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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Here And Now Story Book, by Lucy Sprague Mitchell.
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<pre>
Project Gutenberg's Here and Now Story Book, by Lucy Sprague Mitchell
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: Here and Now Story Book
Two- to seven-year-olds
Author: Lucy Sprague Mitchell
Illustrator: Hendrik Willem Van Loon
Release Date: October 28, 2008 [EBook #27075]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HERE AND NOW STORY BOOK ***
Produced by Suzanne Shell, Anne Storer and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
</pre>
<p class="notes">Transcriber’s Note:<br />
Midi and PDF files have been provided for the song snippets in
this e-book. To hear, click on the [Listen] link. To view a
song in sheet-music form, click on the [PDF] link.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 408px;">
<img src="images/icover.jpg" width="408" height="600" alt="cover" title="" />
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>HERE AND NOW STORY BOOK</h2>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="box2">
<h1>HERE AND NOW<br />
STORY BOOK</h1>
<h3>TWO- TO SEVEN-YEAR-OLDS</h3>
<p class="center">Experimental Stories Written for the Children<br />
of the City and Country School<br />
(formerly the Play School)<br />
and the Nursery School of the<br />
Bureau of Educational Experiments.</p>
<p> </p>
<p class="center" style="margin-bottom: -1em;"><em>by</em></p>
<h2>LUCY SPRAGUE MITCHELL</h2>
<p> </p>
<p class="center" style="margin-bottom: -1em;"><em>Illustrated by</em></p>
<h3>Hendrik Willem Van Loon</h3>
<p> </p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 150px;">
<img src="images/ititle.png" width="150" height="141" alt="Logo Classics To Grow On" title="" />
</div>
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><em>Published by E. P. Dutton & Company, Inc., for</em><br />
<span style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>PARENTS’ INSTITUTE, Inc.</strong></span><br />
Publishers of Parents’ Magazine<br />
and Approved Publications for Young People<br />
52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York</p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p style="font-size: smaller;" class="center"><span class="smcap">copyright, 1921,</span><br />
BY E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY, INC.</p>
<p style="font-size: smaller;" class="center"><span class="smcap">copyright (renewal) 1948</span><br />
BY LUCY SPRAGUE MITCHELL</p>
<p style="font-size: smaller;" class="center">——————</p>
<p style="font-size: smaller;" class="center"><em>All Rights Reserved</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="font-size: smaller;" class="center"><em>Printed in the United States of America</em></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
<p><span class="ralign1">page</span></p>
<p class="content1" style="margin-top: 3em;">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#FOREWORD">Foreword</a></span>: <span class="smcap">By Caroline Pratt</span> <span class="ralign">ix</span></p>
<p class="content1">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_1">Introduction</a></span> <span class="ralign1">1</span></p>
<p class="content2">
<em><a href="#Page_4">Content</a></em>: Its educational and psychological basis <span class="ralign">4</span></p>
<p class="content2">
<em><a href="#Page_46">Form</a></em>: Its patterns in words, sentences and stories <span class="ralign">46</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p class="content1">
<span class="smcap">Stories</span>:</p>
<p class="content2a">
<em>Two-Year-Olds</em>: Types to be adjusted to individual
children. Content, personal activities, told in
motor and sense terms. Form reduced to a succession
of few simple patterns.</p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_73">Marni Takes a Ride</a></span> <span class="ralign">73</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_79">Marni Gets Dressed in the Morning</a></span> <span class="ralign">81</span></p>
<p class="content2a">
<em>Three-Year-Olds</em>: Content based on enumeration of
familiar sense and motor associations and
simple familiar chronological sequences. Some
attempt to give opportunity for own contribution
or for “motor enjoyment.”</p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_89">The Room with the Window Looking Out on the Garden</a></span> <span class="ralign">89</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_99">The Many Horse Stable</a></span> <span class="ralign">99</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_103">My Kitty</a></span> <span class="ralign">105</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_107">The Rooster and the Hens</a></span> <span class="ralign">109</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_114">The Little Hen and the Rooster</a></span> <span class="ralign">114</span></p>
<p class="content2a">
<em>Jingles</em>:</p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_115">My Horse, Old Dan</a></span> <span class="ralign">115</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_118">Horsie Goes Jog-a-Jog</a></span> <span class="ralign">118</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_119">Auto, Auto</a></span> <span class="ralign">119</span></p>
<p class="content2a">
<em>Four- and Five-Year-Olds</em>: Content, simple relationships
between familiar moving objects, stressing
particularly the idea of use. Emphasis on
sound. Attempt to make verse patterns carry
the significant points in the narrative.</p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_121">How Spot Found a Home</a></span> <span class="ralign">121</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_131">The Dinner Horses</a></span> <span class="ralign">131</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_137">The Grocery Man</a></span> <span class="ralign">137</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_141">The Journey</a></span> <span class="ralign">141</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_147">Pedro’s Feet</a></span> <span class="ralign">147</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_153">How the Engine Learned the Knowing Song</a></span> <span class="ralign">153</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_167">The Fog Boat Story</a></span> <span class="ralign">167</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_177">Hammer, Saw, and Plane</a></span> <span class="ralign">177</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_185">The Elephant</a></span> <span class="ralign">185</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_189">How the Animals Move</a></span> <span class="ralign">189</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_193">The Sea-Gull</a></span> <span class="ralign">192</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_197">The Farmer Tries to Sleep</a></span> <span class="ralign">197</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_203">Wonderful-Cow-That-Never-Was</a></span> <span class="ralign">203</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_211">Things that Loved the Lake</a></span> <span class="ralign">211</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_219">How the Singing Water Got to the Tub</a></span> <span class="ralign">219</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_229">The Children’s New Dresses</a></span> <span class="ralign">229</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_237">Old Dan Gets the Coal</a></span> <span class="ralign">237</span></p>
<p class="content2a">
<em>Six- and Seven-Year-Olds</em>: Content, relationships
further removed from the personal and immediate
and extended to include social significance of
simple familiar facts. Longer-span pattern which
has become organic with beginning, middle and end.</p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_241">The Subway Car</a></span> <span class="ralign">241</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_251">Boris Takes a Walk and Finds Many Different Kinds of Trains</a></span> <span class="ralign">251</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_267">Boris Walks Every Way in New York</a></span> <span class="ralign">267</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_281">Speed</a></span> <span class="ralign">281</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_291">Five Little Babies</a></span> <span class="ralign">291</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_299">Once the Barn Was Full of Hay</a></span> <span class="ralign">299</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_309">The Wind</a></span> <span class="ralign">309</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_315">The Leaf Story</a></span> <span class="ralign">315</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_320">A Locomotive</a></span> <span class="ralign">320</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_322">Moon, Moon</a></span> <span class="ralign">322</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_323">Automobile Song</a></span> <span class="ralign">323</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_325">Silly Will</a></span> <span class="ralign">325</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_339">Eben’s Cows</a></span> <span class="ralign">340</span></p>
<p class="content3">
<span class="smcap"><a href="#Page_353">The Sky Scraper</a></span> <span class="ralign">353</span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><a name="FOREWORD" id="FOREWORD"></a>FOREWORD</h2>
<p>Our school has always assumed that children
are interested in and will work with or give expression
to those things which are familiar to them.
This is not new: the kindergarten gives domestic
life a prominent place with little children. But
with the kindergarten the present and familiar is
abandoned in most schools and emphasis is placed
upon that which is unfamiliar and remote. It is
impossible to conceive of children working their
own way from the familiar to the unknown unless
they develop a method in understanding the
familiar which will apply to the unfamiliar as
well. This method is the method of art and
science—the method of experimentation and inquiry.
We can almost say that children are born
with it, so soon do they begin to show signs of
applying it. As they have been in the past and
as they are in the present to a very great extent,
schools make no attempt to provide for this
method; in fact they take pains to introduce another.
They are disposed to set up a rigid program
which answers inquiries before they are
made and supplies needs before they have been
felt.</p>
<p>We try to keep the children upon present day
and familiar things until they show by their attack
on materials and especially upon information
that they are ready to work out into the unknown
and unfamiliar. In the matter of stories and
verse which fit into such a program we have always
felt an almost total void. Whether other
schools feel this would depend upon their intentional
program. Surely no school would advise
giving classical literature without the setting
which would make the stories and verse understandable.
It is a question whether the fact of
desirable literature has not in the past and does
not still govern our whole school program more
than many educators would be willing to admit.
What seems to be more logical is to set up that
which is psychologically sound so far as we know
it and create if need be a new literature to help
support the structure.</p>
<p>In the presence of art, schools have always taken
a modest attitude. For some reason or other they
seem to think it out of their province. They regard
children as potential scientists, professional
men and women, captains of industry, but scarcely
potential artists. To what school of design, what
academy of music, what school of literary production,
do our common schools lead? We are not
fitting our children to compose, to create, but at
our best to appreciate and reproduce.</p>
<p>Mrs. Mitchell as story teller in this new sense
of writing stories, rather than merely telling them,
is having an influence in the school which has not
been altogether unlooked for. The children look
upon themselves as composers in language and
language thus becomes not merely a useful
medium of expression but also an art medium.
They regard their own content, gathered by themselves
in a perfectly familiar setting as fit for use
as art material. That is, just as the children draw
and show power to compose with crayons and
paints, they use language to compose what they
term stories or occasionally, verse. Often these
“stories” are a mere rehearsal of experiences, but
in so far as they are vivid and have some sort of
fitting ending they pass as a childish art expression
just as their compositions in drawing do.</p>
<p>So far as content is concerned the school gives
the children varied opportunities to know and express
what they find in their environment. Mrs.
Mitchell finds this content in the school. It is
being used, it is even being expressed in language.
What she particularly does is to show the possibility
of using this same content as art in language.
She does this both by writing stories herself and
by helping the children to write. The children
are not by any means read to, so much as they are
encouraged to tell their own stories. These are
taken down verbatim by the teachers of the
younger groups. Through skilful handling of several
of the older groups what the children call
“group stories” are produced as well as individual
ones.</p>
<p>We hope this book will bring to parents and
teachers what it has to us, a new method of approach
to literature for little children, and to children
the joy our children have in the stories
themselves.</p>
<p style="margin-left: 30em;"><span class="smcap">Caroline Pratt</span></p>
<p>The City and Country School<br />
July, 1921</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p>
<h2>HERE AND NOW STORY BOOK</h2>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p style="font-size: 2em;" class="center"><strong>HERE AND NOW STORY BOOK</strong></p>
<h2>INTRODUCTION</h2>
<p>These stories are experiments,—experiments
both in content and in form. They were written
because of a deep dissatisfaction felt by a group
of people working experimentally in a laboratory
school, with the available literature for children.
I am publishing them not because I feel they have
come through to any particularly noteworthy
achievement, but because they indicate a method
of work which I believe to be sound where children
are concerned. They must always be regarded
as experiments, but experiments which
have been strictly limited to lines suggested to me
by the children themselves. Both the stuff of the
stories and the mould in which they are cast are
based on suggestions gained directly from children.
I have tried to put aside my notions of what
was “childlike.” I have tried to ignore what I,
as an adult, like. I have tried to study children’s
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span>
interests not historically but through their present
observations and inquiries, and their sense of form
through their spontaneous expressions in language,
and to model my own work strictly on these findings.
I have forced myself throughout to be deliberate,
conscious, for fear I should slip back to
adult habits of thought and expression. I can give
here only samples of the many stories and questions
I have gathered from the children which
form the basis of my own stories. Suffice it that
my own stories attempt to follow honestly the leads
which here and now the children themselves indicate
in content and in form, no matter how difficult
or strange the going for adult feet.</p>
<p>First, as to the stuff of which the story is made,—the
content. I have assumed that anything to
which a child gives his spontaneous attention, anything
which he questions as he moves around the
world, holds appropriate material about which to
talk to him either in speech or in writing. I have
assumed that the answers to these his spontaneous
inquiries should be given always in terms of a
relationship which is natural and intelligible at
his age and which will help him to order the
familiar facts of his own experiences. Thus the
answers will themselves lead him on to new inquiries.
For they will give him not so much new
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span>
facts as a new method of attack. I have further
assumed that any of this material which by taking
on a pattern form can thereby enhance or deepen
its intrinsic quality is susceptible of becoming
literature. Material which does not lend itself to
some sort of intentional design or form, may be
good for informational purposes but not for stories
as such.</p>
<p>The task, then, is to examine first the things
which get the spontaneous attention of a two-year-old,
a three-year-old and so up to a seven-year-old;
and then to determine what relationships are
natural and intelligible at these ages. Obviously
to determine the mere subject of attention is not
enough. Children of all ages attend to engines.
But the two-year-old attends to certain things and
the seven-year-old to quite different ones. The
relationships through which the two-year-old interprets
his observations may make of the engine
a gigantic extension of his own energy and movement;
whereas the relationships through which the
seven-year-old interprets his observations may
make of the engine a scientific example of the expansion
of steam or of the desire of men to get
rapidly from one place to another. What relationship
he is relying on we can get only by watching
the child’s own activities. The second part
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span>
of the task is to discover what <em>is</em> pattern to the
untrained but unspoiled ears, eyes, muscles and
minds of the little folk who are to consume the
stories. Each part of the task has its peculiar difficulties.
But fortunately in each, children do point
the way if we have the courage to forget our own
adult way and follow theirs.</p>
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><strong>CONTENT</strong></p>
<p>In looking for content for these stories I followed
the general lines of the school for which
they were written. The school gives the children
the opportunity to explore first their own environment
and gradually widens this environment for
them along lines of their own inquiries. Consequently
I did not seek for material outside the ordinary
surroundings of the children. On the
contrary, I assumed that in stories as in other educational
procedure, the place to begin is the point
at which the child has arrived,—to begin and lead
out from. With small children this point is still
within the “here” and the “now,” and so stories
must begin with the familiar and the immediate.
But also stories must lead children out from the
familiar and immediate, for that is the method
both of education and of art. Here and now stories
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span>
mean to me stories which include the children’s
first-hand experiences as a starting point, not stories
which are literally limited to these experiences.
Therefore to get my basis for the stories I went
to the environment in which a child of each age
naturally finds himself and there I watched him.
I tried to see what in his home, in his school, in
the streets, he seized upon and how he made this
his own. I tried to determine what were the relationships
he used to order his experiences. Fortunately
for the purposes of writing stories I did
not have to get behind the baffling eyes and the
inscrutable sounds of a small baby. Yet I learned
much for understanding the twos by watching even
through the first months. What “the great, big,
blooming, buzzing confusion” (as James describes
it) means to an infant, I fancy we grown-ups
will really never know. But I suppose we may
be sure that existence is to him largely a stream
of sense impressions. Also I suppose we are
reasonably safe in saying that whatever the impression
that reaches him he tends to translate it
into action. At what age a child accomplishes
what can be called a “thought” or what these first
thoughts are, is surely beyond our present powers
to describe. But that his early thoughts have a
discernible muscular expression, I fancy we may
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span>
say. It may well be that thought is merely associative
memory as Loeb maintains. It may well
be that behaviorists are right and that thought is
just “the rhythmic mimetic rehearsal of the first
hand experience in motor terms.” If the act of
thinking is itself motor, its expression is somewhat
attenuated in adults. Be that as it may, a small
child’s expressions are still in unmistakable motor
terms. It is obviously through the large muscles
that a baby makes his responses. And even a three-year-old
can scarcely think “engine” without showing
the pull of his muscles and the puff-puffing of
exertion. Nor can he observe an object without
making some movement towards it. He takes in
through his senses; and he interprets through his
muscles.</p>
<p>For our present purposes this characteristic has
an important bearing. The world pictured for the
child must be a world of sounds and smells and
tastes and sights and feeling and contacts. Above
all his early stories must be of activities and they
must be told in motor terms. Often we are tempted
to give him reasons in response to his incessant
“why?” but when he asks “why?” he really is
not searching for reasons at all. A large part of
the time he is not even asking a question. He
merely enjoys this reciperative form of speech and
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span>
is indignant if your answer is not what he expects.
One of my children enjoyed this antiphonal
method of following his own thoughts to such an
extent that for a time he told his stories in the
form of questions telling me each time what to
answer! His questions had a social but no scientific
bearing. And even when a three-year-old asks
a real question he wants to be answered in terms
of action or of sense impressions and not in terms
of reasons why. How could it be otherwise since
he still thinks with his senses and his muscles and
not with that generalizing mechanism which conceives
of cause and effect? The next time a three-year-old
asks you “why you put on shoes?” see if
he likes to be told “Mother wears shoes when she
goes out because it is cold and the sidewalks are
hard,” or if he prefers, “Mother’s going to go outdoors
and take a big bus to go and buy something:”
or “You listen and in a minute you’ll hear mother’s
shoes going pat, pat, pat downstairs and then you’ll
hear the front door close bang! and mother won’t
be here any more!” “Why?” really means, “please
talk to me!” and naturally he likes to be talked to
in terms he can understand which are essentially
sensory and motor.</p>
<p>Now what activities are appropriate for the first
stories? I think the answer is clear. His, the
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span>
child’s, own! The first activities which a child
knows are of course those of his own body movements
whether spontaneous or imposed upon him
by another. Everything is in terms of himself.
Again I think none of us would like to hazard a
guess as to when the child comes through to a sharp
distinction between himself and other things or
other persons. But we are sure, I think, that this
distinction is a matter of growth which extends
over many years and that at two, three, and even
four, it is imperfectly apprehended. We all know
how long a child is in acquiring a correct use of
the pronouns “me” and “you.” And we know that
long after he has this language distinction, he still
calls everything he likes “mine.” “This is my cow,
this is my tree!” The only way to persuade him
that it is <em>not</em> his is to call it some one else’s. Possessed
it must be. He knows the world only in
personal terms. That is, his early sense of
relationship is that of himself to his concrete
environment. This later evolves into a sense of
relationship between other people and their concrete
environment.</p>
<p>At first, then, a child can not transcend himself
or his experiences. Nor should he be asked to.
A two-year-old’s stories must be completely his
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span>
stories with his own familiar little person moving
in his own familiar background. They should
vivify and deepen the sense of the one relationship
he does feel keenly,—that of himself to something
well-known. Now a two-year-old’s range of experiences
is not large. At least the experiences in
which he takes a real part are not many. So his
stories must be of his daily routine,—his eating,
his dressing, his activities with his toys and his
home. These are the things to which he attends:
they make up his world. And they must be his
very own eating and dressing and home, and not
eating and dressing and homes in general. Stories
which are not intimately his own, I believe either
pass by or strain a two-year-old; and I doubt
whether many three-year-olds can participate with
pleasure and without strain in any experience
which has not been lived through in person. He
may of course get pleasure from the sound of the
story apart from its meaning much earlier. Just
now we are thinking solely of the content. I well
remember the struggles of my three-year-old boy
to get outside himself and view a baby chicken’s
career objectively. He checked up each step in
my story by this orienting remark, “That the baby
chicken in the shell, not me! The baby chicken
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span>
go scritch-scratch, not me!” Was not this an
evident effort to comprehend an extra-personal
relationship?</p>
<p>Again just as at first a small child can not get
outside himself, so he can not get outside the immediate.
At first he can not by himself recall even
a simple chronological sequence. He is still in
the narrowest, most limiting sense, too entangled
in the “here” and the “now.” The plot sense
emerges slowly. Indeed there is slight plot value
in most children’s stories up to eight years. Plot
is present in embryonic form in the omnipresent
personal drama: “Where’s baby? Peek-a-boo!
There she is!” It can be faintly detected in the
pleasure a child has in an actual walk. But the
pleasure he derives from the sense of completeness,
the sense that a walk or a story has a beginning
and a middle and an end, the real plot
pleasure, is negligible compared with the pleasure
he gets in the action itself. Small children’s experiences
are and should be pretty much continuous
flows of more or less equally important
episodes. Their stories should follow their experiences.
They should have no climaxes, no sense of
completion. The episodes should be put together
more like a string of beads than like an organic
whole. Almost any section of a child’s experience
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span>
related in simple chronological sequence makes a
satisfactory story.</p>
<p>This can be pressed even further. There is another
kind of relationship by which little children
interpret their environment. It is the early manifestation
of the associational process which in our
adult life so largely crowds out the sensory and
motor appreciation of the world. It runs way back
to the baby’s pleasure in recognizing things, certainly
long before the period of articulate questions.
We all retain vestiges of this childlike
pleasure in our joyful greeting of a foreign word
that is understood or in any new application of
an old thought or design. As a child acquires a
few words he adds the pleasure of naming,—an
extension of the pleasure of recognition. This
again develops into the joy of enumerating objects
which are grouped together in some close association,
usually physical juxtaposition. For instance a
two-or three-year-old likes to have every article he
ate for breakfast rehearsed or to have every member
of the family named at each episode in a story
which concerns the group! Earlier he likes to
have his five little toes checked off as pigs or
merely numbered. This is closely tied up with
the child’s pattern sense which we shall discuss at
length under “Form.” Now the pleasure of
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span>
enumeration, like that of a refrain, is in part at
least a pleasure in muscle pattern. My two-year-old
daughter composed a song which well illustrates
the fascination of enumeration. The refrain
“Tick-tock” was borrowed from a song which had
been sung to her.</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
“Tick-tock<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Marni’s nose,</span><br />
Tick-tock<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Marni’s eyes,</span><br />
Tick-tock<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Marni’s mouth,</span><br />
Tick-tock<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Marni’s teeth,</span><br />
Tick-tock<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Marni’s chin,</span><br />
Tick-tock<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Marni’s romper,</span><br />
Tick-tock<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Marni’s stockings,</span><br />
Tick-tock<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Marni’s shoes,” etc., etc.</span></p>
</div>
<p>This she sang day after day, enumerating such
groups as her clothes, the objects on the mantel and
her toys. Walt Whitman has given us glorified
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span>
enumerations of the most astounding vitality. If
some one would only pile up equally vigorous ones
for children! But it is not easy for an adult to
gather mere sense or motor associations without a
plot thread to string them on. The children’s response
to the two I have attempted in this collection,
“Old Dan” and “My Kitty,” make me eager
to see it tried more commonly.</p>
<p>All this means that the small child’s attention
and energy are absorbed in developing a technique
of observation and control of his immediate surroundings.
The functioning of his senses and his
muscles engrosses him. Ideally his stories should
happen currently along with the experience they
relate or the object they reproduce, merely deepening
the experience by giving it some pleasurable
expression. At first the stories will have to be of
this running and partly spontaneous type. But
soon a child will like to have the story to recall an
experience recently enjoyed. The living over of
a walk, a ride, the sight of a horse or a cow, will
give him a renewed sense of participation in a
pleasurable activity. This is his first venture in
vicarious experiences. And he must be helped to
it through strong sense and muscular recalls. I
have felt that these fairly literal recalls of every
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span>
day details <em>did</em> deepen his sense of relationships
since by himself he cannot recapture these familiar
details even in a simple chronological sequence.</p>
<p>But if stories for a two or a three-year-old need
to be of himself they must be written especially
for him. Those written for another two-year-old
may not fit. Consequently the first three stories in
this collection are given as types rather than as
independent narratives. “Marni Takes a Ride” is
so elementary in its substance and its form as to be
hardly recognizable as a “story” at all. And yet
the appeal is the same as in the more developed
narratives. It falls between the embryonic story
stage of “Peek-a-boo!” and Marni’s second story.
It was first told during the actual ride. Repeated
later it seemed to give the child a sense of adventure,—an
inclusion of and still an extension of
herself beyond the “here” and “now” which is the
essence of a story. Both of Marni’s stories are
given as types for a mother to write for her two-year-old;
the “Room with the Window in It”
(written for the Play School group) is given as a
type for a teacher to write for her three-year-old
group.</p>
<p>I cannot leave the subject of the “familiar” for
children without looking forward a few years.
