Pig lived in a fine house of her own with her five little pigs. Four of the little pigs were black, but the smallest pig was white and he was as the apple of his mother’s eye.

Around the hill from Mrs. Pig’s house lived Brother Wolf, and Brother Wolf had a mighty good mouth for pig meat. Every night Mr. Wolf came through the garden gate, and he walked round and round Mrs. Pig’s house, sniffing and snuffing, and calling in a soft voice:

“Mrs. Pig, Mrs. Pig, let me come in,

The corn is ripe, and the frosts begin.”

But Mrs. Pig always locked her door fast, and Brother Wolf had to go home without any pig meat.

One night Brother Wolf thought of a trick. He put a very high hat on his head. He put shoes on his feet. He tied a necktie around his neck, and he looked just like Mr. Man.

Then he put a bag of corn over his shoulder, and he walked, TRAMP, TRAMP, up the brick walk that led to Mrs. Pig’s house, and he rapped loudly on Mrs. Pig’s door.

“Mrs. Pig, Mrs. Pig, let me come in,

The corn is ripe, and the frosts begin,”

he said.

“Who knocks?” asked Mrs. Pig, peeping through the window, the little white pig under her arm.

“Mr. Man, come to put a mark on your little pigs,” said Brother Wolf.

Then Mrs. Pig opened the door, and she turned out the four little black pigs. But the little white pig was as the apple of her eye, and she hid him in the cupboard.

So Brother Wolf emptied all the corn out of his bag, and he put in the four little pigs, and he carried them home with him.

By and by, Brother Wolf was hungry for more pig meat, so he dressed himself in his clothes again. He put his bag of corn over his shoulder, and he rapped loudly at Mrs. Pig’s door, calling:

“Mrs. Pig, Mrs. Pig, let me come in,

The corn is ripe, and the frosts begin.”

“Who knocks?” asked Mrs. Pig.

“Mr. Man, come to put a mark on your little white pig,” said Brother Wolf.

But Mrs. Pig barred the door, and locked the window, and hid the little white pig in the dresser, for he was as the apple of her eye.

Then Brother Wolf was very angry, and he took off his hat and his shoes and his necktie. He hurried up and down the roads until he met Mr. Wind, who wore a red cloak, and was sweeping the fields.

Brother Wolf told Mr. Wind how he had a mighty good mouth for pig meat. Mr. Wind said he would help Brother Wolf, for he always liked a romp.

So Mr. Wind and Brother Wolf went to Mrs. Pig’s house and they rapped loudly on the door, and Brother Wolf called out:

“Mrs. Pig, Mrs. Pig, let me come in,

The corn is ripe, and the frosts begin.”

But never a word did Mrs. Pig say.

“Who knocks?” asked Mrs. Pig.

“Blow, Mr. Wind,” said Brother Wolf.

Then Mr. Wind began to puff himself out bigger and bigger. He huffed and he puffed and he blew a mighty gale. He blew round the garden, and he pulled up the corn and threw it down on the ground. He slammed the gate and he rattled the window. He shook the door, and he cried, “WHE-EE, WHE-EE,” in the keyhole, did Mr. Wind.

Brother Wolf was so frightened that his hair stood up straight on his back. Out of the garden he ran, and around the hill. He never stopped, nor looked behind him, and no one ever saw him in Mrs. Pig’s garden again.

“WHE-EE, WHE-EE, let me in,” called Mr. Wind.

Mrs. Pig opened her door a crack, and peeped out with the little white pig under her arm, for he was the apple of her eye.

HUFF, PUFF, the door blew open wide. When Mrs. Pig saw Mr. Wind in his red cloak running around the garden, she hurried off to the woods with her little white pig, and she never came home for a day and a night.

And that is how the pigs first came to see the wind. If you do not believe it, just watch them run when Mr. Wind comes huffing and puffing through the garden.

THE TALKING
GRASS.