This process of investigating and trying to control
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span>
his immediate surroundings, this appreciation of
the world through his senses and his muscles, does
not end when the child has gained some sense of
his own self as distinguished from the world,—of
the “me” and the “not me,”—or achieved some
ability to expand temporarily the “here” and the
“now” into the “there” and the “then.” The process
is a precious one and should not be interrupted and
confused by the interjection of remote or impersonal
material. He still thinks and feels primarily
through his own immediate experiences. If this is
interfered with he is left without his natural
material for experimentation for he cannot yet
experiment easily in the world of the intangible.
Moreover to the child the familiar <em>is</em> the interesting.
And it remains so I believe through that
transition period,—somewhere about seven years,—when
the child becomes poignantly aware of the
world outside his own immediate experience,—of
an order, physical or social, which he does not
determine, and so gradually develops a sense of
standards of what is to be expected in the world of
nature or of his fellows along with a sense of workmanship.
It is only the blind eye of the adult that
finds the familiar uninteresting. The attempt to
amuse children by presenting them with the
strange, the bizarre, the unreal, is the unhappy
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span>
result of this adult blindness. Children do not
find the unusual piquant until they are firmly
acquainted with the usual; they do not find the
preposterous humorous until they have intimate
knowledge of ordinary behavior; they do not get
the point of alien environments until they are securely
oriented in their own. Too often we
mistake excitement for genuine interest and give
the children stimulus instead of food. The fairy
story, the circus, novelty hunting, delight the
sophisticated adult; they excite and confuse the
child. Red Riding-Hood and circus Indians excite
the little child; Cinderella confuses him. Not
one clarifies any relationship which will further
his efforts to order the world. Nonsense when
recognized and enjoyed as such is more than legitimate;
it is a part of every one’s heritage. But nonsense
which is confused with reality is vicious,—the
more so because its insinuations are subtle.
So far as their content is concerned, it is chiefly
as a protest against this confusing presentation of
unreality, this substitution of excitement for legitimate
interest, that these stories have been written.
It is not that a child outgrows the familiar. It is
rather that as he matures, he sees new relationships
in the old. If our stories would follow his lead,
they should not seek for unfamiliar and strange
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span>
stuff in intrigue him; they should seek to deepen
and enrich the relationships by which he is dimly
groping to comprehend and to order his familiar
world.</p>
<p>But to return to the younger children. Children
of four are not nearly so completely ego-centric as
those of three. There has seemed to me to be a
distinct transition at this age to a more objective
way of thinking. A four-year-old does not to the
same extent have to be a part of every situation he
conceives of. Ordinarily, too, he moves out from
his own narrowly personal environment into a
slightly wider range of experiences. Now, what
in this wider environment gets his spontaneous attention?
What does he take from the street life,
for instance, to make his own? Surely it is moving
things. He is still primarily motor in his interest
and expression and remains so certainly up to six
years. Engines, boats, wagons with horses, all animals,
his own moving self,—these are the things
he notices and these are the things he interprets
in his play activities. Transportation and animals
and himself. Do not these pretty well cover the
field of his interests? If conceived of as motor
and personal do they not hold all the material a
four-or five-year-old needs for stories? If we bring
in inanimate unmoving things, we must do with
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span>
them what he does. We must endow them with
life and motion. We need not be afraid of
personification. This is the age when anthropomorphism
flourishes. The five-year-old is still
motor; his conception of cause is still personal. He
thinks through his muscles; he personifies in his
thought and his play.</p>
<p>Nevertheless there is very real danger in anthropomorphism,—in
thus leaving the world of reality.
There is danger of confusing the child. We must
be sure our personifications are built on relationships
which our child can understand and which
have an objective validity. We must be sure that
a wolf remains a wolf and an engine an engine,
though endowed with human speech.</p>
<p>Now, what are the typical relationships which
a four-or five-year-old uses to bind together his
world into intelligible experiences? We have already
noted the personal relationship which persists
in modified form. But does not the grouping
of things because of physical juxtaposition now
give way to a conception of “Use”? Does he not
think of the world largely in terms of active functioning?
Has not the typical question of this age
become “What’s it for?” Even his early definitions
are in terms of use which has a strong motor
implication. “A table is to eat off”; “a spoon is to
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span>
eat in”; “a river means where you get drinks out
of water, and catch fish, and throw stones.” (Waddle:
Introduction to Child Psychology, p. 170.)
It was only consistent with his general conception
of relationships in the world to have a little boy
of my acquaintance examine a very small man sitting
beside him in the subway and then turn to
his father with the question, “What is that little
man for?”</p>
<p>Stories which are offered to small children must
be assessed from this two-fold point of view. What
relationships are they based on? And in what
terms are they told? Fairy stories should not be
exempted. We are inclined to accept them uncritically,
feeling that they do not cramp a child
as does reality. We cling to the idea that children
need a fairy world to “cultivate their imaginations.”
In the folk tales we are intrigued by the
past,—by the sense that these embodiments of
human experience, having survived the ages,
should be exempt from modern analysis. If, however,
we do commit the sacrilege of looking at them
alongside of our educational principles, I think we
find a few precious ones that stand the test. For
children under six, however, even these precious
few contribute little in content, but much through
their matchless form. On the other hand, we find
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span>
that many of the human experiences which these
old tales embody are quite unsuitable for four-and
five-year-olds. Cruelty, trickery, economic inequality,—these
are experiences which have
shaped and shaken adults and alas! still continue
to do so. But do we wish to build them into a
four-year-old’s thinking? Some of these experiences
run counter to the trends of thinking we are
trying to establish in other ways; some merely confuse
them. We seem to identify imagination with
gullibility or vague thinking. But surely true
imagination is not based on confusion. Imagination
is the basis of art. But confused art is a
contradiction of terms.</p>
<p>Now, the ordinary fairy tale which is the chief
story diet of the four-and five-year-olds, I believe
does confuse them; not because it does not stick to
reality (for neither do the children) but because
it does not deal with the things with which they
have had first-hand experience and does not attempt
to present or interpret the world according
to the relationships which the child himself employs.
Rather it gives the child material which he
is incapable of handling. Much in these tales is
symbolic and means to the adult something quite
different from what it bears on its face. And
much, I believe, is confused even to the grown-up.
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span>
Now a confused adult does not make a child! Nor
does it ever help a child to give him confusion.
When my four-year-old personified a horse for one
whole summer, he lived the actual life of a horse
as far as he knew it. His bed was always “a stall,”
his food was always “hay,” he always brushed his
“mane” and “put on his harness” for breakfast. It
was only when real horse information gave out
that he supplied experiences from his own life.
He was not limited by reality. He was exercising
his imagination. This is quite different from the
adult mixtures of the animal, the social, and the
moral worlds. Does not Cinderella interject a
social and economic situation which is both confusing
and vicious? Does not Red Riding-Hood
in its real ending plunge the child into an inappropriate
relationship of death and brutality or in
its “happy ending” violate all the laws that can be
violated in regard to animal life? Does not “Jack
and the Beanstalk” delay a child’s rationalizing of
the world and leave him longer than is desirable
without the beginnings of scientific standards?
The growth of the sense of reality is a growth of
the sense of relations. From the time when the
child begins to relate isolated experiences, when
he groups together associations, when he begins to
note the sequence, the order of things, from this
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span>
time he is beginning to think scientifically. It is
preëminently the function of education to further
the growth of the sense of reality, to give the child
the sense of relationship between facts, material or
social: that is, to further scientific conceptions.
Stories, if they are to be a part of an educational
process, must also further the growth of the sense
of reality, must help the child to interpret the relationships
in the world around him and help him
to develop a scientific process of thinking. It is
not important that he know this or that particular
fact; it <em>is</em> important that he be able to fit any particular
fact into a rational scheme of thought. Accordingly,
the relationships which a story clarifies
are of much greater import than the facts it gives.
All this, of course, concerns the content of stories—the
intentional material it presents to the child
and has nothing to do with the pleasure of the presentation,—the
relish which comes from the form
of the story. I do not wish this to be interpreted
to mean that I think all fairy stories forever harmful.
From the beginning innocuous tales like the
“Gingerbread Man” should be given for the pattern
as should the “Old Woman and Her Pig.”
Moreover, after a child is somewhat oriented in
the physical and social world, say at six or seven,—I
think he can stand a good deal of straight fairy
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span>
lore. It will sweep him with it. He will relish
the flight the more for having had his feet on the
ground. But for brutal tales like Red Riding-Hood
or for sentimental ones like Cinderella I find
no place in any child’s world. Obviously, fairy
stories cannot be lumped and rejected en masse.
I am merely pleading not to have them accepted en
masse on the ground that they “have survived the
ages” and “cultivate the imagination.” For a
child’s imagination, since it is his native endowment,
will surely flourish if he is given freedom
for expression, without calling upon the stimulus
of adult fancies. It is only the jaded adult mind,
afraid to trust to the children’s own fresh springs
of imagination, that feels for children the need of
the stimulus of magic.</p>
<p>The whole question of myths and sagas together
with the function of personification must be taken
up with the older children. For the present we
are still concerned with four-and five-year-olds.
Two sets of stories told by four-and five-year-old
children in the school seem to me to show what
emphasizing unrealities may do at this age. The
first child in each set is thinking disjunctively;
the second has his facts organized into definite relationships.
Can one think that the second child
enjoyed his ordered world less than the first enjoyed
his confusion?</p>
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span>
<span class="smcap"><strong>Two Stories by Four-Year-Olds</strong></span></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>Once there was a table and he was taking a walk
and he fell into a pond of water and an alligator bit
him and then he came up out of the pond of water
and he stepped into a trap that some hunters had set
for him, and turned a somersault on his nose.</p>
<p class="center">——————</p>
<p>There was a new engine and it didn’t have any
headlight—its light wasn’t open in its headlight so
its engineer went and put some fire in the wires and
made a light. And then it saw a lot of other engines
on the track in front of it. So when it wanted to puff
smoke and go fast it told its engineer and he put some
coal in the coal car. And then the other engines told
their engineers to put coal in their coal cars and then
they all could go.</p></div>
<p>(The child then played a song by a “’lectric”
engine on the piano and tried to write the notes.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap"><strong>Two Stories by Five-Year-Olds</strong></span></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>Once upon a time there was a clown and the clown
jumped on the bed and the bed jumped on the cup.
Then the clown took a pencil and drawed on his face.
And the clown said, “Oh, I guess I’ll sit in a rocking
chair.” So the rocking chair said, “Ha! ha!” and it
tumbled away. Then a little pig came along and he
said, “Could you throw me up and throw an apple
down?” So the clown threw him so far that he was
dead. He was on the track.</p>
<p class="center">——————</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span>
There was a big factory where all the men made
engines. And one man made a smoke stack. And one
man made a tender. And one man made a cab. And
one man made a bell. And one man made a wheel.
And then another man came and put them all together
and made a great big engine. And this man said,
“We haven’t any tracks!” And then a man came and
made the tracks. And then another man said, “We
haven’t any station!” So many men came and built a
big station. And they said, “Let’s have the station
in Washington Square.” So they pulled down the
Arch and they pulled up all the sidewalks. And they
built a big station. And they left all the houses; for
where would we live else?</p>
<p>(In a sequel he says: So they knocked down the
Arch and chopped up all the pieces. And they chopped
all around the trees but they didn’t chop them down
because they looked so pretty with our station!)</p></div>
<p> </p>
<p>I am far from meaning that five-year-olds
should be confined to their literal experiences.
They have made considerable progress in separating
themselves from their environment though at
times they seem still to think of the things around
them more or less as extensions of themselves.
Their inquiries still emanate from their own personal
experiences; but they do not end there. A
child of this age has a genuine curiosity about
where things come from and where they go to.
“What’s it for?” indeed, implies a dim conception
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span>
beyond the “here” and the “now,” a conception
which his stories should help him to clarify. If
we try to escape the pitfall of “fairy stories,”—abandoning
a child in unrealities,—we must not
fall into the opposite pitfall and continue the easy
habit of merely recounting a series of events,
neither significant in themselves nor, as in the
earlier years, significant because they are personal
experiences. “Arabella and Araminta” and their
like give a five-year-old no real food. They are
saved, if saved they are, not by their content, but
by a daring and skilful use of repetition and of
sound quality. No, our stories must add something
to the children’s knowledge and must take
them beyond the “here” and the “now.” But this
“something,” as I have already said, is not so much
new information as it is a new relationship among
already familiar facts.</p>
<p>In each of the stories for four-and five-year-olds
I have attempted to clarify known facts by showing
them in a relationship a little beyond the children’s
own experience. All the stories came from
definite inquiries raised by some child. They attempt
to answer these inquiries and to raise others.
“How the Engine Learned the Knowing Song,”
“The Fog Boat Story,” “Hammer and Saw and
Plane,” “How the Singing Water Gets to the
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span>
Tub,” “Things That Loved the Lake,” “The Children’s
New Dresses,” “How Animals Move,”—all
are based on definite relationships, largely physical,
between simple physical facts.</p>
<p>Interest in these relationships,—inquiries which
hold the germ of physical science, continue and
increase with each year. In addition, a little later,
children seem to begin questioning things social
and to be ready for the simpler social relationships
which underlie and determine the physical world
of their acquaintance. “What’s it for?” still dominates,
but a six-year-old is on the way to becoming
a conscious member of society. He now likes
his answers to be in human terms. He takes
readily to such conceptions as congestion as the
cause for subways and elevated trains; the desire
for speed as the cause of change in transportation;
the dependence of man on other living things,—all
of which I have made the bases of stories. To
the children the material in “The Subway Car,”
“Speed,” “Silly Will,” is familiar; the relationships
in which it appears are new.</p>
<p>Somewhere about seven years, there seems to be
another transition period. Psychologists, whether
in or out of schools, generally agree in this. Children
of this age are acquiring a sense of social
values,—a consciousness of <em>others</em> as sharply distinguished
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span>
from themselves. They are also acquiring
a sense of workmanship, of technique,—of
<em>things</em> as sharply distinguished from themselves.
They seek information in and for itself,—not
merely in its immediate application to themselves.
Their inquiries take on the character of
“how?” This means, does it not, that the children
have oriented themselves in their narrow personal
world and that they are reaching out for experience
in larger fields? It means that the “not-me”
which was so shadowy in the earlier years has
gained in social and in physical significance. And
this again means that opportunity for exploration
in ever-widening circles should be given. Stories
should follow this general trend and open up the
relationships in larger and larger environments
until at last a child is capable of seeing relationships
for himself and of regarding the whole world
in its infinite physical and social complexity, as his
own environment.</p>
<p>Probably the first extra-personal excursions
should be into alien scenes or experiences which
lead back or contribute directly to their old
familiar world. Stories of unknown raw material
which turn into well-known products are of this
type,—cattle raising in Texas, dairy farms in New
England, lumbering in Minnesota, sheep raising
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span>
in California. It is a happy coincidence that raw
materials are often produced under semi-primitive
conditions, so that a vicarious participation in their
production gives to children something of that
thrilling contact with the elemental that does the
life of primitive men, and this without sending
them into the remote and, for modern children,
“unnatural” world of unmodified nature. The
danger here is that the story will be sacrificed to
the information. Indeed it can hardly be otherwise,
if the aim is to give an adequate picture of
some process of production. This, of course, is a
legitimate aim,—but for the encyclopedia, not for
the story. What I have in mind is a dramatic situation
which has this process as a background,
so that the child becomes interested in the process
because of the part it plays in the drama just as he
would if the process were a background in his own
life. I am thinking of the opportunities which
these comparatively primitive situations give for
adventure rather than for the detailed elucidation
of a process of production.</p>
<p>It is the peculiar function of a story to raise
inquiries, not to give instruction. A story must
stimulate not merely inform. This is the trouble
with our “informational literature” for children,
of which very little is worthy of the name. Indeed,
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span>
I am not sure it is not a contradiction of
terms. It is frankly didactic. It aims to make
clear certain facts, not to stimulate thought. It
assumes that if a child swallows a fact it must
nourish him. To give the child material with
which to experiment,—this lies outside its present
range. Reaction from the unloveliness of this
didactic writing has produced a distressing result.
The misunderstood and misapplied educational
principle that children’s work should interest them
has developed a new species of story,—a sort of
pseudo-literary thing in which the medicinal facts
are concealed by various sugar-coating devices.
Children will take this sort of story,—what will
their eager little minds not take? And like encyclopedias
and other books of reference this type
has its place in a child’s world. But it should
never be confused with literature.</p>
<p>Literature must give a sense of adventure. This
sense of adventure, of excursion into the unknown,
must be furnished to children of every age. As I
have said before, I think “Peek-a-boo, there’s the
baby!” is the elementary expression of this love
of adventure. The baby disappears into the unknown
vastness behind the handkerchief and to
her, her reappearance is a thrilling experience.
Children’s stories,—as indeed all stories,—have
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span>
been largely founded on this. The “Prudy” and
“Dotty Dimple” books though keyed so low in
the scale seem adventurous because of the meagre
background of their young readers. But children
of the age we are considering,—who have left the
narrowly personal and predominantly play period
demand something higher in the scale of adventure.
To them are offered the great variety of
tales of adventure and danger of which the boy
scout is the latest example. Every child in reading
these becomes a hero. And every child (and
grown-up) enjoys being a hero. Higher still
comes “Kidnapped” and so up to Stanley Weyman
and “The Three Musketeers” which differ in their
art, not in their appeal.</p>
<p>Now is it not possible to give children these adventurous
excursions which they crave and should
have, without so much killing of animals or men,
and so many blood-thirsty excitements, and so much
fake heroism? What relationships do such tales
interpret? What truths do they give a child upon
which to base his thinking? The relation of life
to life is a delicate and difficult thing to interpret.
But surely we can do better at an interpretation
than tales of hunting, of impossible heroisms, and
of war. Or at least, we can protest against having
these almost the sole interpretations of adventure
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span>
which are offered to children. The world of industry
holds possibilities for adventure as thrilling
as the world of high-colored romance. We must
look with fresh eyes to see it. When once we see
it, we shall be able to give the children a new type
of the “story of adventure.” Of all the experiments
which the stories in this collection represent,
this attempt to find and picture the romance
and adventure in our world here and now, I consider
the most important and difficult. In such
stories as “Boris” and “Eben’s Cows” and “The
Sky Scraper,” I have made experimental attempts
to give children a sense of adventure by presenting
social relations in this new way.</p>
<p>The cultured world has yet another answer to
the question, “How shall we give our children
adventure?” It points to the wealth of classical
myths, of Iliads, sagas, of fairy-stories which are
practically folk-lore, semi-magic, semi-allegorical,
semi-moral tales which express the ideals and experiences
of a different and younger world than
ours of today. And it replies, “Give them these.”
It feels in the sternness of saga stuff and in the
humanity of folk-lore, a validity and a dignity and
a simplicity which seem to make them suitable for
children. These tales tell of beliefs of folk less
experienced than we: we have outgrown them.
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span>
They must be suited to the less experienced: give
them to children. Thus runs the common argument.
And so we find Hawthorne’s “Tanglewood
Tales,” Æsop’s “Fables,” various Indian myths
and Celtic legends, and even the “Niebelungen
Lied” often given to quite young children. But
do we find this reasoning valid when we examine
these tales free from the glamour which adult
sophistication casts around them? Remember we
are thinking now of children in that delicate seven-to
eight-year-old transition period. I have already
told how I believe these children are but just beginning
to have conceptions of laws,—social and
physical. They are groping their way, regimenting
their experiences, seeing dim generalizations
and abstractions. But they are not firmly oriented.
They are beginners in the world of physical or
social science and can be easily side-tracked or
confused. A child of twelve or even ten is quite
a different creature, often with clear if not articulate
conceptions of the make-up of the physical
and human world. He has something to measure
against, some standards to cling to. But we are
talking about children still in the early plastic
stages of standards who will take the relationships
we offer them through stories and build them into
the very fabric of their thinking.</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span>
Now, how much of the classical literature follows
the lead of the children’s own inquiries?
How much of it stimulates fruitful inquiries?
What are the relationships which sagas, myths and
folk-lore interpret? And what are the interpretations?
This is a vast question and can be answered
only briefly with the full consciousness that
there is much lumping of dissimilar material with
resulting injustices and superficiality. Also there
is no attempt to use the words “myth,” “saga” and
“folk-lore” in technical
senses.<a name="FNanchor_A_1" id="FNanchor_A_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_1" class="fnanchor">[A]</a>
I have merely taken the dominant characteristic of any piece of
literature as determining its class.</p>
<p>Myths, properly, are slow-wrought beliefs
which embody a people’s effort to understand their
relations to the great unknown. They are essentially
religious, symbolic, mystic, subtle, full of
fears and propitiations, involved, often based on
the forgotten,—altogether unlike in their approach
to the ingenuous and confident child. They are
full of the struggle of life. Hardly before the involved
introspections and theories of adolescence
can we expect the real beauty and poignancy of a
genuine myth to be even dimly understood. And
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span>
why offer the shell without the spirit? It is likely
to remain a shell forever if we do. And indeed,
such an empty thing to most of us is the great myth
of Prometheus or of the Garden of Eden.</p>
<p>But sagas! Are they not of exactly the heroic
stuff for little children? In essence the relationships
with which they deal are human,—social.
The story of Siegfried, of Achilles, of Abraham,—these
are great sagas. Each is a tremendous picture
of a human experience, the first two under
heroic, enlarged conditions, the last under a human
culture picturesquely different from our own. But
even as straight tales of adventure they do not carry
for little children. The environment is too remote,
the world to be conquered too unknown to carry
a convincing sense of heroism to small children.
The same is true of the heroic tales of romance,—of
Arthur and all the legends which cluster around
his name. Magic, the children will get from these
tales but little else. But if the tales should succeed
in taking a child with them in their strange exploits
into a strange land, they would surely fail to
take him into the turgid human drama they picture.
And as surely we should wish them to fail.
The sagas, like most genuine folk-lore deal with
the great elemental human facts, life and death,
love, sexual passion and its consequences, marriage,
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span>
motherhood, fatherhood. We grasp at them
for our children, I believe, just <em>because</em> they deal
with these fundamental things,—the very things
we are afraid of unless they come to us concealed
in strange clothing. But what kind of a foundation
for interpreting these great elemental facts
will the stories of Achilles and Briseus, of Jason
and Medea, Pluto and Proserpina, of Guinevere
and Launcelot make? What do we expect a child
to get from these pictures of sexual passion on
the part of the man,—even though a god,—and
of social dependence of woman? Do Greek
draperies make prostitution suitable for children?
Does the glamour of chivalry explain illicit love?
Most parents and schools who unhesitatingly hand
over these social pictures to their children have
never tried,—and neither care nor dare to try,—to
face these elemental facts with their children.
Can we really wish to avoid a frank statement of
the <em>positive</em> in sex relations, of the facts of parenthood,
of the institution of marriage, of the mutual
companionship between man and woman, and give
the <em>negative</em>, the unfulfilled, the distorted? This
is preposterous and no one would uphold it. It
must be the beauty of the tale, and not the significance
we are after. But <em>are</em> these tales beautiful
except as we endow them with the subtleties of a
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span>
classical civilization, as we read into them piquant
contrasts of a sensitive, expressive race still primitive
in its social thinking and social habits,—that
elusive thing which we mean by “Greek”? And
can children get this without its background, particularly
as they have yet no social background
in their own world to hold it up against? And can
children do any better with the perplexing ideals
of the chivalrous knight swept by a human passion?</p>
<p>And in the same way can a child really get the
beauty of Siegfried? What can he make out of
the incestuous love of Siegmund and Sieglinda?
And of Siegfried’s naïve passion on his first
glimpse of a woman? What do we want him to
make of it? Is that the way we wish to introduce
him to sex? And as for the rest, the allegory of the
ring itself, the sword, the dragon’s blood, what do
little children get from this except the excitement
of magic? What <em>we</em> get because of what we have
to put into it, is a different matter and should never
be confused with the straight question of what children
get. Outgrown adult thinking in social matters
is no more suitable to children than outgrown
thinking on physical facts. We do not teach that
the world is flat because grown-ups once believed
it was. We are not afraid of a round earth so we
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span>
tell the truth about it. But we come near to teaching
“spontaneous generation” with our endless
evasions. We are afraid of a reproducing world,
and so we fall back on curious mixtures of sex
fables,—on storks and fairy godmothers and leave
the mysteries of sex to be interpreted by Achilles
and Siegfried and Guinevere! To emasculate
these tales is to insult them,—to strip them of
their significance and individuality. Is it not
wiser to wait until children will not be confused
by all their straight vigor and beauty?</p>
<p>There is other folk-lore less gripping in its
human intensity. Through this may not children
safely gain their needed adventures? And here
we come again to the real “Märchen,”—the fairy
tales. They take us into a lovely world of unreality
where magic and luck hold sway and where
the child is safe from human problems and from
scientific laws alike. I have already said in talking
of the younger children that I feel it unsafe
to loose a child in this unsubstantial world before
he is fairly well grounded in a sense of reality.
Once he has his bearings there is a good deal he
will enjoy without confusion. The common defense
that the mystery of fairy tales answers to a
legitimate need in children, I believe holds good
for children of six or seven, or even five, who have
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span>
had opportunities for rational experiences. We
all know how children revel in a secret. They
like to live in a world of surprises. To give the
children this sense of mystery I do not believe it is
at all necessary to turn to vicious tales of giants,
of ogres, and Bluebeards, or to the no less vicious
pictures of the beautiful princess and the wicked
stepmother. Even after rejecting the brutal and
sentimental we have a good deal left,—a good deal
that is intrinsically amusing as in “The Musicians
of Bremen” or “Prudent Hans” or charming as in
“Briar Rose.” Symbolic or primitive attempts to
explain the physical world,—as in the Indian
legend of “Tavwots” I have never found held great
appeal for the modern six- or seven-year-old scientists.
Also the burden of symbolic morality rests
on a good many of the traditional tales which
usually neither adds nor detracts for the child and
satisfies an adult yearning. Allegories like Æsop’s
“Fables” and “The Lion of Androcles” have a certain
right to a hearing because of their historic
prestige, apart from any reform they may accomplish
in the way of character building. And in
our own day many animals have achieved what I
believe is a permanent place in child literature.
“The Elephant’s Child,” the wild creatures of the
“Jungle Book,” “Raggylug” and even the little
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span>
mole in the “Wind in the Willows,”—these are
animals to trust any child with. Yet even in these
exquisitely drawn tales, I doubt if children enjoy
what we adults wish them to enjoy either in content
or in form. And I doubt if we should accept
even some of Kipling’s matchless tales if the faultless
form did not intrigue us and make us oblivious
of the content.</p>
<p>It is just here that most of us fail to be discriminating.
Most of the classical literature, most of
the legends, or the folk tales that I have been discussing
have a compelling charm through their
form. But unfortunately that does not make their
content suitable! Their place in the world’s thinking
and feeling and their transcription into their
present forms by really great artists give them a
permanent place in the world’s literature. This I
do not question. It is partly because I believe this
so intensely that I wish them kept for fuller appreciation.
It is as formative factors in a young
child’s thinking that I am afraid of them. Neither
am I afraid of all of them. There are some old
conceptions of life and death and human relations
which the race has not outgrown, perhaps never
will outgrow. The mystery and pathos of the Pied
Piper, the humor of Prudent Hans, the cleverness
of the boy David, the heroism of the little Dutch
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span>
boy stopping the hole in the dyke, the love of the
Queer Little Baker, and the greed and grief of
Midas are eternal. In spite of these and many
more, I maintain that for the most part, myths,
sagas, folk-lore depend for their significance and
beauty alike upon a grasp of present social values
which a young child cannot have and that our first
attention should be to give him those values in
terms intelligible to him. After we have done that
he is safe. It matters little what we give him so
long as it is good: for he will have standards by
which to judge our offerings for himself.</p>
<p>Yet after all is said and done, we may be reduced
to giving children some of the stories we think
inappropriate, for lack of something better. But
a recognition of the need may evoke a great writer
for children. I maintain we have never had one of
the first order. The best books that we have for
children are throw-offs from artists primarily concerned
with adults,—Kipling and Stevenson stand
in this group,—or child versions of adult literature,—from
Charles and Mary Lamb down. The
world has yet to see a genuinely great creator
whose real vision is for children. When children
have <em>their</em> Psalmist, <em>their</em> Shakespeare, <em>their</em> Keats,
they will not be offered diluted adult literature.</p>
<p>So after we have gathered what we can from
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span>
the world’s store for children of this seven-to-eight-year
old period I think we shall find many unfilled
gaps. Most attempts at humor, for instance, are
on the level of the comic sheet of the Sunday supplement
or the circus. There is little except a few
of the “drolls” which give the child pure fun
unmixed with excitement or confusion. Even
“Alice in Wonderland” when first read to a six-year-old
who was used to rational thinking and
talking was pronounced “Too funny!” This same
boy, however, went back to Alice again and again.
He always relished such bits as:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 8em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Speak roughly to your little boy,</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And beat him when he sneezes,</span><br />
He only does it to annoy<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Because he knows it teases.”</span></p>
</div>
<p>No child’s world is complete without humor. And
children have a sense of the preposterous, the inappropriate
all their own. Lewis Carroll and a few
others have occasionally found it. Still, I think
much remains to be done in the way of studying
the things that children themselves find amusing.
This is true for the younger ones as well. I give
several younger children’s stories which appeared
both to the tellers and their audiences to be convulsing.
The humor is strangely physical and
amazingly simple. And it is all fresh.</p>
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span>
<span class="smcap"><strong>Stories by Four-Year-Olds</strong></span></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>I dreamed I was asleep in a tomato and just scrambled
around until I’d eaten it up.</p>
<p class="center">——————</p>
<p>Once there was a cow and he was in a wagon and
he jumped over the wagon’s edge.</p>
<p class="center">——————</p>
<p class="center"><strong>Sesame the Cat</strong></p>
<p>She lived with a nice man, a candy man, and she
was at the gate watching the cattle go by and the men
were digging under some caramel bricks and he called
Sesame the Cat and she came banging and almost
jumped on the man’s head. She jumped like a merry
balloon. Oh, he got angry!</p></div>
<p class="center">——————</p>
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap"><strong>Story by Five-Year-Old</strong></span></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>Once there was a fly. And he went out walking
on a little boy’s face. He came to a kind of a soft
hump. “What is this?” thought the fly. “Oh, I guess
it’s the little boy’s eye!” Then he came to a lot of
kind of wiggly things that went down with him.
“What is this?” thought the fly. “Oh, I guess it’s
the little boy’s hair!” Then he slipped and fell into
a deep hole. It was the little boy’s ear. And he
couldn’t get out. He tried and he tried. But he staid
there until the little boy’s ear got all sore!</p></div>
<p class="center">——————</p>
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap"><strong>Stories by Six-Year-Olds</strong></span></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>Once upon a time there was a fox and a skunk, and
the fox was walking down the path with a lot of
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span>
prickly bushes on the side of the path. Then he saw
a skunk coming along. He said, “Will you let me
throw my little bag of perfume on you?” And then
she (it was a lady fox) she backed and backed and
backed and backed and backed and backed, and she
backed so far she backed into the bushes, and she got
her skirt torn on the prickly bushes.</p>
<p class="center">——————</p>
<p>Once upon a time there was a boy and the boy was
awfully funny. And one day the boy went to the
store to buy some eggs and he got the eggs and ran
so fast with the eggs home,—he stumbled and broke
the eggs. So he took the eggs, and took the shell
and fixed it like the same egg. And he walked off
slowly to his home. And his mother was going to
beat the eggs and she just opened the shell and no
egg was there, and she couldn’t make no cake that
night.</p></div>
<p> </p>
<p>There is still another kind of story which I
believe children of this transition period and a
little older seek and for the most part seek in vain.
These children are beginning to generalize, to
marshal their facts and experiences along lines
which in their later developments we call “laws.”
They like these wide-spreading conceptions which
order the world for them. But they cannot always
take them as bald scientific statements. Moreover
there are certain general truths which tie together
isolated familiar facts which can be most simply
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span>
pictured through some device such as personification,—for
at this age personification is recognized
and enjoyed as a device and not, as in earlier years,
as a necessary expression of thought. This uniting
bond, this underlying relation may be a physical
law like the dependence of life on life; it may be
a social law like the division of labor in modern
industry. Any dramatic statement of these laws
is a simplification as is a diagram or map. And
like a diagram or map, it is in a way artificial since
it gives weight to one element at the expense of the
others. But again like the diagram or map, the
thing it shows is a fact, a fact which is more readily
grasped by this artificial device than by bald statement.
Maps do not take the place of photographs,
nevertheless they have their own peculiar place in
making intelligible the make-up of the physical
world. In the same way, personification does not
take the place of science. Nevertheless it has its
own peculiar place in making clear to the child
some simplifying principle,—physical or social,—which
unifies his multitudinous experiences. So
long as personification elucidates a true, a scientific
principle, so long as it is not pressed to tortuous
lengths which actually give false impressions, so
long as it is kept within the bounds of æsthetic
decency, so long as it is recognized as a play device
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span>
and does not confuse a child’s thinking,—so long as
it is justified. No more. It is a useful intellectual
tool and a charming device for play. Kipling is
preëminently the master here. It is a dangerous
tool in lesser hands. Yet I have dared to use it
and without scruple in “Speed,” in “Once the Barn
was Full of Hay” and in “Silly Will.” Here again
I feel sure that study of children’s questions and
stories would bring rich suggestions as to how to
fill this large gap in their present literature.</p>
<p>Gaps there are, and many and large ones. Still,
taken all in all, the field for the seven- to eight-year-old
transition period is not as completely
barren as the field for the earlier years. For these
children are evolving from the stage where they
need “Here and Now” stories. They are beginning
to take on adult modes of thought and to appreciate
and understand the peculiar language
which adults use no matter how young a child
they address! So much for the content of children’s
stories. And at best the content is but half.</p>
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><strong>FORM</strong></p>
<p>If content is but half, form is the other half of
stories and not the easier half, either. Every story,
to be worthy of the name, must have a pattern, a
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span>
pattern which is both pleasing and comprehensible.
This design, this composition, this pattern,
whether it be of a story as a whole or of a sentence
or a phrase, is as essential to a piece of writing
as is the design or composition to a picture. It
satisfies the emotional need of the child which is
as essential in real education as is the intellectual.
Without this design, language remains on the
utilitarian level,—where, to be sure, we usually
find it in modern days.</p>
<p>Now what kind of pattern is adapted to a small
child,—say a three-year-old? What kind does he
like? More, what kind can he perceive? Herein
the expression as fatally as in the content has the
adult shaped the mould to his own liking. Or
rather, the case is even worse. The adult more
often than not has presented his stories and verse
to children in forms which the children could not
like because they literally could not hear them!
The pattern, as such, did not exist for them. But
what have we to guide us in creating suitable patterns
for these little children who can help us
neither by analysis nor by articulate remonstrance?
We have two sources of help and both of them
come straight from the children. The first are the
children’s own spontaneous art forms; the second
are the story and verse patterns which make an
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span>
almost universal appeal to little children. Even
a superficial study of these two sources,—and
where shall we find a thorough study?—suggests
two fundamental principles. They sound obvious
and perhaps they are. But how often is the obvious
ignored in the treatment of children! The first
is that the individual units whether ideas, sentences
or phrases must be simple. The second is
that these simple units must be put close together.</p>
<p>As the quickest and most eloquent exemplification
of both these principles I give four stories.
The first was told by a little girl of twenty-two
months, a singularly articulate little person,—as
she looked at the blank wall where had hung a
picture of a baby (she supposed her little brother),
a cow and a donkey. The second was a story told
by a little girl of two and a half after a summer
on the seashore. The third was achieved by a boy
of three,—a child, in general, unsensitive to music.
The fourth was told in school by a four-year-old
girl.</p>
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap"><strong>Story by Twenty-Two-Months-Old Child</strong></span></p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 12em;">
Where cow?<br />
Where donk?<br />
Where little Aa?</p>
<p style="margin-left: 12em;">
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span>
Cow gone away!<br />
Donk gone away!<br />
Little Aa gone away!</p>
<p style="margin-left: 12em;">
Like cow!<br />
Like donk!<br />
Like little Aa!</p>
<p style="margin-left: 12em;">
Come back cow!<br />
Come back donk!<br />
Come back little Aa!</p>
</div>
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap"><strong>Story by Two-and-a-Half-Year-Old</strong></span></p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 12em;">
I fell in water.<br />
Man fell in water.<br />
John fell in water.<br />
For’ fell in water.<br />
Aunt Carrie fell in water.</p>
<p style="margin-left: 12em;">
I pull boat out.<br />
Man pull boat out.<br />
John pull boat out.<br />
For’ pull boat out.<br />
Aunt Carrie pull boat out.</p>
<p style="margin-left: 12em;">
I go in that boat.<br />
Man go in that boat.<br />
John go in that boat.<br />
For’ go in that boat.<br />
Aunt Carrie go in that boat.</p>
</div>
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span>
<span class="smcap"><strong>Story by Three-Year-Old</strong></span></p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 6em;">
And father went down, down, down into the hole<br />
And the bull-frog, he went up, up, up into the sky!<br />
And then the bull-frog, he went down, down, down into the hole<br />
And then father, he went up, up, up, way into the sky!<br />
And then the bull-frog he went down, down, down into the hole<br />
And up, up into the sky!<br />
And then he went down into the hole<br />
And up into the sky!<br />
And he went down and up and down and up<br />
And down and up and down and up<br />
And down and up and down and up<br />
And down and up<br />
And down and up<br />
And down and up<br />
Down and up—— (to wordless song.)</p>
</div>
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap"><strong>Story by a Four-Year-Old</strong></span></p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
Baby Bye, Baby Bye<br />
Here’s a fly<br />
You’d better be careful<br />
Else he will sting you<br />
And here’s a spider too.<br />
And if you hurt him he will sting you<br />
And don’t you hurt him<br />
And his pattern on the wall.</p>
</div>
<p>Certainly all have form,—spontaneous native art
form. Indeed they strongly suggest that to the
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span>
child, the pleasure lay in the form rather than in
the content. The patterns of the first two are somewhat
alike,—variations of a simple statement. In
content the younger child keeps her attention on
one point, so to speak, while the older child allows
a slight movement like an embryonic narrative.
The pattern of the three-year-old’s is considerably
more complex. The phrases shorten, the tempo
quickens, until the whole swings off into wordless
melody. The fourth probably started from some
remembered lullaby but quickly became the child’s
own. I give two more examples of stories. In the
first, does not this five-year-old girl give us her
vivid impressions in marvelously simple sense and
motor terms? And does not the six-year-old boy
in the second show that imagination can spring
from real experiences?</p>
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap"><strong>Stories by Five-Year-Olds</strong></span></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>I am going to tell you a story about when I went
to Falmouth with my mother. We had to go all night
on the train and this is the way it sounded, (moving
her hand on the table and intoning in different keys)
thum, thum, thum, thum, thum, thum, thum, thum,
<em>NEW ARK!</em> thum, thum, thum, thum, thum, thum,
thum, thum, thum, thum, FALMOUTH! And then
we got off and we took a trolley car and the trolley
car went clipperty, clipperty, clipperty, zip, zip. And
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span>
another trolley car came in the other direction (again
with hands) and one came along saying clipperty,
clipperty, clipperty, zip, zip and the other came along
saying clipperty, clipperty, clipperty, zip, zip, zip,
BANG! And they hit in the middle and they got
stuck and they tried to pull them apart and they stuck
and they stuck and they stuck and finally they got
them apart and then we went again. And when we
got off we had to take a subway and the subway went
rockety-rockety-rockety-rock. You know a subway
makes a terrible noise! It made a <em>terrible</em> noise it
sounded like rockety-rockety-rockety-rockety-rock.</p>
<p>And at last we got there and when we came up in
the streets of Falmouth it was so still that I didn’t
know what to do. You know the streets of Falmouth
are just so terribly quiet and then we had to walk
millions and millions of miles almost to get to our
little cottage. And when we got there I put on my
bathing suit and I went in bathing and I shivered just
like this because it was a rainy day, the day I went to
Falmouth with my mother.</p></div>
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><strong>The Talk of the Brook</strong></p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
O brook, O brook, that sings so loud,<br />
O brook, O brook, that goes all day,<br />
O brook, O brook, that goes all night<br />
And forever.<br />
Splashes and waves, girls and boys are playing with<br />
You and in you.<br />
Some with shoes off and some with shoes on,<br />
And some are crying because they fell in you.<br />
O brook, O brook, have you an end ever?<br />
Or do you go forever?</p>
</div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span>
Technically in all these stories the child exemplifies
the two rules. He attends to but one thing at
a time. And his steps from one point to the next
are short and clear.</p>
<p>When we look at the forms which have been
presented to children with these their spontaneous
patterns fresh in mind, we can see, I think, why
Mother Goose has been taken as a child’s own and
Eugene Field and even Stevenson rejected as unintelligible.
I do not believe there is anything in the
content of Mother Goose to win the child. I
believe it is the form that makes the appeal.
Vachel Lindsay, whose daring play with words
has made him an object of suspicion to the reluctant
of mind, has given us one poem in pattern
singularly like the children’s own and in content
full of interest and charm. Again I give examples
as the quickest of arguments. And I give them in
verse where the form is more obvious and can be
shown in briefer space than in stories.</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 11em;">
Jack and Jill<br />
Went up the hill<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">To fetch a pail of water.</span><br />
Jack fell down<br />
And broke his crown<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">And Jill came tumbling after.</span></p>
</div>
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span>
<span class="smcap"><strong>Time to Rise</strong></span></p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 9em;">
A birdie with a yellow bill<br />
Hopped upon the window sill,<br />
Cocked his shining eye and said:<br />
“Ain’t you shamed, you sleepy head?”</p>
<p style="margin-left: 18em;">—<em>Stevenson.</em></p>
</div>
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap"><strong>The Little Turtle</strong></span></p>
<p class="center">(A recitation for Martha Wakefield, three years old)</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 11em;">
There was a little turtle.<br />
He lived in a box.<br />
He swam in a puddle.<br />
He climbed on the rocks.</p>
<p style="margin-left: 11em;">
He snapped at a musquito.<br />
He snapped at a flea.<br />
He snapped at a minnow.<br />
And he snapped at me.</p>
<p style="margin-left: 11em;">
He caught the musquito.<br />
He caught the flea.<br />
He caught the minnow.<br />
But he didn’t catch me.</p>
<p style="margin-left: 18em;">—<em>Vachel Lindsay.</em></p>
</div>
<p> </p>
<p class="center">From <span class="smcap"><strong>The Dinkey-Bird</strong></span></p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 8em;">
So when the children shout and scamper<br />
And make merry all the day,<br />
When there’s naught to put a damper<br />
To the ardor of their play;<br />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span>
When I hear their laughter ringing,<br />
Then I’m sure as sure can be<br />
That the Dinkey-bird is singing<br />
In the amfalula tree.</p>
<p style="margin-left: 18em;">—<em>Eugene Field.</em></p>
</div>
<p>Of the two “Jack and Jill” and “Birdie with the
Yellow Bill,” surely Stevenson’s is the more
charming to the adult ear. But when I have read
it to three-year-olds, I have felt that they were
lost. They could not sustain the long grammatical
suspense, could not carry over “A birdie” from the
first line to the conclusion and so actually did not
know who was saying “Ain’t you shamed, you
sleepy-head!” Mother Goose repeats her subject.
The span to carry is two phrases in Mother Goose
as against four in Stevenson. The Vachel Lindsay
I have found is as easily remembered and as much
enjoyed as Mother Goose, though it is a pity it is
about an unfamiliar animal. As for the Dinkey-bird
even a seven-year-old can hardly <em>hear</em> the
rhyme even if intellectually he could follow the
adult vocabulary and the complicated sentence
with its long postponed subject.</p>
<p>It is the same with stories. The classic tales
which have held small children,—“The Gingerbread
Man,” “The Three Little Pigs,” “Goldylocks,”—have
patterns so obvious and so simple
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span>
that they cannot be missed. In “The Gingerbread
Man” the pattern is one of increasing additions.
It belongs to the aptly called “cumulative” tales.
The refrains act like sign-posts to help the child
to mark the progress. This is simply a skilful way
of making the continuity close, of showing the ladder
rungs for the child’s feet. I venture to say
that any good story-teller consciously or unconsciously
puts up sign-posts to help the children.
If he is skilful, he makes a pattern of them so that
they are not merely intellectually helpful but
charming as well. So Kipling in his “Just So
Stories” uses his sign-posts,—which are sometimes
words, sometimes phrases, sometimes situations,—in
such a way that they ring musically and give a
pleasant sense of pattern even to children too young
to find them intellectually helpful.</p>
<p>In other words, the little child is not equipped
psychologically to hear complicated units. I wish
some one could determine how the average four-year-old
hears the harmony of a chord on the
piano. Is it much except confusion? In the same
way, he is not equipped to leap a span between
units. I wish some one would determine the four-year-old’s
memory span for rhymes, for instance.
The involutions, the suggestiveness so attractive to
adult ears, he cannot hear. Even an adult ear,
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span>
untutored, can scarcely hear the intermingling
rhythms and overlapping rhymes which blend like
overtones of a chord in such verse as Patmore’s
Ode “The Toys.” I feel sure the small child cannot
hear complexities; he cannot leap gaps. And
so he cannot understand when even simple ideas
are given in complex and discontinuous form.
This explains his notorious love of repetition.
Repetition is the simplest of patterns, simple
enough to be enjoyed as pattern. I have found
that almost any simple phrase of music or words
repeated slowly and with a kind of ceremonious
attention, enthralls a year-old child. If the unit
is simple enough to be remembered he will inevitably
enjoy recognizing it as it recurs and recurs.
This is the embryonic pattern sense.</p>
<p>This pattern enjoyment too is motor in its basis.
His early repetitions of sounds are probably
largely pleasure in muscle patterns. We all know
that a child uses first his large muscles,—arm, leg
and back,—and that he early enjoys any regular
recurrent use of these muscles. So at the time
when the vocal muscles tend to become his means
of expression, he enjoys repeating the same sounds
over and over. And soon he gets enjoyment from
listening to repetitions or rhythmic language,—a
vicarious motor enjoyment. Surely it is important
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span>
that stories should furnish him this exercise and
pleasure. Three- and four-year-olds will enjoy a
positively astounding amount of repetition. In the
Arabella and Araminta stories a large proportion
of the sentences are given in duplicate by the simple
device of having twins who do and say the same
things and by telling the remarks and actions of
each. The selection quoted is repeated entire four
times, the variation being only in the flower
picked:</p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>And Arabella picked a poppy, and Araminta picked
a poppy, and Arabella picked a poppy, and Araminta
picked a poppy, and Arabella picked a poppy, and
Araminta picked a poppy, and Arabella picked a
poppy, and Araminta picked a poppy, and Arabella
picked a poppy, and Araminta picked a poppy, until
they each had a great big bunch (I should say a very
large bunch), and then they ran back to the house.</p>
<p>Arabella got a glass and put her poppies in it, and
Araminta got a glass and put her poppies in it.</p>
<p>And Arabella clapped her hands and danced around
the table. And Araminta clapped her hands and
danced around the table.</p></div>
<p>Adult ears repudiate anything as obvious as this;
they still, however, enjoy a ballad refrain.</p>
<p>Just as small children cannot hear complications,
so they cannot grasp details if the movement
is swift. We must give time for a child’s slow
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span>
reactions. We usually fail to do this in ordinary
social situations and are often surprised to hear
our three-year-old say “good-bye” long after the
front door is closed and our guest well on his way
down the street. In stories we must take a leisurely
pace. We must also read very slowly allowing
ample time for a child to give the full motor
expression to his thought for the art of abbreviation
he has not yet learned.</p>
<p>It is not enough to recognize that since a child
attends to but one thing at a time the units must be
simple. Here in the form as in the content, must
the motor quality of a child’s thinking be held
constantly in mind. In trying to find the general
subject matter appropriate for little children I
said that they think through their muscles. This
motor expression of small children has its direct
application in the concrete method of telling of
any happening. The story child who is experiencing,
should go through the essential muscular
performances which the real listening child would
go through if he were actually experiencing himself.