Once upon a time when there were only Indians and animals in our land, there was a green hill covered with long talking grass. The four winds of heaven brought the grasses news of what was going on in the world, and of the coming of hunters. Then the grasses whispered this news to their friends, the little red Fox, the Hare, the Deer, and the Wolf. If the animals were too far away to hear the soft voices of the grasses, they gave the messages to the Butterflies. The hill was the refuge of these animals, and the talking grasses were their friends.

One day a great band of hunters came from their camp in the valley, up the hill. They were armed with bows and arrows. They planned to kill enough game to give them food for a long time. But the grasses knew that the hunters were on their way. They warned the animals, who hid at once. When the hunters reached the hill, they saw nothing but green grass waving in the wind. Many bright butterflies flew above it.

The hunters listened and heard the grasses talking to one another. They saw, too, the trails of the animals as they had passed through it. They guessed at once what had happened.

“The grasses have told the animals to flee and hide from us,” they said. “We must kill them. To-night we will rest and sleep among them, for we are tired with our long journey. But to-morrow we will tear every blade of grass up by its roots.”

At these cruel words the grasses became still. They loved their life on the hill, with their roots in the earth and their green blades reaching up to the sunshine. Now they knew that they were going to die in the morning. They could neither sing nor talk any more. But the Butterflies knew the grasses’ peril. They flew away, one by one, so that the hunters would suspect nothing, until they came to the Fox’s den. They told him of the great danger of the talking grasses. They begged him to do anything that he could to save them.

The Fox set off at once. He did not stop until he came to a dark cave on the side of a mountain. Here the Fire Manito lived. Few dared speak to him, for he was a very mighty Manito. He was able to destroy man or beast at his will. But when he saw the eager, trembling little Fox, waiting outside, the Fire Manito asked him his errand. The Fox told him that the grasses were to be killed in the morning, unless something was done to save them.

The Manito went to the back of his cave and brought out a heap of black stones. There was no light in them. He told the Fox about them.

“They came from the depths of the earth,” he said. “The Great Spirit mixed a million sunbeams in each. Then he hid them in the earth until they should be needed to give heat and light to man. Now we will use the black stones to save the grasses.”

The Manito heated the stones in his wood fire and they glowed like red rubies. He sent the Fox ahead to tell the grasses to be brave. He, himself, followed with his arms full of the glowing stones which did not burn him because he was the Fire Manito.

The hunters had arisen early and waited at the foot of the hill, ready to rush up and tear up the grasses. But the Manito laid the brightly burning stones in a circle about the hill. The hunters were not able to get through. It was a ring of fire and it frightened them. They had never seen burning coals before. They went back to their camp and the grasses were safe, for the coals burned to ashes without touching them.

The grasses soon found their voices again, and they have been talking to their friends, the animals, ever since. In the summer they tell the Field Mouse and the Hare where to hide safely. In the spring they tell the Deer that they are fresh and green for his food. When it is winter, a few of the grasses stand up, stiff and tall, above the snow as the lone gray Wolf runs by. They guide him to food. In the fall the whispering of the dry grasses helps the Fox to double his trail so that no one may catch him.

Who of you have heard the voices of the grasses?

HOW THE FOX
PLAYED HERDSMAN.

Once upon a time there was a little old woman who had a farm of her very own with sheep, and cows, and swine. But the little old woman was so busy making butter and minding the dairy that she had no time to look after the herds.

One fine morning she started out to hire a herdsman. Now she had not gone very far when she met a bear.

“Whither away, Goody?” asked Bruin of the little old woman.

“Oh, I am off to engage a herdsman for my farm,” said Goody in reply.

“Why not hire me, Goody?” asked Bruin.

“Can you call the flocks at evening?” asked the little old woman.

“You should just hear me,” said Bruin, and he called in a very loud and gruff voice, “OW, OW.”

“No, no, I won’t have you,” said the little old woman as soon as she heard his gruff voice, and off she went on her way.

She had not gone a day’s journey farther when she met a wolf.

“Whither away, Goody?” asked the wolf of the little old woman.

“Oh, I am off to engage a herdsman for my farm,” said Goody.

“Why not hire me, Goody?” asked the wolf.

“Can you call the flocks at evening?” asked the little old woman.