For he thinks through these muscular expressions.
As an example, when a group of four-year-olds
heard a story about a little boy who saw the
elevated train approach and pass above him, they
thought the child might have been run over. The
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span>
words “up” and “above” and “overhead” had been
used but the children failed to get the idea of
“upness.” Unquestionably they would have understood
if I had made the little boy <em>throw back his
head and look up</em>. Small children act with big
gestures and with big muscles. And they think
through the same mechanisms.</p>
<p>These two principles, simplicity and continuity,
apply concretely to sentence and phrase structure
as well. The effort to obtain continuity for the
child explains the colloquial “The little boy who
lived in this house, <em>he</em> did so and so——” You
help your child back to the subject, “the little
boy” by the grammatically redundant “he” after
his mind has gone off on “this house.” This same
need for continuity also explains why a child’s
own stories are characteristically one continuous
sentence strung together with “ands” and “thens”
and “buts.” He sees and hears and consequently
thinks in a simple, rhythmic, continuous flow. If
we would have him see and hear and think with us,
we must give him his stories and verse in simple
units closely and obviously linked together.</p>
<p>But after all is said and done, why should we
give children stories at all? Is it to instruct and
so should we pay attention to the content? Is it
to delight and so should we pay attention to the
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span>
form? Both things, information and relish, have
their place in justifying stories for children. But
both to my mind are of minor importance compared
to a third and quite different thing,—and
this is to get children to create stories of their own,
to play with words. “To get” is an unhappy
phrase for it suggests that children must be coaxed
to the task. This I do not believe though I cannot
prove it. I do believe that children play with
words naturally and spontaneously just as they play
with any material that comes to their creative
hands. And further I believe,—though this too I
cannot prove,—that we adults kill this play with
words just as we kill their creative play with most
things. Most of us have forgotten how to play
with anything, most of all with words. We are
utilitarian, we are executive, we are didactic, we
are earth-tied, we are hopelessly adult! Actually
children use their ears and noses and fingers much
more than do we adults. Our stories rely mainly
upon visual recalls. We forget to listen even to
birds whose message is pure melody. And how
many of us <em>hear</em> the city sounds which surround
us, the characteristic whirr of revolving wheels,
the vibrating rhythm of horses’ feet, the crunch of
footsteps in the snow? Noises we hear, the warning
shriek of the fire engine or the honk! honk! of
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span>
the automobile. But the subtler, finer reverberations
we are not sensitive to. Yet little children
love to listen and develop another method of sensing
and appreciating their world by this pleasurable
use of their hearing. It surely is an unused
opportunity for story-tellers. I have tried to use
it in “Pedro’s Feet” which is an attempt to give
them an ordinary story by means of sounds. And
even less than to city sounds do we listen for the
cadences in language. We listen only for the
<em>meaning</em> and forget the sensuous delight of sound.</p>
<p>But happily children are not so determined to
wring a meaning out of every sight and every
sound. Children play. Play is a child’s own technique.
Through it he seizes the strange unknown
world around him and fashions it into his very
own. He recreates through play. And through
creating, he learns and he enjoys.</p>
<p>There is no better play material in the world
than words. They surround us, go with us through
our work-a-day tasks, their sound is always in our
ears, their rhythms on our tongue. Why do we
leave it to special occasions and to special people
to use these common things as precious play material?
Because we are grown-ups and have closed
our ears and our eyes that we may not be distracted
from our plodding ways! But when we turn to the
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span>
children, to hearing and seeing children, to whom
all the world is as play material, who think and
feel through play, can we not then drop our adult
utilitarian speech and listen and watch for the patterns
of words and ideas? Can we not care for
the <em>way</em> we say things to them and not merely <em>what</em>
we say? Can we not speak in rhythm, in pleasing
sounds, even in song for the mere sensuous delight
it gives us and them, even though it adds nothing
to the content of our remark? If we can, I feel
sure children will not lose their native use of
words: more, I think those of six and seven and
eight who have lost it in part,—and their stories
show they have,—will win back to their spontaneous
joy in the play of words. This is the ultimate
test of stories and verse,—whether they help children
to retain their native gift of play with language
and with thought.</p>
<p>In the City and Country School where my experiments
in language have been carried on, we
have not gone far enough to offer convincing proof
along these lines. But I submit two stories told
by a six-year-old class which are at least suggestive.
The first is the best story told to me by any
member of the class before any effort had been
made to get the children to listen to the sound of
their words or to think of their ideas as all pointing
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span>
in one direction and giving a single impression.
The second was told by the class as a whole
while looking at Willebeek Le Mair’s illustration
of “Twinkle, twinkle, little star.” They said the
picture made them feel sleepy and that they would
say only things that made them sleepy and use
only words that made them sleepy. Between the
two stories I had met with them seven times. I
had read them sounding and rhythmic verse. They
had become interested in the sound of language
apart from its meaning. They had become interested
in the sound of the rain and the fire. They
were thinking through their ears. Am I mistaken
in believing this shows in their language and in
their thought?</p>
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap"><strong>Story by a Six-Year-Old</strong></span></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>Once upon a time there was a little boy named
Peter and a little boy named Boris. And Peter took
him out for a walk and took him all around school.
Then I took him out to my house and saw all my play
things. And then I took him to Central Park and
showed him sea lions and the giraffe and the elephant
and I showed how they eat by their trunks. And he
thought it was queer. And he said he was afraid of
animals and so I took him home. I told him to tell
his mother about it and his mother said, “You want
to go for another walk?” and he said, “Yes, but not
where the wild animals are.” I said, “Do you want
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span>
to go to Central Park?” and he said, “Yes.” You
see he got fooled! He didn’t know about the wild
animals.</p></div>
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap"><strong>Joint Story by Six-Year-Old Class</strong></span></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>I like it when the boy and the girl look at the sky.
They look at the trees and they are sleepy. It is dark
outside. It is night and the sky is dark blue. And it
is kind of whitish and the trees are next to the blue
sky. The bright evening star is out. The star is so
far up in the sky that you can hardly see it. The
children are looking at the sky before they go to bed
and they are praying to God. They have their
nightgowns on. The bed is all nice so they couldn’t
have just got up. The clothes are hanging on the bed.
They sleep in their own bed together. When they go
to bed they have their door closed.</p></div>
<p> </p>
<p>“The Leaf Story” and “The Wind Story” I have
incorporated with my stories, though they are almost
entirely the work of children. In both cases
the organization is beyond the children. But the
content and the phraseology bear their unmistakable
imprint. The same is true of “The Sea Gull.”</p>
<p>Because of the pattern, the play aspect of language,
I believe in written stories even for very
little ones. If we loved our language better and
played with its sound in our ordinary speech, perhaps
stories for two- and three-year-olds would not
be needed. But as it is, we need to present them
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span>
with something more intentional, more thought out
than is possible with most of us in a story told.
If the patterns of our ideas or of our speech are
to have charm, if they are to fit the occasion with
nicety, if they are to flow easily and are to be continuous
enough to be comprehended by little children,
they will need careful attention,—attention
that cannot be given under the emergency of telling
a story, not, at least, by the uninspired of us.
Inevitably, with our utilitarian tendencies, we
shall be drawn off to an undue regard of the content
to the neglect of the expression. And yet,
for very little children, there is unquestionably
something lost by the formality and fixity of a
written story. A story told has more spontaneity,
allows more leeway to include the chance happenings
or remarks of the children; it can be more
intimately personal, more adapted to the particular
occasion and to the particular child. Perhaps
some time we shall achieve a fortunate compromise,
a stepping stone between the story told
and the story read. Perhaps we shall work out
happy or characteristic phrases about familiar
things,—little personal things about the clothes and
habits of each child, general familiar things like
autos and wagons and horses on the street, coal
going down the hole in the sidewalk, the squabbling
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span>
of sparrows in the dirt, the drift of snow on
the roofs,—perhaps we shall learn to use such
thought-out phrases or refrains like blocks for
building many stories. If we could work out some
such technique as this, we could keep the intimacy,
the flexibility, the waywardness of the spoken
story and still give the children the charm of careful
thinking and careful phrasing. Many such
phrases have been fashioned by people sensitive
to the quality of sound. Every nursery has had
its rooster crow:</p>
<p class="center">“Cock-a-doodle-doo!”</p>
<p>But few have given its children that delightful
epitome of the songs of spring birds which has
piped with irrepressible freshness now for nearly
four centuries:</p>
<p class="center">“Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!”</p>
<p>I have never known the child who did not respond
to Kipling’s engine song:</p>
<p class="center">
“With a michnai-ghignai-shtingal! Yah! Yah! Yah!”</p>
<p>Every child creates these wonderful sound interpretations
of the world. We smile a smile of indulgence
when we hear them. And then we forget
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span>
them! Cannot we seize some of them however
imperfectly and learn to build them into the structure
of our stories? It was more or less this kind
of thing that I had in mind in writing Marni’s
stories and “The Room with the Window Looking
Out Upon the Garden” which as I have said
elsewhere are types to be told rather than narratives
to be read. And I feel sure if we could
once make a beginning that the children themselves
would soon take the matter into their own
hands and create their own building blocks.</p>
<p>For children are primarily creators. They do
not willingly nor for long maintain the passive
rôle. This should be reckoned with in stories and
not merely as a concession to restless children but
as a real aid to the story. An active rôle should be
provided for the children somewhere within every
story until the children are old enough to have
a genuinely impersonal interest in things and
events and until they do not need a motor expression
of their thoughts. For as I have already said,
up to that age,—and it is for psychologists to say
when that age is,—children think in terms of themselves
expressed through their own activities. This
active rôle should be used not merely as a safety
valve of expression to keep the child a patient
listener, but as a tool by which he may become
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span>
aware of the form of thought and language. It
is interesting that the children to whom these
stories have been read, have seized upon the rhyme
refrains as their own and after a few readings have
joined in saying them as though this were their
natural portion. It is with this hope that I have
tried to make the refrains not mere interludes in
the story, as they usually are, but the real skeleton,
the intrinsic thought pattern, the fundamental design.
In “How the Singing Water Gets to the
Tub” and “How Spot Found a Home,” for instance,
the refrains taken by themselves out of the
context, tell the whole story. It is too soon to say,
but I am strong in the hope that through relish for
this kind of active participation in written stories,
a small child may become captivated by the play
side of the stories as opposed to the content and so
turn to language as play material in which to
fashion patterns of his own.</p>
<p>For the sake of analysis, I have treated content
and form separately. But I am keenly aware that
the divorce of the two is what has made our stories
for children so unsatisfactory. We have good
ideas told without charm of design; and we have
meaningless patterns which tickle the ear for the
moment but fade because they spring from no real
thought. Literature is only achieved when the
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span>
thought pattern and the language pattern exactly
fit. A refrain for the mere sake of recurrent
jingle, that has no genuine no essential recurrence
in the thought, is a trick. If the pattern does not
help the thought and the thought suggest the pattern,
there is something wrong. It is an artifice,
not art. This matching of content and form is
nothing new. It is and always has been the basis
of good literature. The task that is new is to find
thought sequences, thought relations which are
truly childlike and the language design which is
really appropriate to them,—to make both content
and form the child’s.</p>
<p>As I said at the beginning, so must I say at the
end. These stories are experiments, experiments
both in content and form. To have any value they
must be treated as such. The theses underlying
them have been stated for brevity’s sake only in
didactic form. In reality, they lie in my mind
as open questions urgently in need of answers. But
I do not hope much from the answers of adults,—from
the deaf and blind writers to the hearing and
seeing children. The answers must come from
the children themselves. We must listen to children’s
speech, to their casual everyday expressions.
We must gather children’s stories. Mothers and
teachers everywhere should be making these
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span>
precious records. We must study them not merely
as showing what a child is thinking, but the <em>way</em>
he is thinking and the way he is enjoying. It is
the hope that these stories may be tried out with
children, the hope of reaching others who may be
watching and listening and working along these
lines, the hope that we may gather records of children’s
stories which will become a basis for a real
literature, the hope that somewhere among grown-ups
we may find an ear still sensitive to hear and
an eye still fresh to see,—it is this hope that has
given me the courage to expose these pitifully inadequate
adult efforts to speak with little children
in their own language. Some one must dare, if
only to give courage to the better equipped. And
if we dare enough, I am sure the children will
come to our rescue. If we let them, they will lead
us. Whatever these stories hold of merit or of
suggestiveness is due to the inspiration and tolerance
of the courageous group of workers in the
City and Country School and in the Bureau of
Educational Experiments and in particular to
Caroline Pratt without whom these stories would
never have been dreamed or written; and above
all to the children themselves, for whom the stories
were written and to whom they have been read,
both in the laboratory school and in my own home.
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span>
To those then, who wish to follow the lead of little
children, to those who have the curiosity to know
into what new paths of literature children’s interest
and children’s spontaneous expression of those
interests will lead, and to the children themselves,
I send these stories.</p>
<p style="margin-left: 55%;">
<span class="smcap">Lucy Sprague Mitchell.</span></p>
<p>New York City<br />
July, 1921.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>MARNI TAKES A RIDE</strong></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em; margin-top: 1.7em;"><strong>IN A WAGON</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 6em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
The refrains in this story were first made up during
the actual ride. Later they served to recall the experience
with vividness. This story is given only as a
type which any one may use when helping a two-year-old
to live over an experience.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p>
<h2>MARNI TAKES A RIDE IN A WAGON</h2>
<p>One day Marni went for a ride. Little Aa, he
climbed into Sprague’s wagon and Marni, she
climbed in behind him. Then Mother took the
handle and she began to pull the wagon with little
Aa and Marni in it. And Mother she went:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 12em;">
Jog, jog, jog, jog,<br />
Jog, jog, jog, jog,<br />
Jog, jog, jog, jog,<br />
Jog, jog, jog, jog,<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1.9em;"><em>And</em> Jog, jog, jog, jog,</span><br />
Jog, jog, jog, jog,<br />
Jog, jog, jog, jog,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Jog!</span></p>
</div>
<p>And the wheels, they went, (with motion of hands):</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 9.5em;">
Round, round, round, round,<br />
Round, round, round, round,<br />
Round, round, round, round,<br />
Round, round, round, round,<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1.9em;"><em>And</em> Round, round, round, round,</span><br />
Round, round, round, round,<br />
Round, round, round, round,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Round!</span></p>
</div>
<p>And then Mother was tired. So she stopped.
And Marni said, “Whoa, horsie!”</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span>
Then Little Aa said, “Ugh, ugh!” for he wanted
to go.</p>
<p>But Marni said, “Get up, horsie!” for she
wanted to go too. So Mother took hold of the
handle and went:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 12em;">
Jog, jog, jog, jog,<br />
Jog, jog, jog, jog,<br />
Jog, jog, jog, jog,<br />
Jog, jog, jog, jog,<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1.9em;"><em>And</em> Jog, jog, jog, jog,</span><br />
Jog, jog, jog, jog,<br />
Jog, jog, jog, jog,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Jog!</span></p>
</div>
<p>And the wheels they went:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 9.5em;">
Round, round, round, round,<br />
Round, round, round, round,<br />
Round, round, round, round,<br />
Round, round, round, round,<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1.9em;"><em>And</em> Round, round, round, round,</span><br />
Round, round, round, round,<br />
Round, round, round, round,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Round!</span></p>
</div>
<p>And then Mother was tired. So she stopped,
and Marni said, “Whoa, horsie!”</p>
<p>Then Little Aa said, “Ugh, ugh!” for he wanted
to go. But Marni said “Get up, horsie!” for she
wanted to go too. So Mother took hold of the
handle and went,</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span></p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 12em;">
Jog, jog, jog, jog,<br />
Jog, jog, jog, jog,<br />
Jog, jog, jog, jog,<br />
Jog, jog, jog, jog,<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1.9em;"><em>And</em> Jog, jog, jog, jog,</span><br />
Jog, jog, jog, jog,<br />
Jog, jog, jog, jog,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Jog!</span></p>
</div>
<p>And the wheels they went:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 9.5em;">
Round, round, round, round,<br />
Round, round, round, round,<br />
Round, round, round, round,<br />
Round, round, round, round,<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1.9em;"><em>And</em> Round, round, round, round,</span><br />
Round, round, round, round,<br />
Round, round, round, round,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Round!</span></p>
</div>
<p>And then Mother was very, <em>very</em> tired. So she
stopped. And Marni said, “Whoa, horsie!”</p>
<p>Then Little Aa said, “Ugh, ugh!” for he wanted
to go again. But Marni said “Get up, horsie!”
for she wanted to go too. But Mother she was
very, <em>very</em>, <span class="smcap">very</span> tired. She had jogged, jogged,
jogged so long and made the wheels go round,
round, round, round, so much! So she said, “The
ride is all over!” Then Little Aa climbed down
out of the wagon and Marni climbed down out of
the wagon. And Marni said, “Goodbye, wagon!”
and ran away!</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>MARNI GETS DRESSED</strong></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em; margin-top: 1.7em;"><strong>IN THE MORNING</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 6em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
This story, obviously, is for a particular little girl.
It is told in the terms of her own experience, of her
own environment, and of her own observations. It
is nothing more or less than the living over in rhythmic
form of the daily routine of her morning dressing.
Her story remarks are either literal quotations or
adaptations of her actual every day responses. The
little verse refrains are the type of thing almost anyone
can improvise. I have found that any simple statement
about a familiar object or act told (or sung) with a
kind of ceremonious attention and with an obvious and
simple rhythm, enthralls a two-year-old. The little
girl for whom this story was written began embryonic
stories before her second birthday. The water-soap-sponge
episode is an adaptation of one of her first
narrative forms. This story is meant merely as a
suggestion of the way almost anyone can make
language an every day plaything to the small child she
is caring for.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span></p>
<h2>MARNI GETS DRESSED IN THE MORNING</h2>
<p>Once there was a little girl and her name was
Marni Moo. Marni used to sleep in a little bed in
mother’s room. In the morning Marni would
wake up and she would say “Hello, Mother.”
And then in a minute she would say, “I want to
get up.”</p>
<p>And mother would say:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Hoohoo, Marni Moo.</span><br />
I’m coming, I’m coming,<br />
I’m coming for you.”</p>
</div>
<p>Then mother would get up and she’d come over
and she’d unfasten the blanket and she’d take little
Marni Moo in her arms and she’d walk into
Marni’s bath-room and she’d take off Marni’s
nightgown and Marni’s shirt. And then she’d
get a little basin, and she’d put some water in it,
and she’d get some soap and she’d get a sponge and
she’d wash little Marni Moo. She’d wash Marni’s
face and then she’d wash Marni’s hands, and Marni
would put one hand in the basin and she’d splash
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span>
the water like this:— Then she’d put
another hand in the basin and she’d splash the
water like this:— Then mother would
wipe both hands and she’d throw the water down
the sink and she’d put away the soap and the
sponge. And Marni would watch mother and
then she’d say:</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i097.png" width="500" height="478" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Where water?</span><br />
Where soap?<br />
Where sponge?</p>
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span>
Water gone away!<br />
Soap gone away!<br />
Sponge gone away!”</p>
</div>
<p>And after that what do you suppose Marni would
say?</p>
<p>“Shirt, shirt.” And mother would put Marni’s
shirt over her head and say:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 8em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Peek-a-boo, Marni Moo,</span><br />
Marni’s head is coming through.”</p>
</div>
<p>and then mother would button up Marni’s shirt.</p>
<p>And then Marni would say “Waist, waist.”
Then while mother put on Marni’s waist she would
say:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">
“Here’s one hand</span><br />
And here’s another.<br />
Marni’s a sister<br />
And Robin’s a brother.”</p>
</div>
<p>And then Marni would say, “Drawers, drawers.”
And while mother put on Marni’s drawers she
would say:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Here’s one foot</span><br />
And here’s another.<br />
Marni’s a sister<br />
And Peter’s a brother.”</p>
</div>
<p>And then Marni would say, “Stockings, stockings.”
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span>
And mother would put on one stocking on
her left foot, and then she’d put on another stocking
on her right foot. And then she’d fasten the
garters on one stocking, and then she’d fasten the
garters on the other stocking. And all the time
mother would keep saying:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Here’s one leg</span><br />
And here’s another.<br />
Marni’s a sister<br />
And Jack-o’s a brother.”</p>
</div>
<p>Then Marni would say, “Shoe, shoe.” And
mother would put one shoe on her left foot and
then she’d put on the other shoe on her right foot.
And then she’d say again:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Here’s one foot</span><br />
And here’s another.<br />
Marni’s a sister<br />
And Robin’s a brother.”</p>
</div>
<p>And then Marni would say, “Hook, hook.”
And mother would get the button-hook and then
she’d button up the left shoe and then she’d button
up the right shoe. And all the time she was buttoning
up first one shoe and then the other shoe
Marni would say:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Look, look,</span><br />
Hook, hook.”</p>
</div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span>
And when the shoes were all buttoned up, mother
would hit first one little sole and then the other
little sole, and say:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Now we’re through</span><br />
Tit, tat, too.<br />
Here a nail, there a nail,<br />
Now we’re through.”</p>
</div>
<p>Then Marni would run and get her romper and
bring it to mother calling, “Romper, romper.”
And mother would put on her romper, singing:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Romper, romper</span><br />
Who’s got a romper?<br />
Little Marni Moo<br />
She’s got two.<br />
One is a yellow one<br />
And one is blue.<br />
Romper, romper<br />
Who’s got a romper?”</p>
</div>
<p>And then Marni would say, “Button, button.”
And mother would button up her romper all
down the back. First one button and then another
button and then another button and then another
button, and then another button and then another
button until they were buttoned all down the back.</p>
<p>And then Marni would say, “Sweater.” And
mother would put on her little blue sweater saying:</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span></p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Sweater, sweater</span><br />
Who’s got a sweater?<br />
Little Marni Moo<br />
She’s got two.<br />
One is a yellow one<br />
And one is blue.<br />
Sweater, sweater,<br />
Who’s got a sweater?”</p>
</div>
<p>And then Marni would say, “Hair.” And
mother would get the brush and comb and brush
Marni’s hair. And all the time she was brushing
it she would say:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Brush it so</span><br />
And brush it slow.<br />
Brush it here<br />
And brush it there.<br />
Brush it so<br />
And brush it slow.<br />
And brush it here<br />
And brush it there<br />
<span style="margin-left: -5em;">And brush it all over your dear little head.”</span></p>
</div>
<p>And then Marni would say, “All ready.” And
mother would put her down on the floor.</p>
<p>Then Marni would say:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Where my little pail?</span><br />
My little pail gone away.<br />
I want my little pail<br />
Come, little pail.”</p>
</div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span>
And mother would give her her little pail. And
Marni would put one nut in her pail, and then
she’d put another nut in her pail, and then she’d
put another nut in her pail. And then she’d put
a marble in her pail, and then she’d put another
marble in her pail, and then she’d put another
marble in her pail. And then she’d put her quack-quack
in her pail, and then she’d put her fish in
her pail, and then she’d put her frog in her pail.
Then she would shake her pail with all of the nuts
and the marbles and the quack-quack and the frog
and the fish, and they would all go bingety-bang,
crickety-crack, bingety-bang, crickety-crack.</p>
<p>And Marni would say, “Bingety-bang, crickety-crack.
Where Jack-o?” And Marni would run
to find Jack-o, and she would say, “Jack-o, hear
bingety-bang, crickety-crack.” And she would
rattle her little pail with all the nuts and the
marbles and the quack-quack and the fish and
the frog. Then she’d say, “Where Peter?” And
Marni would run to find Peter, and she would say,
“Peter, hear bingety-bang, crickety-crack.” And
she would rattle her little pail with all the nuts and
the marbles and the quack-quack and the fish and
the frog.</p>
<p>Then mother would call, “Breakfast, breakfast.
Anyone ready for breakfast?”</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span>
And Jack-o would call back, “I am, I am, I am
ready for breakfast.”</p>
<p>And Peter would run as fast as he could calling,
“I am, I am, I am ready for breakfast.”</p>
<p>And last of all would come little Marni Moo
calling, “Breakfast, breakfast.”</p>
<p>Then the two boys would chase Marni to the
breakfast table saying:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Marni Mitchell,</span><br />
Marni Moo,<br />
Run like a mousie<br />
Or I’ll catch you.”</p>
</div>
<p>And Marni would scimper scamper like a
mousie until she reached the breakfast table.</p>
<p>Then they would all have breakfast together.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>THE ROOM WITH THE</strong></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em; margin-top: 1.7em;"><strong>WINDOW LOOKING OUT</strong></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em; margin-top: 2.7em;"><strong>ON THE GARDEN</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 7em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
In this story written for a three-year-old group, I
have tried to present the familiar setting of the classroom
from a new point of view and to give the presentation
a very obvious pattern. I want the children
to take an <em>active</em> part in the story. But before they
try to do this I want them to have some conception of
the whole pattern of the story so that their contributions
may be in proper design, both in substance and in
length. That is the reason I give two samples before
throwing the story open to the children. If each
child has a part which falls into a recognized scheme,
through performing that part he gets a certain practice
in pattern making in language,—however primitive—and
also a certain practice in the technique of co-operation
which means listening to the others as well
as performing himself. I have not tried to add anything
to their stock of information,—merely to give
them the pleasure of drawing on a common fund
together.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span></p>
<h2>THE ROOM WITH THE WINDOW LOOKING OUT ON THE GARDEN</h2>
<p>Once there was a little girl. She was just three
years old. One morning she and her mother put
on their hats and coats right after breakfast. They
walked and walked and walked from their house
until they came to MacDougal Alley. And then
they walked straight down the alley into the Play
School. Now the little girl had never been to the
Play School before and she didn’t know where
anything was and she didn’t know any of the children
and she didn’t even know her teacher! So
she asked her mother, “Which room is going to
be mine?” And her mother answered, “The one
with the window looking out on the garden.”</p>
<p>And sure enough, when the little girl looked
around there was the sun shining right in through
a window which looked out on a lovely garden!
She knelt right down on the window sill to look
out.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 473px;">
<img src="images/i107.png" width="473" height="500" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<p>Then she heard some one say, “Little New Girl,
why don’t you take off your things?” She turned
around and there was Virginia talking to her.
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span>
“Because I don’t know where to put them,” said
Little New Girl. “How funny!” laughed Virginia,
“because see, here are all the hooks right in plain
sight,” and she pointed under the stairs. So the
little girl took off her hat and her mittens. Her
mother had to unbutton the hard top button but
she did all the rest. Then she hung up everything
on a hook.</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span>
“Goodbye,” said her mother. “Goodbye,” said
Little New Girl. “Don’t forget to come for me
because I don’t know where anything is and I
don’t know the children and I don’t even know
my teacher.” And her mother answered, “No, I
won’t.” And then she was gone.</p>
<p>“Now, Little New Girl, what do you want to
do?” said her teacher. But the little girl only
shook her head and said, “I don’t know anything
to do.” One little boy said, “Let me show Little
New Girl something.” And what did he show
her? He took her over to the shelves and he
showed her the blocks. “You can build a house
or anything with them,” said the little boy.</p>
<p>Then another little girl said, “Let me show Little
New Girl something.” And what did this
other little girl show her? She showed her the
dolls. “You can put them into a house,” said this
other little girl.</p>
<p>“Who else can show Little New Girl something
to do?” called her teacher. “Will you, Robert?”
So what did Robert show her? (Give child ample
time to think. If he does not respond go on.)
Robert took her over to the shelves and showed
her the paper and crayons. “You can draw ever
so many pictures,” said Robert.</p>
<p>Then Virginia said, “Let me show Little New
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span>
Girl something.” So what did Virginia show her?—Virginia
showed her the horses and wagons.
“You can harness them up,” said Virginia.</p>
<p>Then Craig said, “Let <em>me</em> show Little New Girl
something.” So what did Craig show her?—Craig
showed her the beads. “You can string them
in strings,” said Craig.</p>
<p>Then Peter said, “Let <em>me</em> show Little New Girl
something.” So what did Peter show her?—Peter
showed her the clay. “You can make anything
you want out of it,” said Peter.</p>
<p>Then Tom said, “Let <em>me</em> show Little New Girl
something.” So what did Tom show her? Tom
showed her the saw and hammer and nails. “You
can saw or hammer nails,” said Tom.</p>
<p>Then Barbara said, “Let me show Little New
Girl something.” So what did Barbara show her?
Barbara showed her the paper and scissors. “You
can cut out anything you want,” said Barbara.</p>
<p>“Now Little New Girl, what do you want to
do?” said her teacher. And this time the little
girl jumped right up and down and said, “I’m
glad! I want to do everything.” “But which thing
first?” asked her teacher. “Let me watch,” the
Little New Girl said.</p>
<p>So Little New Girl stood quite still. She saw
Robert go and get some paper and crayons and
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span>
sit down at his little table to draw. She saw Virginia
get some horses and harness and sit down at
her little table to harness them. She saw Craig
get some beads and sit down at his little table to
string them. She saw Peter get the clay and sit
down at his little table to model. She saw Tom
go to the bench and begin to saw a piece of wood.
She saw Barbara get some paper and scissors and
paste and sit down at her little table to cut out
and to paste.</p>
<p>Then she said, “I want to draw first.” So she
took some paper and some colored crayons and she
sat down at a little table near the window looking
out on the garden. There she drew and she drew
and she drew. And she didn’t feel like a Little
New Girl at all for now she knew where everything
was and she knew all the children and she
knew her teacher.</p>
<hr style="width: 35%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span></p>
<h2>THE ROOM WITH THE WINDOW LOOKING OUT ON THE GARDEN</h2>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 8em;">
I know a yellow room<br />
With great big sliding doors<br />
And a window on the side<br />
Looking out upon a garden.<br />
There’s a balcony above<br />
With a bench for carpenters<br />
With planes and saws and hammers,<br />
Bang! bang! with nails and hammers.<br />
There are hooks beneath the stairs<br />
To hang up hats and coats,<br />
And nearby there’s a sink<br />
With everybody’s cup.<br />
There’s a rope and there’s a slide<br />
Zzzip! but there’s a slide.<br />
There are shelves and shelves and shelves<br />
With colored silk and beads,<br />
With paper and with crayons,<br />
And a great big crock with clay.<br />
And the’re blocks and blocks and blocks<br />
And blocks and blocks and blocks<br />
And the’re horses there and wagons<br />
And cows and dogs and sheep,<br />
And men and women, boys and girls<br />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span>
With clothes upon them too.<br />
And then the’re cars to make a train<br />
With engine and caboose.<a name="FNanchor_B_2" id="FNanchor_B_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_B_2" class="fnanchor">[B]</a><br />
And the’re lots of little tables<br />
In this yellow, yellow room<br />
For boys and girls to sit at<br />
And play with all those things.<br />
And there’s a great big floor<br />
In this yellow, yellow room<br />
For boys and girls to sit on<br />
And play with all those things.<br />
And there is lots of sunshine<br />
In this yellow, yellow room<br />
For boys and girls to sit in<br />
And play with all those things.</p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>THE MANY-HORSE STABLE</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 5em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
All the material for this story was supplied by a
three-year-old. The pattern was added. An older
child would not be content with so sketchy an account.
But it seems to compass a three-year-old’s most significant
associations with a stable. The title is one in
actual use by a four-year-old class.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span></p>
<h2>THE MANY-HORSE STABLE</h2>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i116.png" width="500" height="343" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<p>Once there was a stable. The stable was in a big
city. Downstairs in the stable there were many
g-r-e-a-t b-i-g wagons and one little-bit-of-a
wagon. And on the walls there were many
g-r-e-a-t b-i-g harnesses and one little-bit-of-a harness.
And there were many g-r-e-a-t b-i-g blankets
and one little-bit-of-a blanket. And there were
some g-r-e-a-t b-i-g whips and one little-bit-of-a
whip. And there were some g-r-e-a-t b-i-g nose
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span>
bags and one little-bit-of-a nose bag. Upstairs in
the stalls there were some g-r-e-a-t b-i-g horses
and one little-bit-of-a pony.</p>
<p>In the morning the men would come and harness
up the g-r-e-a-t b-i-g horses with the g-r-e-a-t b-i-g
harnesses to the g-r-e-a-t b-i-g wagons. They
would put in the g-r-e-a-t b-i-g blankets and the
g-r-e-a-t b-i-g whips and the g-r-e-a-t b-i-g nose
bags. Then they would get up on the seats and
gather up the reins and off down the street would
go the g-r-e-a-t b-i-g horses. Clumpety-lumpety
bump! thump! Clumpety-lumpety bump! thump!</p>
<p>Then a little-bit-of-a man would harness up the
little-bit-of-a pony with the little-bit-of-a harness
to the little-bit-of-a wagon. He would put in the
little-bit-of-a blanket and the little-bit-of-a whip
and the little-bit-of-a nose bag. Then he would get
up on the seat and gather up the reins and off down
the street would go the little-bit-of-a pony!
Lippety-lippety! lip! lip! lip! Lippety-lippety!
lip! lip! lip!</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>MY KITTY</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 5em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
Here there is no plot. Instead I have attempted
to enumerate the associations which cluster
around a kitten, and present them in a patterned form.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span></p>
<h2>MY KITTY</h2>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 6em;">
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">Meow, meow!</span><br />
Kitty’s eyes, two eyes, yellow eyes, shiny bright eyes.<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">Meow, meow!</span><br />
Kitty’s pointed ears, pink on the inside, fur on the outside.<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">Meow, meow!</span><br />
Kitty’s mouth, little white teeth and whiskers long.<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">Meow, meow!</span><br />
Kitty’s fur, soft to stroke like this, like this.</p>
<p style="margin-left: 6em;">
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">Prrrr, prrrr,</span><br />
Little fur ball cuddled close to the warm, warm fire.<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">Prrrr, prrrr,</span><br />
Little padded feet pattering soft to get her milk.<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">Prrrr, prrrr,</span><br />
Little pink tongue, lapping up the milk from her own little dish.<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">Prrrr, prrrr,</span><br />
Warm little, round little, happy little kitten snuggled in my arms.</p>
<p style="margin-left: 6em;">
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span>
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">Pssst, pssst!</span><br />
Stiff little kitten, spitting at a dog.<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">Pssst, pssst!</span><br />
Hair standing up on her humped-up back.<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">Pssst, pssst!</span><br />
Sharp white teeth, sharp, sharp, claws.<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">Pssst, pssst!</span><br />
Ready to jump and to bite and to scratch.</p>
<p style="margin-left: 6em;">
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">Kitty, kitty, kitty,</span><br />
You funny little cat,<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">I never know whether you’ll purr or spit</span><br />
You funny little cat!</p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>THE ROOSTER AND THE HENS</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 5em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
An objective story tied in with the personal.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span></p>
<h2>THE ROOSTER AND THE HENS</h2>
<p>Once there was an egg. Inside the egg there
was a little chicken growing, for the mother hen
had sat on it for three weeks. When the chicken
was big enough he wanted to come out and so he
went pick, peck, pick, peck, until he made a little
hole in the shell. Then he stuck his bill through
the hole and wiggled it until the shell cracked and
he could get his head through. Then he wiggled
it a little more and the shell broke and he could
get his foot out. And then the shell broke right
in two.</p>
<p>As soon as the little chicken was out he went
scritch, scratch, with his little foot. Then he ran
to a little saucer of water. He took a little water
in his bill; then he held his head up in the air
while the water ran down his throat. The mother
hen went:</p>
<p class="center">
“Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck,”</p>
<p>and the little chicken ran to her calling:</p>
<p class="center">
“Cheep, cheep, cheep.”</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span>
Then he heard a funny little noise. He looked
around and what do you think he saw? Another
egg was cracking because another little chicken
was going pick, peck inside. Soon out of the shell
came a little baby brother. And then he heard
another funny little noise, and another shell broke
and out of the shell came a little baby sister. And
then he heard another little noise and another shell
broke and out of the shell came still another little
sister. This went on until there were a lot of yellow
baby chickens. Then all the little chickens
went scritch, scratch, with their little feet looking
for worms, and all the little chickens took a drink
of water and held up their heads to let the water
run down their throats. And all the little chickens
ran to the mother hen calling:</p>
<p class="center">
“Cheep, cheep, cheep.”</p>
<p>Now all the little chickens began to grow. The
little sisters all got little bits of combs on the tops
of their heads and under their bills. Their little
yellow feathers turned into all kinds of colors.
But the little brother chicken, he got a great big
red comb on the top of his head and under his
bill, and he got long spurs on his ankles. On his
neck the feathers grew long and yellow and behind
on his tail they grew very long and all shiny green.</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span>
He was walking around one morning while it
was still dark when suddenly he felt a funny feeling
in his throat. He wanted to open his mouth.
So he did, and out of his mouth this is what came:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Cock-a-doodle-doo,</span><br />
Cock-a-doodle-doo.”</p>
</div>
<p>He thought it sounded perfectly wonderful; so
he opened his mouth again and out came the same
sound:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Cock-a-doodle-doo,</span><br />
Cock-a-doodle-doo.”</p>
</div>
<p>Now when his sister hens heard this wonderful
rooster-noise they all came running out of the
chicken house. This made the rooster more
pleased than ever. So he threw his head way back
and he opened his beak wide and he crowed:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Cock-a-doodle-doo,</span><br />
Cock-a-doodle-doo,<br />
I’m twice as smart as you,<br />
Cock-a-doodle-doo,<br />
See what I can do.”</p>
</div>
<p>When his sister hens heard him say this each
one began to cluck and say:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Cut-cut-cut, cadaakut,</span><br />
I’m going to lay an egg, an egg.”</p>
</div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span>
Then the rooster answered:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Cock-a-doodle-doo,</span><br />
I don’t believe it’s true.<br />
Cock-a-doodle-doo,<br />
I don’t believe it’s true.”</p>
</div>
<p>So the little black and white hen, she ran into
the barn and up on the side of the wall she saw a
little box. She jumped into the little box and
there she laid an egg. Then she said:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Cut-cut-cut, cadaakut,</span><br />
I laid an egg for Robert.<br />
Cut-cut-cut, cadaakut,<br />
I laid an egg for Robert.”</p>
</div>
<p>Then the little yellow hen she jumped right into
the manger and she wiggled around in the straw
until she made a little nest where she laid an egg.
Then she said:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Cut-cut-cut, cadaakut,</span><br />
I laid an egg for Martha.<br />
Cut-cut-cut, cadaakut,<br />
I laid an egg for Martha.”</p>
</div>
<p>Then the little black hen she saw another little
box nailed on to the wall so she jumped up on
it and she laid an egg and then she said:</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span></p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Cut-cut-cut, cadaakut,</span><br />
I laid an egg for Tom, for Tom,<br />
Cut-cut-cut, cadaakut,<br />
I laid an egg for Tom.”</p>
</div>
<p>And then the little white hen she could not find
any place at all. She ran around and around.
Finally she sat right down in the soft dust which
by this time the sun had made all warm, until
she made a little round hollow and there she laid
an egg. Then she said:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Cut-cut-cut, cadaakut,</span><br />
I laid an egg for Peter.<br />
Cut-cut-cut, cadaakut,<br />
I laid an egg for Peter.”</p>
</div>
<p>When the rooster saw all these eggs he opened
his mouth again and bragged:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Cock-a-doodle-doo,</span><br />
What they say is true.<br />
See what they can do,<br />
Cock-a-doodle-doo.”</p>
</div>
<p>And the little hens answered:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Cut-cut-cut, cadaakut,</span><br />
We can lay an egg, an egg,<br />
Cut-cut-cut, cadaakut,<br />
We can lay an egg.”</p>
</div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span>
And if ever you are out in the country early in
the morning you will hear the wonderful rooster-noise.
And then you will hear the hens telling
how many eggs they have laid for you.</p>
<hr style="width: 25%;" />
<h2>THE LITTLE HEN AND THE ROOSTER</h2>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 6em;">
The little hen goes “cut cut cut.”<br />
The rooster he goes “cock a doodle doo!<br />
You want me and I want you,<br />
But I’m up here and you’re down there.”<br />
The little hen goes “cut cut cut,”<br />
The rooster he steps with a funny little strut,<br />
He cocks his eye, gives a funny little sound,<br />
He looks at the hen, he looks all around,<br />
He flaps his wings, he beats the air,<br />
He stretches his neck, then flies to the ground.<br />
“Cock a doodle, cock a doodle, cock a doodle doo!<br />
Now you have me and I have you!”</p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>MY HORSE, OLD DAN</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 5em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
This verse utilizes a child’s love of enumeration
and of movement. The School has found it the most
successful of my verse for small children.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span></p>
<h2>MY HORSE, OLD DAN</h2>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
Old Dan has two ears<br />
Old Dan has two eyes<br />
Old Dan has one mouth<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With many, many, many, many teeth.</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
Old Dan has four feet<br />
Old Dan has four hoofs<br />
Old Dan has one tail<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With many, many, many, many hairs.</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
Old Dan can w a l k, w a l k,<br />
Old Dan can trot, trot, trot,<br />
Old Dan can run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Many, many, many, many miles.</span></p>
</div>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span>
Horsie goes jog-a-jog-a-jog<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The wheels go round and round and round.</span><br />
Horsie goes jog-a-jog-a-jog<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Oh, hear what a rattlety, tattlety sound!</span><br />
Horsie goes jog-a-jog-a-jog<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The wheels they pound and pound and pound.</span><br />
Horsie goes jog-a-jog-a-jog<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">While the wagon it rattles along the ground!</span></p>
</div>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i134.png" width="500" height="390" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 9em;">
Auto, auto.<br />
May I have a ride?<br />
Yes, sir, yes, sir,<br />
Step right inside.<br />
Pour in the water,<br />
Turn on the gasolene,<br />
And chug, chug, away we go<br />
Through the country green.</p>
</div>
<hr style='width: 65%;' />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>HOW SPOT FOUND A HOME</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 5em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
This story was worked out with the help of a five-year-old
boy who supplied most of the content. It at
once suggested dramatization to various groups of
children to whom it was read. The refrains are
definite corner posts in the story and are recognized
as such by the children.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span></p>
<h2>HOW SPOT FOUND A HOME</h2>
<p>Once there was a cat. She was a black and
white and yellow cat and the boys on the street
called her Spot. For she was a poor cat with no
home but the street. When she wanted to sleep,
she had to hunt for a dark empty cellar. When
she wanted to eat, she had to hunt for a garbage
can. So poor Spot was very thin and very unhappy.
And much of the time she prowled and yowled and howled.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i138.png" width="500" height="395" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span>
Now one day Spot was prowling along the fence
in the alley. She wanted to find a home. She
was saying to herself:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Meow, meow!</span><br />
I’ve no place to eat,<br />
I’ve no place to sleep,<br />
I’ve only the street!<br />
Meow, meow, meow!”</p>
</div>
<p>Then suddenly she smelled something. Sniff!
went her pink little nose. Spot knew it was smoke
she smelled. The smoke came out of the chimney
of a house. “Where there is smoke there is fire,”
thought Spot, “and where there is fire, it is warm
to lie.” So she jumped down from the fence and
on her little padded feet ran softly to the door.
There she saw an empty milk bottle. “Where
there are milk bottles, there is milk,” thought Spot,
“and where there is milk, it is good to drink.” So
she slipped in through the door.</p>
<p>Inside was a warm, warm kitchen. Spot trotted
softly to the front of the stove and there she curled
up. She was very happy, so she closed her eyes
and began to sing:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Purrrr, purrrr,</span><br />
Curling up warm<br />
To a ball of fur,<br />
I close my eyes<br />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span>
And purr and purr.<br />
Purrrr, purrrr,<br />
Purrrr, purrrr.”</p>
</div>
<p>Bang! went the kitchen door. Spot opened one
sleepy eye. In front of her stood a cross, cross
woman. The cross, cross woman scowled. She
picked up poor Spot and threw her out of the
door, screaming:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Scat, scat!</span><br />
You old street cat!<br />
Scat, scat!<br />
And never come back!”</p>
</div>
<p>With a bound Spot jumped back to the fence.</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Meow, meow!</span><br />
I’ve no place to eat,<br />
I’ve no place to sleep,<br />
I’ve only the street.<br />
Meow, meow, meow!”</p>
</div>
<p>So she trotted along the fence. In a little while
sniff! went her little pink nose again. She smelled
more smoke. She stopped by a house with two
chimneys. The smoke came out of both chimneys!
“Where there are two fires there must be
room for me,” thought Spot. She jumped off the
fence and pattered to the door. By the door there
were two empty milk bottles. “Where there is so
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span>
much milk there will be some for me,” thought
Spot. But the door was shut tight. Spot ran to
the window. It was open! In skipped Spot.
There was another warm, warm kitchen and there
was another stove. Spot trotted softly to the stove
and curled up happy and warm. She closed her
eyes and softly sang:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Purrrr, purrrr,</span><br />
Curling up warm<br />
To a ball of fur,<br />
I close my eyes<br />
And purr and purr.<br />
Purrrr, purrrr,<br />
Purrrr, purrrr.”</p>
</div>
<p>“Ssssspt!” hissed something close by. Spot leapt
to her feet. “Ssssspt!” she answered back. For
there in front of her stood an enormous black cat.
His back was humped, his hair stood on end, his
eyes gleamed and his teeth showed white.</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Ssssspt! leave my rug!</span><br />
Ssssspt! leave my fire!<br />
Ssssspt! leave my milk!<br />
Ssssspt! leave my home!”</p>
</div>
<p>Spot gave one great jump out of the window
and another great jump to the top of the fence.
For Spot was little and thin and the great black
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span>
cat was strong and big. And he didn’t want Spot
in his home.</p>
<p>Poor Spot trotted along the fence, thinking:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Meow, meow,</span><br />
I’ve no place to eat,<br />
I’ve no place to sleep,<br />
I’ve only the street,<br />
Meow, meow, meow.”</p>
</div>
<p>In a little while she smelled smoke again.