“You should just hear me,” said the wolf, and he called in a shrill voice, “UH, UH.”

“No, no,” said the little old woman as soon as she heard that, and off she went on her way.

But before the end of another day’s journey, whom should the little old woman meet but Brother Fox, sitting beside a blackberry bush, and sunning himself.

“Whither away, Goody?” asked Brother Fox.

“Oh, I am off to engage a herdsman for my farm,” said Goody in reply.

“Why not hire me, Goody?” said Brother Fox.

“Can you call the flocks at evening?” asked the little old woman.

“Ah, you should hear me,” said Brother Fox. He opened his mouth very wide, and sang in a sweet voice:

“Tum-ti-ti, tum-ti-ti-tra-la-la.”

“You will do very well,” said the little old woman, quite carried away with the fox’s sweet singing. “You shall come home with me, and be my herdsman.”

Things went very well for a little while at the farm. Early each morning Brother Fox led the sheep and the cows and the swine to pasture, and at night he led them home again, and locked the barn, and bolted the pigpen.

But, somehow, after a week, the flocks and the herds seemed smaller each night when the little old woman went out to make the rounds of the farm.

“Where is the small black pig?” she asked of Brother Fox.

“Loitering in the meadow,” said Brother Fox, wiping his mouth with his paw.

“Where is the old ram?” asked the little old woman.

“He stops behind at the brook,” said Brother Fox, turning his head away that Goody might not see him laughing.

So Goody went back to the dairy, and she wondered and wondered what made the flocks grow smaller.

At last she had churned enough butter to make a fine cake and she went out to the poultry roost for eggs with which to enrich it.

Alas, such a hubbub, and cackling, and fussing did she find.

The cock stood on the pump, crying loudly, “Cock-a-doodle-do.”

The hens ran about cackling, and out of their midst walked Brother Fox with a chicken over his back, and his hat full of eggs.

And as he went along he sang to all the poultry yard:

“Tum-ti-ti, Tum-ti-ti,

Tum, tum, ti,

Old Goody’s herdsman,

Sly Reynard, am I.”

“Well, it’s certainly a very poor herdsman you are,” cried the little old woman. “Where is the small black pig? Where is the old ram?”

She ran after Brother Fox, who dropped his eggs and broke every one, and tipped over the churn as he passed the dairy. The little old woman picked up the dasher, and would have beaten Brother Fox, but he was too quick for her, and reached the woods, with a drop of cream on the tip end of his tail.

So the little old woman learned what had become of her herds, and Brother Fox was never able to get that cream from off his tail, The tip end has been white ever since he played at being a herdsman.

MR. ELEPHANT
AND MR. FROG.

Once upon a time, when Mr. Elephant and Mr. Frog lived together in the same wood with Mr. Fox and Mr. Tiger and Mr. Hare and Mr. Lion, the animals were all very good friends.

Mr. Elephant was very, very big, and Mr. Frog was very, very little, but every day they went walking together, Mr. Elephant going in front, tramp, tramp, tramp; and Mr. Frog going on behind, hop, hop, hop.

One night when they came home, Mr. Hare, who was a saucy little fellow, ran to meet them, and he said:

“Oho, Mr. Frog says Mr. Elephant is his horse.”

Then Mr. Fox and Mr. Tiger and Mr. Lion all followed after Mr. Hare, crying:

“Oho, oho, Mr. Elephant is Mr. Frog’s horse.”

Mr. Elephant turned around, and he said in a very gruff voice to Mr. Frog:

“Did you tell them, grandson, that I was your horse?”

And Mr. Frog said in a high, squeaky voice:

“No, no, grandfather.”

But all the time Mr. Frog was thinking of a trick to play on Mr. Elephant.

The next day, Mr. Elephant and Mr. Frog started off for a long walk. Mr. Frog had heard of a place where the swamps were deep and muddy. Mr. Elephant knew a place where the bananas grew ripe and thick. And they spent a pleasant day. On the way home Mr. Frog hopped up close to Mr. Elephant, and he said in his high, squeaky voice:

“Grandfather, I have no strength to walk. Let me get up on your back.”