Sniff! went her little pink nose. This time she
stopped by a house with three chimneys. The
smoke came out of all the chimneys! “Where
there are three fires there <em>must</em> be room for me,”
thought Spot. So she jumped off the fence and
pattered to the door. By the door were three
empty milk bottles! “Where there is so much milk
there must be children,” thought Spot and then
she began to feel happy. But the door was shut
tight. She trotted to the window. The window
was shut tight too! Then she saw some stairs.
Up the stairs she trotted. There she found another
door and in she slipped. She heard a very pleasant
sound.</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“I crickle, I crackle,</span><br />
I flicker, I flare,<br />
<span style="margin-left: -4em;">I jump from nothing right into the air.”</span></p>
</div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span>
There on the hearth burned an open fire with a
warm, warm rug in front of it. On the rug was
a little table and on the table were two little mugs
of milk. Spot curled up on the rug under the
table and began to sing:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Purrrr, purrrr,</span><br />
Curling up warm<br />
To a ball of fur,<br />
I close my eyes,<br />
And purr and purr.<br />
Purrrr, purrrr,<br />
Purrrr, purrrr.”</p>
</div>
<p>Pat, pat, pat, pat, pat, pat, pat, pat! Spot heard
some little feet coming. A little boy in a nightgown
ran into the room. “Look,” he called, “at
the pretty spotted cat under our table!” Then
pat, pat, pat, pat, pat! And a little girl in a nightgown
ran into the room. “See,” she called, “the
pussy has come to take supper with us!” Then
the little boy, quick as a wink, put a saucer on the
floor and poured some of his milk into it and the
little girl, quick as a wink, poured some of hers
in too.</p>
<p>In and out, in and out, in and out, went Spot’s
pink tongue lapping up the milk. Then she sat
up and washed her face very carefully. Then she
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span>
curled up and closed her eyes and began to sing.
That was her way of saying “Thank you, little
boy and little girl! I’m so glad I’ve found a
home!”</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Purrrr, purrrr,</span><br />
Purrrr, purrrr,<br />
Purrrr, purrrr, purrrr.”</p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>THE DINNER HORSES</strong></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em; margin-top: 1.7em;"><strong>THE GROCERY MAN</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 6em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
The material for these stories came from questions
and observations on the part of three- and four-year-olds
arising largely from their trips on the city streets.
The children should be allowed to name the various
kinds of food.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span></p>
<h2>THE DINNER HORSES</h2>
<p>In a certain house on a certain street there lives
a certain little girl and her name is Ruth (one
of children’s names). She sleeps in a little bed
in a room with a big window opening on to the
street. She sleeps all night in the little bed with
her eyes closed tight. In the morning she opens
her eyes and it’s just beginning to get light. Then
she stretches and stretches her legs. Then she stops
still and listens. For she hears him coming,
coming, coming down the street. Clopperty, clopperty,
clopperty, clop! comes the milk horse down
the street! He stops in front of Ruth’s house.
Ruth hears him. Then she hears the driver jump
out and pat, pat, pat, she hears his feet coming to
the door. Clank, clink, clank, go the milk bottles
in his hands. Clank! she hears him put them
down. Then fast she hears his feet, pat, pat, pat,
pat, pat, pat, pat. “Go on, Dan!” she hears him
call, and clopperty, clopperty, clopperty, clop! off
goes the milk horse down the street.</p>
<p>Then after a while she hears something else.
It’s quite light now. Ruth thinks it must be time
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span>
to get up. She stretches and stretches her legs.
Then she stretches and stretches her arms. Then
she stops still and listens.</p>
<p>For she hears him coming, coming, coming
down the street. Clippety, lip, lip, lip, clippety,
lip, lip, lip! comes the bread horse down the street.
He stops in front of Ruth’s house. Ruth hears
him. Then she hears the driver jump out and
pat, pat, pat, she hears his feet coming to the door.
Rattle, crackle, goes the paper as he puts down
the loaves of bread all wrapped up to keep them
clean. Then fast she hears his feet, pat, pat, pat,
pat, pat, pat, pat. “Go on, Bill!” she hears him
call and clippety, lip, lip, lip, clippety, lip, lip,
lip! off goes the bread horse down the street.</p>
<p>After breakfast when Ruth is all ready to go to
school she hears a big auto coming down the street.
Kachug-a-chug-a-chug comes the grocery auto
down the street. It stops at Ruth’s house. Ruth
runs and looks out of the window. She sees the
driver jump out and take from the back of the auto
a basket all full of things. She can see spinach
and potatoes and a package of sugar
and——and——and——.</p>
<p>Then pat, pat, pat, the driver runs to the door.
Prrrrrr! she hears the bell ring and Ruth knows
that the driver is giving Bessie all the things at
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span>
the kitchen door. Then pat, pat, pat back comes
the driver, jumps into the auto and kachug-a-chug-a-chug!
off goes the grocery auto down the street!</p>
<p>On the way to school Ruth passes another
wagon. Rattling and clattering, she hears the
butcher’s wagon come down the street. “Is there
anything in that wagon for us?” asks Ruth. And
her mother answers, “Yes, a little chicken.” Then
rattling and clattering off to Ruth’s house goes the
butcher’s wagon down the street.</p>
<p>Now while Ruth is away at school Bessie washes
the spinach and chops it up fine and puts it on the
stove to boil. She puts the little chicken in a pan
and puts it in the oven to roast. Then she puts
some big potatoes in the oven to bake. Then she
slices some bread and cuts off a piece of butter
and pours out some glasses of milk.</p>
<p>When Ruth comes home from school she smells
something good. “Dinner’s all ready,” calls
Bessie. Ruth answers, “Come father, come
mother. I’m hungry.”</p>
<p>So Ruth and her father and mother sit down at
the table and they drink the milk and they eat the
bread and the spinach and the potatoes and the
chicken which the milk horse and the bread horse
and the grocery auto and the butcher’s wagon
brought in the morning.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i151.png" width="500" height="365" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<h2><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span>
THE GROCERY MAN</h2>
<p>Prrrip! prrrip! prrrip! the telephone rings in
the grocery store. “Hello,” says the grocery man.
“Who are you?”</p>
<p>“I’m Ruth’s mother. Good morning, Mr. Grocery
Man.”</p>
<p>“Good morning, Ruth’s Mother. What can I
send you today?”</p>
<p>“Please, Mr. Grocery Man, send me some potatoes
and some graham crackers and a package
of sugar and some carrots.”</p>
<p>“Is that all, Ruth’s Mother?”</p>
<p>“Yes, that’s all. Goodbye, Mr. Grocery Man.”</p>
<p>“Goodbye, Ruth’s Mother.”</p>
<p>So the grocery man hangs up the telephone and
takes a basket and in the basket he puts some potatoes,
some graham crackers, a package of sugar
and some carrots.</p>
<p>Then prrrip! prrrip! prrrip! the telephone rings
again.</p>
<p>“Hello!” says the Grocery Man. “Who is this?”</p>
<p>“This is John’s Mother. Good morning, Mr.
Grocery Man.”</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span>
“Good morning, John’s Mother. What can I
send you today?”</p>
<p>“Please, Mr. Grocery Man, send me some
spinach and some apples and some butter and some
eggs.”</p>
<p>“Is that all, John’s Mother?”</p>
<p>“Yes, that’s all. Goodbye, Mr. Grocery Man.”</p>
<p>“Goodbye, John’s Mother.”</p>
<p>So the Grocery Man hangs up the telephone and
takes another basket and in the basket he puts
some spinach and some apples and some butter
and some eggs.</p>
<p>Then prrrip! prrrip, prrrip! the telephone rings
another time.</p>
<p>“Hello!” says the Grocery Man. “Who are
you?”</p>
<p>“I’m Robert’s Mother. Good morning, Mr.
Grocery Man.”</p>
<p>“Good morning, Robert’s Mother. What can I
send you today?”</p>
<p>“Please, Mr. Grocery Man, send me some
prunes and some macaroni and some salt and
some oatmeal.”</p>
<p>“Is that all, Robert’s Mother?”</p>
<p>“Yes, that’s all. Goodbye, Mr. Grocery Man.”</p>
<p>“Goodbye, Robert’s Mother.”</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span>
So the Grocery Man hangs up the telephone
and takes another basket and in the basket he
puts some prunes and some macaroni and some
salt and some oatmeal. Then he carries Ruth’s
basket out and puts it in a wagon on the street.
Then he carries John’s basket out and puts it in
the wagon. At last he carries Robert’s basket out
and puts that in the wagon with the others. Then
the driver jumps to the seat and gathers up the
reins and says “Go on, Old Dan,” and clopperty,
clopperty clop! off goes Old Dan down the street.</p>
<p>Old Dan goes clopperty, clopperty, clop till he
gets to Ruth’s house and there he stops. The driver
jumps out and takes the basket and pat, pat, pat,
go his feet running to the door. Prrrr! he rings
the bell and gives Ruth’s mother the potatoes, the
graham crackers, the sugar and the carrots. Then
pat, pat, pat, he is back in the wagon. “Go on,
Old Dan,” and clopperty, clopperty, clop! off goes
Old Dan down the street.</p>
<p>Old Dan goes clopperty, clopperty, clop till he
gets to John’s house and there he stops. The driver
jumps out and takes another basket and pat, pat,
pat go his feet running to the door. Prrrr! he
rings the bell and gives John’s mother the spinach,
the apples, the butter and the eggs. Then pat, pat,
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span>
pat, he is back in the wagon. “Go on, Old Dan,”
and clopperty, clopperty, clop! off goes Old Dan
down the street.</p>
<p>Old Dan goes clopperty, clopperty, clop till he
gets to Robert’s house and there he stops. The
driver jumps out, takes another basket and pat,
pat, pat, he is at the door. Prrrr! he rings the
bell and gives Robert’s mother the prunes, the
macaroni, the salt and the oatmeal. Then pat,
pat, pat, he is back in the wagon. “Go on, Old
Dan,” and clopperty, clopperty, clop! off goes old
Dan down the street.</p>
<p>So Old Dan goes clopperty, clopperty, clop from
house to house until he has left a basket with
everybody who telephoned to the grocery man in
the morning.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>THE JOURNEY</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 5em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
This story, which is an adaptation of a five-year-old’s
story quoted in the introduction, embodies the
details given to me by another three-year-old child.
The sound of the train should be intoned, as it was in
the original telling.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span></p>
<h2>THE JOURNEY</h2>
<p>Once Ruth’s father was going to take a journey.
He got out his suitcase. And in his suitcase he put
his slippers, his pajamas, his tooth brush, some
tooth paste, some clean underclothes, some clean
shirts, some collars, some socks and some handkerchiefs.
Then he kissed Ruth goodbye as she
lay asleep in her bed and he kissed her mother
goodbye and with his suitcase in his hand went up
to the Pennsylvania Station.</p>
<p>At the train he met the negro porter. “What
berth, sir?” said the porter. “Lower 10”, said
Ruth’s father. So the porter took the suitcase and
put it down at Number 10 which was all made up
into two beds, one above the other, with green
curtains hanging in front. Then Ruth’s father undressed.
And in a few minutes he was asleep behind
the green curtains.</p>
<p>Soon the train started and Ruth’s father never
woke up. “Thum,” said the train (on many different
keys) all through the night. “Thum, thum,
thum; thum, thum, thum, thum; thum, thum,
thum, thum; thum, thum, thum, thum. <em>Philadelphia!</em>
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span>
Thum, thum, thum, thum; thum, thum,
thum, thum; thum, thum, thum, thum; thum,
thum, thum, thum. <em>Baltimore!</em> Thum, thum,
thum, thum; thum, thum, thum, thum; thum,
thum, thum, thum; thum, thum, thum, thum.
<em>Washington!</em>”</p>
<p>Then Ruth’s father got up and dressed himself,
for it was morning. The negro porter carried his
suitcase to the platform. “Goodbye, sir,” he said.
“Goodbye, Porter,” said Ruth’s father. And then
he went off to a hotel.</p>
<p>The next day it was time for him to go home.
So Ruth’s father packed his suitcase again. In his
suitcase he put his slippers, his pajamas, his tooth
brush, some tooth paste, his dirty underclothes, his
dirty shirts, his collars, his socks and his handkerchiefs.
Then he went to the Pennsylvania Station
in Washington.</p>
<p>At the train he met another negro porter.
“What berth, sir?” said the porter. “Upper 6,”
said Ruth’s father. So the porter took the suitcase
and put it in the top bed of Number 6. Ruth’s
father climbed up into the upper berth. Then
he undressed and in a few minutes he was asleep
behind the green curtains.</p>
<p>Soon the train started. “Thum,” said the train,
though Ruth’s father never heard it he was so
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span>
sound asleep. “Thum, thum, thum, thum; thum,
thum, thum, thum; thum, thum, thum, thum;
thum, thum, thum, thum. <em>Baltimore!</em> Thum,
thum, thum, thum; thum, thum, thum, thum;
thum, thum, thum, thum; thum, thum, thum,
thum. <em>Philadelphia!</em> Thum, thum, thum, thum;
thum, thum, thum, thum; thum, thum, thum,
thum; thum, thum, thum, thum. <em>New York!</em>”</p>
<p>Then Ruth’s father got up and dressed himself
for it was morning. The negro porter carried his
suitcase to the platform. “Goodbye, sir,” he said.
“Goodbye, Porter,” said Ruth’s father.</p>
<p>Then Ruth’s father jumped into a taxi and in a
few minutes he was at home. Ruth came running
down the stairs. “Here’s father,” she cried.
“Here’s father in time for breakfast!” “My,”
said Ruth’s father, giving her a hug, “It’s good to
be home!”</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>PEDRO’S FEET</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 5em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
Here there is a definite attempt to let the sounds
tell their own story.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span></p>
<h2>PEDRO’S FEET</h2>
<p>Little Pedro was a dog. He lived in New York
City. He was owned by a little boy who loved
him. For Pedro had big brown eyes and curly
brown hair and when he wanted anything he
would go:</p>
<p>“Hu-u-u, hu-u-u, hu-u-u!” And any one would
have loved Pedro.</p>
<p>One day Pedro was lying on his front steps in
the warm, warm sun. He put his nose on his little
fore paws and went to sleep.</p>
<p>“Bzbzbzbzbzbzbzbzbz!” went a little fly in his
ear.</p>
<p>“Yap, yap!” went Pedro’s jaws as he snapped at
the fly. But he missed the fly.</p>
<p>“Bzbzbzbzbzbzbzbzbz!” went the little fly.</p>
<p>“Yap, yap!” went Pedro’s jaws. But he missed
the fly again.</p>
<p>“Bzbzbzbzbzbzbzbzbz!”</p>
<p>“Yap, yap, yap!”</p>
<p>“Bzbzbzbzbzbzbzbzbz!”</p>
<p>“Yap, yap, yap, yap!”</p>
<p>Up jumped Pedro. “I can’t sleep with that fly
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span>
in my ear! I’ll take a walk!” Down the steps
he went. Skippety, skippety, skippety, skippety.
He reached the sidewalk. On the sidewalk went
his feet. You could hear them as they beat. Pitter
patter, pitter patter, pitter patter down the
street.</p>
<p>When he came to the end of the block, he started
across the street. Pitter patter, pitter patter, pitter
pat——</p>
<p>“Honk, honk! Look out, look out! Honk,
honk!”</p>
<p>Jump-thump! went Pedro’s feet. Jump-jump
jump-jump, jump-jump, thump-thump, thump-thump,
thump-thump, jump-jump, jump-jump,
jump-jump, pitter patter, pitter patter,—he’d
reached the other side! And the auto hadn’t hurt
him!</p>
<p>Again on the sidewalk went his feet. You could
hear them as they beat pitter patter, pitter patter,
pitter patter down the street.</p>
<p>When he came to the end of this block, he
started across the next street.</p>
<p>Pitter patter, pitter patter, pitter pat——</p>
<p>“Clopperty, clopperty, clopperty, clopperty!
Get out of my way, get out of my way! Clopperty,
clopperty, clopperty, clopperty!”</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span>
Jump-thump! went Pedro’s feet. Jump-jump
jump-jump, jump-jump, thump-thump, thump-thump,
thump-thump, jump-jump, jump-jump,
jump-jump, pitter patter, pitter patter,—he’d
reached the other side! And the horse hadn’t hurt
him either!</p>
<p>Again on the sidewalk went his feet. You could
hear them as they beat,—pitter patter, pitter patter,
pitter patter down the street.</p>
<p>When he came to the end of this block, he
started across the next street.</p>
<p>Pitter patter, pitter patter, pitter pat—— Pedro
stopped with one little front foot up in the air.
In the middle of the street stood a man. He had
on high rubber boots and he held a big hose.</p>
<p>Shrzshrzshrzshrzshrz—came the water out of
the hose. It hit the street. Splsh splsh splsh splsh
splsh! It ran in a little stream into the hole in
the gutter,—gubble, gubble, gubble, gubble, gubble!
This was something new to Pedro. He didn’t
understand.</p>
<p>Pitter patter, pitter patter, pitter patter. He
thought he’d better find out about it.</p>
<p>“Hie, you little dog! Look out!” shouted the
man.</p>
<p>Pitter patter, pitter patter, pitter patter.</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span>
“Hie, you little dog. I say look out!”</p>
<p>Pitter patter, pitter pat—ssssssssss bang! the
water hit him!</p>
<p>“Ki-eye! yow! yow!” Kathump, kathump,
kathump, kathump; kathump, kathump, kathump,
kathump! Fast, fast went Pedro’s feet, running,
tearing down the street.</p>
<p>“Ki-eye! I’m going home!” Kathump, kathump,
kathump, kathump! Down the sidewalk,
’cross the street, ’nother sidewalk, ’nother street,
kathump, kathump, kathump, kathump! Pedro
was at home. Skippety, skippety up the stairs.
Pedro was at his own front door.</p>
<p>He stopped. Brrrrrrrrrrrrr—he shook himself.
He scattered the water all around.</p>
<p>“Bow, wow, I’m glad I’m home! Bow, wow,
I’m glad I’m home!”</p>
<p>Then he lay down in the warm, warm sun. And
he put his nose on his little fore paws. And he
closed his eyes and he went to sleep.</p>
<p>“Bzbzbzbzbzbzbzbzbz!”</p>
<p>But Pedro was too sound asleep to hear the fly.</p>
<p>“Whe-whuhuhu, whe-whuhuhu, whe-whuhuhu.”
That’s the way he was breathing. For he
was oh, so sound asleep! And there he is sleeping
now.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>HOW THE ENGINE LEARNED</strong></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em; margin-top: 1.7em;"><strong>THE KNOWING SONG</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 6em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
This story stresses the relationship of use in
response to what seems to be a five-year-old method
of thinking.</p>
<p style="margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
The school has found it best to let the younger
children take the parts individually but to omit the
parts in unison. The joy of the mere noise makes it
difficult to bring them back for the close of the story.
All the children have repeated the refrains after a
few readings with evident enjoyment.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span></p>
<h2>HOW THE ENGINE LEARNED THE KNOWING SONG</h2>
<p>Once there was a new engine. He had a great
big boiler; he had a smoke stack; he had a bell;
he had a whistle; he had a sand-dome; he had
a headlight; he had four big driving wheels; he
had a cab. But he was very sad, was this engine,
for he didn’t know how to use any of his parts.
All around him on the tracks were other engines,
puffing or whistling or ringing their bells and
squirting steam. One big engine moved his wheels
slowly, softly muttering to himself, “I’m going,
I’m going, I’m going.” Now the new engine knew
this was the end of the Knowing Song of Engines.
He wanted desperately to sing it. So he called
out:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“I want to go</span><br />
But I don’t know how;<br />
I want to know,<br />
Please teach me now.<br />
Please somebody teach me how.”</p>
</div>
<p>Now there were two men who had come just
on purpose to teach him how. And who do you
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span>
suppose they were? The engineer and the fireman!
When the engineer heard the new engine
call out, he asked, “What do you want, new
engine?”</p>
<p>And the engine answered:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“I want the sound</span><br />
Of my wheels going round.<br />
I want to stream<br />
A jet of steam.<br />
I want to puff<br />
Smoke and stuff.<br />
I want to ring<br />
Ding, ding-a-ding.<br />
I want to blow<br />
My whistle so.<br />
I want my light<br />
To shine out bright.<br />
I want to go ringing and singing the song,<br />
The humming song of the engine coming,<br />
The clear, near song of the engine here,<br />
The knowing song of the engine going.”</p>
</div>
<p>Now the engineer and the fireman were pleased
when they heard what the new engine wanted.
But the engineer said:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“All in good time, my engine,</span><br />
Steady, steady,<br />
’Til you’re ready.<br />
Learn to know<br />
Before you go.”</p>
</div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i172.png" width="500" height="368" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<p>Then he said to the fireman, “First we must give
our engine some water.” So they put the end of
a hose hanging from a big high-up tank right into
a little tank under the engine’s tender. The water
filled up this little tank and then ran into the big
boiler and filled that all up too. And while they
were doing this the water kept saying:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“I am water from a stream</span><br />
When I’m hot I turn to steam.”</p>
</div>
<p>When the engine felt his boiler full of water he
asked eagerly:</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span></p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Now I have water,</span><br />
Now do I know<br />
How I should go?”</p>
</div>
<p>But the fireman said:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“All in good time, my engine,</span><br />
Steady, steady,<br />
’Til you’re ready,<br />
Learn to know<br />
Before you go.”</p>
</div>
<p>Then he said to the engineer, “Now we must give
our engine some coal.” So they filled the tender
with coal, and then under the boiler the fireman
built a fire. Then the fireman began blowing and
the coals began glowing. And as he built the
fire, the fire said:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“I am fire,</span><br />
The coal I eat<br />
To make the heat<br />
To turn the stream<br />
Into the steam.”</p>
</div>
<p>When the engine felt the sleeping fire wake up
and begin to live inside him and turn the water
into steam he said eagerly:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Now I have water,</span><br />
Now I have coal,<br />
Now do I know<br />
How I should go?”</p>
</div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span>
But the engineer said:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“All in good time, my engine,</span><br />
Steady, steady,<br />
’Til you’re ready.<br />
Learn to know<br />
Before you go.”</p>
</div>
<p>Then he said to the fireman, “We must oil our
engine well.” So they took oil cans with funny
long noses and they oiled all the machinery, the
piston-rods, the levers, the wheels, everything that
moved or went round. And all the time the oil
kept saying:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“No creak,</span><br />
No squeak.”</p>
</div>
<p>When the engine felt the oil smoothing all his
machinery, he said eagerly:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Now I have water,</span><br />
Now I have coal,<br />
Now I am oiled,<br />
Now do I know<br />
How I should go?”</p>
</div>
<p>But the fireman said:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“All in good time, my engine,</span><br />
Steady, steady,<br />
’Til you’re ready.<br />
Learn to know<br />
Before you go.”</p>
</div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span>
Then he said to the engineer, “We must give our
engine some sand.” So they took some sand and
they filled the sand domes on top of the boiler so
that he could send sand down through his two
little pipes and sprinkle it in front of his wheels
when the rails were slippery. And all the time
the sand kept saying:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“When ice drips,</span><br />
And wheel slips,<br />
I am sand<br />
Close at hand.”</p>
</div>
<p>When the new engine felt his sand-dome filled
with sand he said eagerly:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Now I have water,</span><br />
Now I have coal,<br />
Now I am oiled,<br />
Now I have sand,<br />
Now do I know<br />
How I should go?”</p>
</div>
<p>But the engineer said:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“All in good time, my engine,</span><br />
Steady, steady,<br />
’Til you’re ready.<br />
Learn to know<br />
Before you go.”</p>
</div>
<p>Then he said to the fireman, “We must light our
engine’s headlight.” So the fireman took a cloth
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span>
and he wiped the mirror behind the light and
polished the brass around it. Then he filled the
lamp with oil. Then the engineer struck a match
and lighted the lamp and closed the little door
in front of it. And all the time the light kept
saying:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“I’m the headlight shining bright</span><br />
Like a sunbeam through the night.”</p>
</div>
<p>Now when the engine saw the great golden path
of brightness streaming out ahead of him, he said
eagerly:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Now I have water,</span><br />
Now I have coal,<br />
Now I am oiled,<br />
Now I have sand,<br />
Now I make light,<br />
Now do I know<br />
How I should go?”</p>
</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i177.png" width="500" height="367" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<p>And the engineer said, “We will see if you are
ready, my new engine.” So he climbed into the
cab and the fireman got in behind him. Then he
said, “Engine, can you blow your whistle so?”
And he pulled a handle which let the steam into
the whistle and the engine whistled (who wants
to be the whistle?) “Toot, toot, toot.” Then he
said, “Can you puff smoke and stuff?” And the
engine puffed black smoke (who wants to be the
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span>
smoke?), saying, “Puff, puff, puff, puff, puff.”
Then he said, “Engine, can you squirt a stream of
steam?” And he opened a valve (who wants to
be the steam?) and the engine went, “Szszszszsz.”
Then he said, “Engine, can you sprinkle sand?”
And he pulled a little handle (who wants to be
the sand?) and the sand trickled drip, drip, drip,
down on the tracks in front of the engine’s wheels.
Then he said, “Engine, does your light shine out
bright?” And he looked (who wants to be the
headlight?) and there was a great golden flood
of light on the track in front of him. Then he
said, “Engine, can you make the sound of your
wheels going round?” And he pulled another
lever and the great wheels began to move (who
wants to be the wheels?) Then the engineer said:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Now is the time,</span><br />
Now is the time.<br />
Steady, steady,<br />
Now you are ready.</p>
</div>
<p>Blow whistle, ring bell, puff smoke, hiss steam, sprinkle
sand, shine light, turn wheels!</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 5.5em;">
’Tis time to be ringing and singing the song,<br />
The humming song of the engine coming,<br />
The clear, near song of the engine here,<br />
The knowing song of the engine going.”</p>
</div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span>
Then whistle blew, bell rang, smoke puffed, steam
hissed, sand sprinkled, light shone and wheels
turned like this: (Eventually the children can do
this together, each performing his chosen part.)</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Toot-toot, ding-a-ding, puff-puff,</span><br />
Szszszszsz, drip-drip, chug-chug.”</p>
</div>
<p>(After a moment stop the children)</p>
<p>That’s the way the new engine sounded when
he started on his first ride and didn’t know how
to do things very well. But that’s not the way he
sounded when he had learned to go really smooth
and fast. Then it was that he learned <em>really</em> to
sing “The Knowing Song of the Engine.” He
sang it better than any one else for he became the
fastest, the steadiest, the most knowing of all express
engines. And this is the song he sang. You
could hear it humming on the rails long before he
came and hear it humming on the rails long after
he had passed. Now listen to the song.</p>
<p>(Begin very softly rising to a climax with “I’m
here” and gradually dying to a faint whisper)</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 4em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em; font-size: .9em;">“I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 1em;">I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 1.1em;">I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 1.2em;">I’m Coming, I’m Coming, I’m Coming, I’m Coming.</span><br />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span>
<span style="font-size: 1.3em;">I’M HERE, I’M HERE, I’M HERE, I’M HERE,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 1.3em;">I’M HERE, I’M HERE, I’M HERE, I’M HERE.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 1.2em;">I’m Going, I’m Going, I’m Going, I’m Going,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 1.1em;">I’m going, I’m going, I’m going, I’m going,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 1em;">I’m going, I’m going, I’m going, I’m going,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: .9em;">I’m going, I’m going, I’m going, I’m going.”</span></p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>THE FOG BOAT STORY</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 5em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
The refrains must be intoned if not sung to get
the proper effect. Most of the informational parts
of the original story have been cut out. The story
grew out of questions asked before breakfast on foggy
days, and was originally told to the sound of the distant
fog horns.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span></p>
<h2>THE FOG BOAT STORY</h2>
<p>Early, early one morning, all the fog boats were
talking. This is the way they were going:</p>
<p>“Toot, toot, toot, too-oot, to-oo-oot!” (on many
different keys.)</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i184.png" width="500" height="374" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<p>Way down at the wharf a big steamer was being
pulled out into the river. The furnaces were all
going for the stokers were down in the hole shoveling
coal, down in the hole shoveling coal,
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span>
shoveling coal, and a lot of black smoke was
coming out of the smoke stack. And the engines
were working, chug, chug, chug. And all the
baggage and freight had been put down in the
hold. And all the food had been put on the ice.
And all the passengers were on board and the
gang-plank had been pulled up. And this is what
the big steamer was saying:</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i185a.jpg" width="500" height="100" alt="music score" title="" />
</div>
<p class="center" style="margin-top: -.7em;">
[<a href="music/185a.mid">Listen</a>]
[<a href="music/185a.pdf">PDF</a>]</p>
<p>And do you know what was making the steamer
move? What was pulling her out into the river?
It was a little tug boat and the tug boat had hold
of one end of a big rope and the other end of
the rope was tied fast to the steamer. And the
little tug boat was puffing and chucking and working
away as hard as he could and calling out:</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/i185b.jpg" width="600" height="98" alt="music score" title="" />
</div>
<p class="center" style="margin-top: -.7em;">
[<a href="music/185b.mid">Listen</a>]
[<a href="music/185b.pdf">PDF</a>]</p>
<p>And do you know why the tug boat and the
steamer were talking like this? It is because they
were afraid they might bump into some other ship
in the fog for they can’t see in the fog. You know
how white and thick the fog can be.</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span>
So the old steamer and the little tug boat both
kept tooting until they were way out in the middle
of the river.</p>
<p>“Toot, toot, I’m moving.” “Tootootootootoot,
I’m awful smart.”</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i186.png" width="500" height="317" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<p>Now when they were way out in the middle of
the river, the little tug boat dropped the rope from
the big steamer and turned around. As it puffed
away it called out:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Too-too-too-tootoot, I’m going home</span><br />
Too-too-too-tootoot, I’m awful smart.”</p>
</div>
<p>Then the big steamer moved slowly down the
river towards the great ocean calling through the
fog:</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span></p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Toot, toot, I’m moving.”</span></p>
</div>
<p>Up on the captain’s bridge stood the pilot. He
is the man who tells just where to make the
steamer go in the harbor. He knows where everything
is. He knows where the rocks are on the
right and he didn’t let the steamer bump them.
He knows where the sand reef is on the left and
he didn’t let the steamer get on to that. He knows
just where the deep water is and he kept the
steamer in it all the time.</p>
<p>Now down on the right so close that it almost
bumped, there went a flat boat. This boat was
saying:</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/i187a.jpg" width="600" height="104" alt="music score" title="" />
</div>
<p class="center" style="margin-top: -.7em;">
[<a href="music/187a.mid">Listen</a>]
[<a href="music/187a.pdf">PDF</a>]</p>
<p>And that was a coal barge. And then down on
the left so close that it almost bumped on the other
side they heard another boat saying:</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;">
<img src="images/i187b.jpg" width="450" height="97" alt="music score" title="" />
</div>
<p class="center" style="margin-top: -.7em;">
[<a href="music/187b.mid">Listen</a>]
[<a href="music/187b.pdf">PDF</a>]</p>
<p>And that was a ferry boat! Then off on the right
they heard a great big deep voice. This is what it
said:</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i188a.jpg" width="500" height="108" alt="music score" title="" />
</div>
<p class="center" style="margin-top: -.7em;">
[<a href="music/188a.mid">Listen</a>]
[<a href="music/188a.pdf">PDF</a>]</p>
<p>And that was a war boat! And every time the old
steamer answered:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Toot, toot, I’m moving.”</span></p>
</div>
<p>Once off on the left the passengers could hear
this:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Ding——g! dong——g!</span><br />
Hear my song——g!<br />
Ding——g! dong——g!”</p>
</div>
<p>And what bell do you think that was way out
there? A bell buoy rocking on the water! Every
time the wave went up it said, “ding” and every
time the wave went down it said, “dong.”</p>
<p>By this time the old steamer was out of the harbor
way out in the open sea. The pilot came
down from the captain’s deck; he climbed down
the rope ladder to the little pilot boat that was
tied close to the big steamer. Then the little pilot
boat pushed away into the fog calling:</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i188b.jpg" width="500" height="109" alt="music score" title="" />
</div>
<p class="center" style="margin-top: -.7em;">
[<a href="music/188b.mid">Listen</a>]
[<a href="music/188b.pdf">PDF</a>]</p>
<p>And again the big steamer answered:</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span></p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Toot, toot, I’m moving.”</span></p>
</div>
<p>Then way off on the left so far away it could
barely hear it, it heard:</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i189.jpg" width="500" height="102" alt="music score" title="" />
</div>
<p class="center" style="margin-top: -.7em;">
[<a href="music/189.mid">Listen</a>]
[<a href="music/189.pdf">PDF</a>]</p>
<p>And that was a sail boat! Then way off on the
right so far away it could barely hear it, it heard</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Toot, toot, I’m moving”</span></p>
</div>
<p>and that was another steamer.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i189.png" width="500" height="373" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<p>And again the big steamer answered:</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span></p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Toot, toot, I’m moving.”</span></p>
</div>
<p>And so the old steamer went out into the fog
calling, calling so that no boat would hit it. And
all the other boats that passed it, they went calling,
calling too.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>HAMMER AND SAW AND PLANE</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 5em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
This story is a slight extension of the children’s
own experience. It is purposely limited to the tools
they themselves handle familiarly.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span></p>
<h2>HAMMER AND SAW AND PLANE</h2>
<p>Once there was a carpenter. He had built himself
a fine new house. And now it was all done.
The walls, the floors and the roof were done. The
stairs were done. The windows and doors were
done. And the carpenter had moved into his new
house.</p>
<p>In his house he had a stove and he had electric
lights. He had beds and chairs and bureaus and
bookcases. He had everything except a table to
eat off of. He still had to stand up when he ate
his meals!</p>
<p>So the carpenter thought he would make him
a table. But he had no lumber left. So off he
went to the lumber mill. At the lumber mill he
saw lots and lots of lumber piled in the yard. The
carpenter told the man at the lumber mill just
how much lumber he wanted and just how long
he wanted it and how broad he wanted it and how
thick he wanted it.</p>
<p>So the man at the lumber mill put all this lumber,—just
what the carpenter had ordered,—on a
wagon and sent it out to the carpenter’s house.</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span>
And then the carpenter began. He said to himself,
“First I must make my boards just the right
length.” So he measured a board just as long as
he wanted the top to be; then he put the board
on a sawhorse and he took his saw and began to
saw:</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i195.png" width="500" height="369" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Zzzu,” went the saw,</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Zzzu, zzzu, zzzu.”</span><br />
The sawdust flew<br />
The saw ripped through<br />
<span style="margin-left: -4em;">Down dropped the board sawed right in two.</span></p>
</div>
<p>And then the carpenter took another board and
he measured this just the same length. Then he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span>
put this board on the sawhorse and he took the
saw and began to saw:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Zzzu,” went the saw,</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Zzzu, zzzu, zzzu.”</span><br />
The sawdust flew<br />
The saw ripped through<br />
<span style="margin-left: -4em;">Down dropped the board sawed right in two.</span></p>
</div>
<p>And then the carpenter took still another board
and “Zzzu,” went the saw until this board too was
sawed right in two. Then he had enough for the
top of the table. Then he took the pieces that were
going to make the legs and he sawed four of them
just the right length. Then he sawed the boards
that were going to be the braces until they too were
just the right length. And underneath his sawhorse
there was a little pile of sawdust.</p>
<p>Then after this the carpenter says to himself, “I
must make my boards smooth.” So he puts a board
in the vise and he begins to plane the board.</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 11em;">
The plane he guides<br />
The plane it glides<br />
It smooths, it slides<br />
All over the sides.</p></div>
<p>And when this board is all smooth, the carpenter
takes it out of the vise and puts in another board.
Then he takes his plane.</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span></p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 11em;">
The plane he guides<br />
The plane it glides<br />
It smooths, it slides<br />
All over the sides.</p>
</div>
<p>And then the carpenter takes still another board
and he guides and slides the plane until this board
too is all smooth. And he does this until all the
boards that are going to make the top and the
legs and the braces are all smooth. And underneath
his bench there is a pile of shavings.</p>
<p>And then the carpenter he says to himself, “I
must nail my boards together.” So he puts the
boards that are going to make the top together
and he takes a nail and then he swings his
hammer:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
The hammer it gives a swinging pound.<br />
The nail it gives a ringing sound.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Bing! bang! bing! bing!</span><br />
And the boards are tight together!</p>
</div>
<p>And then the carpenter takes another piece of
the top and puts it beside the other two and he
takes another nail and then he swings his hammer
again.</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
The hammer it gives a swinging pound.<br />
The nail it gives a ringing sound.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Bing! bang! bing! bing!</span><br />
And the boards are tight together!</p>
</div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span>
And then the carpenter takes one piece that is
going to be a leg and he holds it so it stands right
out from the top, and he takes another nail and
he nails the leg to the top. Bing! bang! bing!
bing! He does this with the other three legs of
his table. And then he has four strong legs and
the top of his table all nailed together.</p>
<p>Then the carpenter he says to himself, “I’ll put
some boards across and make it stronger.” So he
takes some boards sawed just the right length, and
he nails them across underneath the top, bing!
bang! bing! bing! And then he has a table!</p>
<p>So the carpenter lifts his table out into the middle
of his room and he puts a chair beside it.
When he sits down he is smiling all over. For
the table is just the right size and just the right
height and it is strong and good to look at. The
carpenter is so glad to have a table to eat off of
that he says to himself:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
“Now isn’t it grand?<br />
I won’t have to stand<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">While eating my dinner again!</span><br />
For now I am able<br />
To sit at the table<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">I made with saw, hammer and plane!”</span></p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>THE ELEPHANT</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 5em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
This was written with the help of eight-year-old
children who were trying to make everything sound
“heavy” and “slow.”</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span></p>
<h2>THE ELEPHANT</h2>
<p>The little boy had never before been to the Zoo.
He walked up close to the high iron fence. On
the other side he saw a huge wrinkled grey lump
slowly sway to one side and then slowly sway back
to the other. And as it swayed from side to side
its great long wrinkled trunk swung slowly too.
The little boy followed the trunk with his eye up
to the huge head of the great wrinkled grey lump.
There were enormous torn worn flapping ears.
And there, too, embedded like jewels in a leather
wall sparkled two little eyes. These eyes were
fastened on the little boy. They seemed to shine
in the dull wrinkled skin. Slowly the huge mass
began to move. Slowly one heavy padded foot
came up and then went down with a soft thud.
Then came another soft thud and another and another.
Suddenly the monstrous trunk waved,
curled, lifted, stretched and stretched, until its soft
pink end was thrust through the high iron fence
and the little boy could look up into the fleshy
yawning red mouth. The little boy drew back
from the high iron fence. The end of the trunk
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span>
wiggled and wriggled around feeling its way up
and down a rod of the fence; the great body
swayed from one heavy foot to the other; and all
the time the bright little eyes were fastened on
the boy.</p>
<p>The little boy looked and looked and looked
again. He could hardly believe his eyes.
“Whew!” he said at last, “so that’s an elephant!”</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>HOW THE ANIMALS MOVE</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 5em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
The classifications and most of the expressions were
suggested by a child.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span></p>
<h2>HOW THE ANIMALS MOVE</h2>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 8em;">
The lion, he has paws with claws,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The horse, he walks on hooves,</span><br />
The worm, he lies right on the ground<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And wriggles when he moves!</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 8em;">
The seal, he moves with swimming feet,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The moth, has wings like a sail,</span><br />
The fly he clings; the bird he wings,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The monkey swings by his tail!</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 11em;">
But boys and girls<br />
With feet and hands<br />
Can walk and run<br />
And swim and stand!</p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>THE SEA-GULL</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 5em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
All the material and most of the expressions are
taken from a story by a six-year-old. It was put into
rhythm because the children wished “the words to
go like the waves.”</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span></p>
<h2>THE SEA-GULL</h2>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 9em;">
Feel the waves go rocking, rocking,<br />
Feel them roll and roll and roll.<br />
On the top there sits a sea-gull<br />
And he’s rocking with the waves.<br />
Now ’tis evening and he’s weary<br />
So he’s resting on the waves.</p>
<p style="margin-left: 9em;">
When he woke in early morning<br />
Like a flash he spied a fish.<br />
Quick he flew and quickly diving<br />
Snapped the fish and ate him straight.<br />
Then he screamed for he was happy.<br />
Then he spied another fish<br />
Quick he flew and quickly diving<br />
Snapped the fish and ate him straight.<br />
So he played while shone the sunshine,<br />
Catching fish and screaming hoarse<br />
Till he was quite out of hunger,<br />
And would rest him on the waves.<br />
Once he flapped and flapped his great wings,<br />
Soaring like an aeroplane.<br />
Down below him lay the ocean<br />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span>
Like a wrinkled crinkly thing,<br />
And giant steamers looked like toy ones<br />
Slowly moving on the waves.</p>
<p style="margin-left: 9em;">
Now the moonshine’s making silver<br />
All the tossing, rocking waves.<br />
And the sea-gull looks like silver<br />
And his great wings look like silver<br />
Pressing close his silver side,<br />
And his sharp beak looks like silver<br />
Tucked beneath his silver wings.<br />
For beneath the silver moonlight<br />
See, the sea-gull’s gone to sleep.<br />
Rocking, rocking on the water,<br />
Sleeping, sleeping on the waves,<br />
Rocking—sleeping—sleeping—rocking,<br />
Fast asleep upon the waves.</p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>THE FARMER TRIES TO SLEEP</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 5em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
It has seemed appropriate to let the children realize
the incessant quality of farm work before that of the
factory.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span></p>
<h2>THE FARMER TRIES TO SLEEP</h2>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">The farmer woke up in the morning</span><br />
And sleepy as sleepy was he,<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">He turned in his bed and he grouchily said:</span><br />
“Today I will sleep! Let me be, let me be!<br />
<span style="margin-left: .4em;">Today I will sleep! Let me be!”</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">Now Puss in the corner she heard</span><br />
She heard what the farmer had said,<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">She ran to the barn and she mewed in alarm;</span><br />
“The farmer will sleep in his bed, in his bed!<br />
<span style="margin-left: .4em;">Today he will sleep in his bed!”</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">Then Horse in the stable looked up,</span><br />
He whinneyed and shook his old head;<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">“Shall I stand here all day without any hay?</span><br />
Whey-ey-ey! Farmer, come feed me!” he said, so he said,<br />
“Whey-ey-ey! Farmer, come feed me!” he said.</p>
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">But the farmer he tight closed his eyes</span><br />
For sleepy as sleepy was he,<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">He turned in his bed and he angrily said:</span><br />
“Horse, I will sleep! Let me be, let me be!<br />
<span style="margin-left: .4em;">Horse, I will sleep! Let me be!”</span></p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">Down under the barn in the dirt</span><br />
Pig heard what the Pussy cat mewed.<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">“Can he give me the scraps when he’s taking his naps?</span><br />
Wee-ee, Farmer, come give me my food, oh, my food!<br />
Wee-ee, Farmer, come give me my food!”</p>
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">But the farmer he tight closed his ears</span><br />
For sleepy as sleepy was he,<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">He turned in his bed and he sulkily said:</span><br />
“Pig, I will sleep! Let me be, let me be!<br />
<span style="margin-left: .4em;">Pig, I will sleep! Let me be!”</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">Now Rooster with Chickens and Hen</span><br />
Had been crowing since early that morn,<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">And he crowed when he heard this terrible word:</span><br />
“Cock-a-doo! Farmer, give us our corn, us our corn!<br />
<span style="margin-left: .4em;">Cock-a-doo! Farmer, give us our corn.”</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">But the farmer he pulled up the covers</span><br />
For sleepy as sleepy was he,<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">He turned in his bed and crossly he said:</span><br />
“Cock, I will sleep! Let me be, let me be!<br />
<span style="margin-left: .4em;">Cock, I will sleep! Let me be!”</span></p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">Cow heard in the pasture and lowed;</span><br />
“My cud no longer I chew,<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">I stand by the gate and I wait and I wait,</span><br />
Oh, Farmer, come milk me! Moo-oo, moo-oo!<br />
Oh, Farmer, come milk me, moo-oo!”</p>
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">But the farmer got under the covers,</span><br />
For sleepy as sleepy was he,<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">He turned in his bed and fiercely he said,</span><br />
“Cow, I will sleep! Let me be, let me be!<br />
<span style="margin-left: .4em;">Cow, I will sleep! Let me be!”</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">Then Horse he broke from the stable,</span><br />
And Pig he broke from the pen,<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">And Cow jumped the fence though she hadn’t much sense,</span><br />
And Cock called Chickens and Hen, and Hen,<br />
He called to Chickens and Hen.</p>
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">Then up to the farm house door</span><br />
All followed the Pussy who knew.<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">Horse whinneyed, Cock crowed, Pig grunted, Cow lowed;</span><br />
“Get up, Farmer! Whey, cock-a-doo, wee-wee-wee, mooo!<br />
<span style="margin-left: .4em;">Whey, cock-a-doo, wee-wee-wee, moooo!”</span></p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">The farmer down under the covers,</span><br />
He heard and he groaned and he sighed.<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">He wearily rose and he put on his clothes;</span><br />
“They need me, I’m coming, I’m coming,” he cried,<br />
“They need me, I’m coming,” he cried.</p>
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">“I’ll feed Horse, Chickens and Pig,</span><br />
I’ll milk old Cow,” said he,<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">“And when this is done, my work’s just begun,</span><br />
Today I must work, so I see, so I see!<br />
Today I must work, so I see!”</p>
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">So he fed Horse, Chickens and Pig</span><br />
And afterwards milked old Cow.<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">For Farmer must work, he never can shirk!</span><br />
Today he is working, right now, right now!<br />
Today he is working right now!</p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>WONDERFUL-COW-THAT-NEVER-WAS!</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 5em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
All the essential points in this story were taken from
the story of a four-year-old’s about a horse. He
enjoyed the nonsense in telling it. Some of the four-year-old
groups have appreciated the humor; some
five-year-olds have not. Instead they have seemed
confused.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span></p>
<h2>WONDERFUL-COW-THAT-NEVER-WAS!</h2>
<p>Once there was a wonderful cow,—only she
never was! She always had been wonderful, ever
since she was a baby calf. Her mother noticed it
at once. She was born out in the pasture one
sunny morning in June. As soon as she was born,
she got up on her long, thin legs. She wobbled
quite a little for she wasn’t very strong. Then she
went over to her mother and put her nose down
to her mother’s bag and took a drink of milk. This
is what all the old cow’s babies had always done
so the old cow thought nothing of that. But when
this wonderful last baby calf had drunk its breakfast,
what do you suppose it did? It stood on its
head! Now the old cow had never seen anything
like this. It was most surprising! It frightened
her. She called to it:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Oh, my baby, baby calf,</span><br />
Your mother kindly begs,<br />
Please, <em>please</em> get off your head<br />
And stand upon your legs!”</p>
</div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span>
But the baby calf only mooed. And it smiled
when it mooed which the old cow thought queer
too. None of her other babies had smiled. Then
the calf said:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 8em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“I’m a wonderful calf,</span><br />
And it makes me laugh<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">Such wonderful things can I do!</span><br />
I stand on my head<br />
Whenever I’m fed,<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">And smile whenever I moo,</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I do,</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">I smile whenever I moo!”</span></p>
</div>
<p>“Dear me!” thought the old mother cow. “I
never saw or heard anything like this!”</p>
<p>But this was only the beginning. The baby calf
kept on doing strange and wonderful things till
at last everyone called her Wonderful-calf-that-never-was!
And many people used to come to see
her stand on her head whenever she was fed. She
did other queer things too! Once she pulled off
the ear of another calf! And all she said was:
“Poor little calf! You mustn’t go in the pasture
where there are other calves!” But the little calf
who had lost its ear said, “Yes, I must!” But
after that Wonderful-calf-that-never-was was kept
in the barn for a long time.</p>
<p>At last it was June again and she was a year old.
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span>
Her horns had begun to grow. The old cow, her
mother, had another baby. This new baby calf
was just like other calves and not wonderful at
all. The old cow was glad for Wonderful-cow-that-never-was
worried her very much. For
everything about her was queer. One day the calf
who had lost the ear,—she was a young cow now,—took
hold of the tail of Wonderful-young-cow-that-never-was
and pulled it. And what do you
suppose happened? The tail broke right off! All
the cows were frightened. Whoever heard of a
broken tail? But Wonderful-young-cow-that-never-was
only mooed and when she mooed she
always smiled. Then she said:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 8em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“I’m a wonderful cow</span><br />
And I don’t know how<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">Such wonderful things I do!</span><br />
If I break my tail,<br />
I never fail<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">To glue with a grasshopper’s goo,</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I do,</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">I glue with a grasshopper’s goo!”</span></p>
</div>
<p>And so she did. She got a grasshopper to give
her some sticky stuff and she smeared it on the
two ends of her broken tail and stuck them together.
“And now it’s as good as new,” she said,
“and now it’s as good as new!”</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span>
Her horns grew and grew. She was very proud
of them and was always trying to hook some one
or gore another cow with them. But one day she
went to the edge of the lake when it was very still.
It wasn’t wavy at all. And as she leaned over
to drink, she saw herself in the water. My mercy!
but she was shocked!</p>
<p>“My horns are straight!” she screamed, “and I
want them curly!” She ran to the old mother cow
and had what her mother called the “Krink-kranks.”
She jumped up and down and bellowed:
“My horns are straight and I want them curly!”</p>
<p>The old mother cow was giving her new baby
some milk. It made her cross to hear Wonderful-cow-that-never-was
having krink-kranks over her
horns. “Horns grow the way they grow!” she remarked
crossly. “So what are you going to do
about it?”</p>
<p>“Something!” answered the young cow. “I’m
not Wonderful-cow-that-never-was for nothing!”
And she stopped having krink-kranks and went off.
She stayed away all day and when she did come
back, her horns were curled up tight! And she
was chewing and smiling and chewing and
smiling.</p>
<p>“What have you done now?” gasped the old
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span>
mother cow. “I never saw horns curled so
crumply!”</p>
<p>The young cow smiled and said:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 8em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“I’m a wonderful cow</span><br />
And I don’t know how<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">Such wonderful things I do!</span><br />
I curl my horn<br />
On the cob of a corn<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">And smile whenever I chew,</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I do,</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">I smile whenever I chew!”</span></p>
</div>
<p>“And here is the corn cob I curled them on,” she
said, opening her mouth. And sure enough, there
was the corn cob!</p>
<p>Now Wonderful-cow-that-never-was got queerer
and queerer until the farmer thought her a
little <em>too</em> queer. She was very proud of her
crumpled horns and tried to hook everyone on
them. Once she tore the farmer’s coat trying to
hook him. And once she <em>did</em> toss him up. She
watched him in the air and all she said was “He’s
up now, but he’ll come down some time.” And
bang! So he did!</p>
<p>Finally one terrible day, they tied her tight and
cut off her horns. She was never the same afterwards.
She couldn’t hook any more. “I don’t
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span>
care about being queer any more,” she said to her
mother. And she wasn’t. She stopped standing
on her head. She never pulled off another ear.
She never broke her tail again and of course she
never curled her horns again. Because she hadn’t
any! “After all,” she said, “it’s wonderful enough
just to be a cow and have four stomachs and chew
cud and give milk and have a baby each Spring!”
And that’s what she’s doing now!</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 8em;">
She’s a wonderful cow,<br />
And anyhow<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">She does a wonderful thing!</span><br />
She wallows in mud,<br />
She chews her cud,<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">And has a baby in Spring!</span></p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>THINGS THAT LOVED THE LAKE</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 5em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
This story was worked out with a five-year-old boy.
It is the result of his own summer experiences on a
lake.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span></p>
<h2>THINGS THAT LOVED THE LAKE</h2>
<p>Once there was a little lake. And many things
loved the little lake for its water was clear and
smooth and blue when it was sunshiny, and dark
and wavy and cross-looking when it was rainy.
Now one of the things that loved the little lake
was a little fish. He was a slippery shiny little
fish all covered with slippery shiny scales. He
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span>
lived in the shadow of a big rock near a deep,
dark, cool pool. And when his wide-open shiny
eye saw a little fly fall on the top of the water, he
would flip his slippery, shiny tail and wave his
slippery, shiny fins and dart out and up and—snap!
he’d have the fly inside him! Then like a shiny
streak he’d quietly slip back to the cool, deep,
dark pool.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i228.png" width="500" height="397" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<p>Another thing that loved the little lake was a
spotted green frog. He too lived near the big
rock. He would squat like a lump on the top in
the sun, blinking his bright little eyes. Then
splash! jump he would go, plump into the water.
He’d keep his funny head with the little blinking,
bright eyes above water while he’d kick his long,
spotted, green legs and he’d swim across to another
rock. At first he used to frighten the slippery
shiny little fish when he came tumbling into
the quiet water. But the spotted green frog never
did anything to hurt the little fish so the slippery
shiny little fish didn’t mind him after all. But at
night what do you think the spotted green frog
did? He squatted on the rock with his front feet
toeing in, like this, and he looked up at the far-away
white moon in the far-away dark sky, and
then he swelled and he swelled and he swelled his
throat, and then he opened his wide, wide mouth
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span>
and out came a noise. Oh, such a noise! “K-K-K-Krink!!
K-K-K-Krank!!” All night the spotted
frog swelled his throat and croaked at the moon.</p>
<p>Now another thing that loved the little lake
was a beautiful wild duck. The wild duck had
beautiful green and brown feathers and on his
head he had a little green top-knot. Every year
he flew north from the warm south where he had
been spending the winter. High up in the air he
flew, leading many other beautiful wild ducks.
He flew with his head stretched out and his feet
tucked up close to his body and his strong wings
flapping, flapping, flapping like great fans. And
as he flew way up in the air his keen eye would see
the little lake glistening down below. “Quonk-quonk!”
he would call. And the other wild ducks
would answer, “Quonk-quonk-quonk!” And then
they would swoop, right down to the little lake
and they’d light right on the water. There they
would sit, rocking on the little waves or swimming
about with their red webbed feet. Oh, the wild
ducks loved the little lake very much!</p>
<p>But not the slippery shiny fish, not the spotted
green frog, not the beautiful wild duck loves
the lake as much as some one else does. I
don’t believe any one else loves the little lake as
much as does the little summer boy! Sometimes
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span>
the little summer boy goes rowing on top of the
lake. He leans way forward and stretches his
oars way back, then he puts them into the water
and pulls as hard as ever he can—splash—splash—splash—splash——!
And the boat glides and
slides right over the water! Sometimes,—and this
he loves better still,—he stands on the rock in his
red bathing suit. Then plump! he jumps right
into the water! Sometimes he goes feetwards and
sometimes he goes headwards and sometimes he
turns a somersault in the air before he touches the
water. And then away he goes moving his arms
and kicking his legs almost like the spotted green
frog. But the little fish when he hears this great
thing come splashing into the quiet water, he flips
his slippery shiny tail and waves his slippery shiny
fins and darts way out into the deep water where
the little boy with the red bathing suit can’t follow
him. For to the little fish this little summer
boy seems very queer, and very, <em>very</em> noisy, and
very, <em>very</em>, VERY enormous! And the spotted green
frog too gets out of the way when the little boy
comes racketing into the water. He hops, hops
under the rocks into a safe little cave and from
there he watches and blinks his bright little eyes.
But he never croaks then! The little summer boy
knows the green frog is there and sometimes he
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span>
peeks at him and thinks “I wish I could make my
back legs go like yours!” For he’s often seen the
spotted green frog swim from rock to rock.</p>
<p>But the beautiful wild duck, he never saw the
little summer boy. For long before the boy came
to the little lake, the duck had left the lake far
behind. Early one morning in Spring he flapped
his strong wings and tucked his wet webbed feet
up close to his body and stretched out his long neck
and calling “Quonk-quonk!” he flapped away to
the north. And all the other beautiful wild ducks
followed calling, “Quonk-quonk-quonk!” So the
little summer boy never knew the wild duck!</p>
<p>It is too bad that the fish and the frog are scared
away when the summer boy goes in bathing. But
it is only for a little while anyway. For the little
summer boy’s mother doesn’t let him play in the
lake all day as does the mother of the slippery
shiny fish and the mother of the spotted green
frog. She has called him now, and he calls back,
“One more time!” for no one loves the little lake
as much as the little boy in the red bathing suit.
He has climbed up on the rock. The water is running
down him, for he is as wet as a baby seal.
Now he puts out his hands, like this, and he calls
out, “This time I’m going to take a headwards
dive!”</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span></p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 9em;">
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">In the lake they play,</span><br />
The spotted green frog<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">And the slippery shiny fish.</span><br />
They frisk and they whisk,<br />
And they dip and they flip.<br />
And the water it glimmers,<br />
It ripples and twinkles<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">When the frog and the fishes play.</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 9em;">
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">In the lake they play,</span><br />
The beautiful duck<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">And the rackety summer boy.</span><br />
When the wild duck swims<br />
The water it skims.<br />
But the boy with a shout<br />
He plumps in, he jumps out.<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">And the little lake shakes with his play.</span></p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>HOW THE SINGING WATER</strong></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em; margin-top: 1.7em;"><strong>GOT TO THE TUB</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 6em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
In this story I have tried to make the refrains carry
the essential points in the content. I have tried,
however, to subordinate the information to the pattern.
This story came in response to direct questions
during baths.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span></p>
<h2>HOW THE SINGING WATER GOT TO THE TUB</h2>
<p>Once there was a little singing stream of water.
It sang whatever it did. And it did many things
from the time it bubbled up in the far-away hills
to the time it splashed into the dirty little boy’s
tub. It began as a little spring of water. Then
the water was as cool as cool could be for it came
up from the deep cool earth all hidden away from
the sun. It came up into a little hollow scooped
out of the earth and in the hollow were little
pebbles. Right up through the pebbles, bubbling
and gurgling it came. And what do you suppose
the water did when the little hollow was all full?
It did just what water always does, it tried to find
a way to run down hill! One side of the little
hollow was lower than the others and here the
water spilled over and trickled down. And this
is the song the water sang then:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 9em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“I bubble up so cool</span><br />
Into the pebbly pool.<br />
Over the edge I spill<br />
And gallop down the hill!”</p>
</div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span>
So the water became a little stream and began
its long journey to the little boy’s tub. And always
it wanted to run down—always down, and as
it ran, it tinkled this song:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 9em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“I sing, I run,</span><br />
In the shade, in the sun,<br />
It’s always fun<br />
To sing and to run.”</p>
</div>
<p>Sometimes it pushed under twigs and leaves;
sometimes it made a big noise tumbling over the
roots of trees; sometimes it flowed all quiet and
slow through long grasses in a meadow. Once
it came to the edge of a pretty big rock and over it
went, splashing and crashing and dashing and
making a fine, fine spray.</p>
<p>It sang to the little birds that took their baths
in the spray. And the little birds ruffled their
feathers to get dry and sang back to the little
brook. “Ching-a-ree!” they sang. It sang to the
bunny rabbit who got his whiskers all wet when
he took a drink. It sang to the mother deer who
always came to the same place and licked up
some water with her tongue. To all of these and
many more little wild wood things the little brook
rippled its song:</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span></p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 9em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“I sing, I run,</span><br />
In the shade, in the sun,<br />
It’s always fun<br />
To sing and to run.”</p>
</div>
<p>But to the fish in the big dark pool under the
rocks it sang so softly, so quietly, that only the
fishes heard.</p>
<p>Now all the time that the little brook kept running
down hill, it kept getting bigger. For every
once in a while it would be joined by another little
brook coming from another hillside spring. And,
of course, the two of them were twice as large as
each had been alone. This kept happening until
the stream was a small river,—so big and deep
that the horses couldn’t ford it any more. Then
people built bridges over it, and this made the
small river feel proud. Little boats sailed in it
too,—canoes and sail boats and row boats. Sometimes
they held a lot of little boys without any
clothes on who jumped into the water and splashed
and laughed and splashed and laughed.</p>
<p>At last the river was strong enough to carry
great gliding boats, with deep deep voices.
“Toot,” said the boats, “tootoot-tooooooooot!”</p>
<p>And now the song of the river was low and slow
as it answered the song of the boats:</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span></p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 9em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“I grow and I flow</span><br />
As I carry the boats,<br />
As I carry the boats of men.”</p>
</div>
<p>After the little river had been running down
hill for ever so long, it came to a place where the
banks went up very high and steep on each side
of it. Here something strange happened. The
little river was stopped by an enormous wall. The
wall was made of stone and cement and it stretched
right across the river from one bank to the other.
The little river couldn’t get through the wall, so
it just filled up behind it. It filled and filled until
it found that it had spread out into a real little
lake. Only the people who walked around it
called it a reservoir!</p>
<p>Now in the wall was just one opening down
near the bottom. And what do you suppose that
led to? A pipe! But the pipe was so big that
an elephant could have walked down it swinging
his trunk! Only, of course, there wasn’t any elephant
there.</p>
<p>Now the little river didn’t like to have his race
down hill stopped. So he began muttering to
himself:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 5em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“What shall I do, oh, what shall I do?</span><br />
Here’s a big dam and I can’t get through!<br />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span>
Behind the dam I fill and fill<br />
But I want to go running and running down hill!<br />
If the pipe at the bottom will let me through<br />
I’ll run through the pipe! That’s what I’ll do!”</p>
</div>
<p>So he rushed into the pipe as fast as he could
for there he found he could run down hill again!
He ran and he ran for miles and miles. Above
him he knew there were green fields and trees and
cows and horses. These were the things he had
sung to before he rushed into the pipe. Then
after a long time he knew he was under something
different. He could feel thousands of feet scurrying
this way and that; he could feel thousands of
horses pulling carriages and wagons and trucks;
he could feel cars, subways, engines;—he could
feel so many things crossing him that he wondered
they didn’t all bump each other. Then he knew
he was under the Big City. And this is the song
he shouted then:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 6em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Way under the street, street, street,</span><br />
I feel the feet, feet, feet.<br />
I feel their beat, beat, beat,<br />
Above on the street, street, street.”</p>
</div>
<p>And then again something queer happened.
Every once in a while a pipe would go off from
the big pipe. Now one of these pipes turned into
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span>
a certain street and then a still smaller pipe turned
off into a certain house and a still smaller pipe
went right up between the walls of the house. And
in this house there lived the dirty little boy.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i241.png" width="500" height="407" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<p>The water flowed into the street pipe and then
it flowed into the house pipe and then,—what do
you think?—it went right up that pipe between
the walls of the house! For you see even the top
of that dirty little boy’s house isn’t nearly as high
as the reservoir on the hill where the water started
and the water can run up just as high as it has run
down.</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span>
In the bath-room was the dirty little boy. His
face was dirty, his hands were dirty, his feet were
dirty and his knees—oh! his knees were very, very
dirty. This very dirty little boy went over to the
faucet and slowly turned it. Out came the water
splashing, and crashing and dashing.</p>
<p>“My! but I need a bath tonight,” said the dirty
little boy as he heard the water splashing in the
tub. The water was still the singing water that
had sung all the way from the far-away hills. It
had sung a bubbling song when it gurgled up as
a spring; it had sung a tinkling song as it rippled
down hill as a brook; it had crooned a flowing
song when it bore the talking boats; it had muttered
and throbbed and sung to itself as it ran
through the big, big pipe. Now as it splashed
into the dirty little boy’s tub it laughed and sang
this last song:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 6em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“I run from the hill,—down, down, down,</span><br />
Under the streets of the town, town, town,<br />
Then in the pipe, up, up, up,<br />
I tumble right into your tub, tub, tub.”</p>
</div>
<p>And the dirty little boy laughed and jumped into
the Singing Water!</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>THE CHILDREN’S NEW DRESSES</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 5em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
An old pattern with new content. The steps in the
process were originally dug out by a child of six
through his own questions.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span></p>
<h2>THE CHILDREN’S NEW DRESSES</h2>
<p>Once there was a small town. In the small town
were many houses and in the houses were many
people. In one of these houses there lived a
mother with a great many children. One night
after the children were all in bed and the mother
was sitting by the fire, a brick fell down the chimney.
Then another came bumping and rattling
down. Now outside there was a great wind
blowing. It whistled down the chimney and up
flamed the fire. The sparks flew into the hole
where the bricks had fallen out. The first thing
the mother knew the house was all on fire. Still
the great wind roared. The house next door
caught fire, then the next, then the next, then the
next, until half the little town was burning. The
mother with the many children and many other
frightened people ran to the part of the town behind
the great wind. And there they stayed until
the wind died down and they could put the fire
out.</p>
<p>Now many of these people’s clothes had burned
with their houses. The many children who had
gone to bed before the fire began had nothing
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span>
to wear except their nightclothes. The mother
went to the store. That too was burned! But she
found the storekeeper and said:—“Storekeeper,
sell me some dresses for my children for their
dresses have been burned and they have nothing
to wear.”</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i247.png" width="500" height="366" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<p>“But, mother of the many children,” the storekeeper
replied, “first I must get me the dresses.
For that I must send to the many-fingered factory
in the middle of the city.”</p>
<p>So he sent to the many-fingered factory in the
middle of the great city and he said:—“Clothier,
send me some dresses that I may sell to the mother;
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span>
for her children’s dresses have burned up and they
have nothing to wear.”</p>
<p>But the clothier in the many-fingered factory
replied:—“First I must get me the cloth. For
that I must send to the weaving mill. The weaving
mill is in the hills where there is water to
turn its wheels.”</p>
<p>So the clothier sent to the weaving mill in the
hills where there is water to turn its wheels and
said:—“Weaver, send me the cloth that the many
fingers at the factory may make dresses to send
to the storekeeper in the small town to sell to the
mother; for her children’s dresses have burned
up and they have nothing to wear.”</p>
<p>But the weaver in the weaving mill in the hills
sent back word:—“First I must get me the cotton.
For that I must send to the cotton fields. The cotton
fields are in the south where the land is hot
and low.”</p>
<p>So the weaver in the weaving mill in the hills
sent to the cotton plantation, and he said:—“Planter,
send me the cotton from the hot low
lands that I may make cloth in the mill in the
hills to send to the clothier in the many-fingered
factory in the middle of the great city to be made
into dresses to send to the storekeeper in the small
town to sell to the mother; for her children’s
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span>
dresses have burned up and they have nothing to
wear.”</p>
<p>But the planter sent back word:—“First I must
get the negroes to pick the cotton. For cotton
must be picked in the hot sun and negroes are
the only ones who can stand the sun.”</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i249.png" width="500" height="370" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<p>So the planter went to the negroes and he said:—“Pick
me the cotton from the hot low lands that
I may send it to the weaver in his mill in the hills
that he may weave the cloth to send to the clothier
in the many-fingered factory in the middle of the
great city to make dresses to send to the storekeeper
in the small town to sell to the mother;
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span>
for her children’s dresses have burned up and they
have nothing to wear.”</p>
<p>But the negroes answered:—“First de sun, he
hab got to shine and shine and shine! ’Cause de
sun, he am de only one dat can make dem little
seed bolls bust wide open!”</p>
<p>So the negroes sang to the sun:—“Big sun, so
shiny hot! Is you gwine to shine on dem cotton
bolls so we can pick de cotton for de massah so
he can send it to de weaver in de weaving mills
in de hills to weave into cloth so he can send it
to de clothier in de many-fingered factory in de
middle of de big city to make dresses to send to
de storekeeper in de small town so he can sell it
to de mammy; for de chillun’s dresses hab gone
and burned up and dey ain’t got nothin’ to wear!”</p>
<p>Now the sun heard the song of the negroes of the
south. And he began to shine. And he kept on
shining on the hot low lands. And when the cotton
bolls on the hot low lands felt the sun shine and
shine and shine, they burst wide open. Then the
negroes picked the cotton, the planter shipped it,
the weaver wove it, the clothier made it into dresses,
and the storekeeper sold them to the mother.</p>
<p>So at last the many children took off their nightclothes
and put on their new dresses. And so
they were all happy again!</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>OLD DAN GETS THE COAL</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 5em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
The occupations of the city horse are always absorbing
to the school children. They have many tales about
various “Old Dans” and their various trades. The
docks are familiar to almost all the children,—even
to the four-year-olds. This verse is meant to be read
fast or slow according to whether or no the wagon
is empty.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span></p>
<h2>OLD DAN GETS THE COAL</h2>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
Old Dan, he lives in a stable, he does,<br />
He sleeps in a stable stall.<br />
Old Dan, he eats in the stable, he does,<br />
He eats the hay from the manger, he does,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">He pulls the hay</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And he chews the hay</span><br />
When he eats in his stable stall.</p>
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
Old Dan, he leaves the stable, he does,<br />
He pulls the wagon behind.<br />
Old Dan he goes trotting along, so he does,<br />
He trots with the wagon all empty, he does;<br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The wagon, it clatters,</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The mud, it all spatters</span><br />
Old Dan with the wagon behind.</p>
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
Old Dan, he trots to the dock, he does,<br />
He trots to the coal barge dock.<br />
Old Dan, he stands by the barge, he does,<br />
He stands and the big crane creaks, it does.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Up! into the chute,</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Bang! out of the chute</span><br />
Comes the coal at the coal barge dock!</p>
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
Old Dan, he pulls the load, he does,<br />
He pulls the heavy load.<br />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span>
Old Dan he pulls the coal, he does,<br />
He slowly pulls the heavy coal.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The wagon thumps,</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">It bumps, it clumps</span><br />
When old Dan pulls the load.</p>
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
Old Dan, he stands by the house, he does,<br />
And the coal rattles out behind.<br />
Old Dan stands still by the house, he does,<br />
He stands and the slippery coal, so it does<br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Goes rattlety klang!</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Zippy kabang!</span><br />
As it slides from the wagon behind!</p>
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
Old Dan, he then leaves the house, so he does,<br />
A-pulling the wagon behind.<br />
Old Dan he goes trotting along, so he does,<br />
He trots with the wagon all empty, he does.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The wagon it clatters,</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The mud it all spatters</span><br />
Old Dan with the wagon behind.</p>
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
Old Dan, comes home to his stable, he does,<br />
Home to his stable stall.<br />
He finds the hay in the stable, he does,<br />
He eats the hay from the manger, he does,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">He pulls the hay,</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">He chews the hay,</span><br />
Then he sleeps in his stable stall.</p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>THE SUBWAY CAR</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 5em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
The relationship which this story aims to clarify is
the social significance of the subway car—its construction
and the need it answers to. Children have enjoyed
the verse better, I think, than any other in the book.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span></p>
<h2>THE SUBWAY CAR</h2>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 2em;">
The surface car is a poky car,<br />
It stops ’most every minute.<br />
At every corner someone gets out<br />
And someone else gets in it.<br />
It stops for a lady, an auto, a hoss,<br />
For any old thing that wants to cross,<br />
This poky old, stupid old, silly old, timid old, lumbering surface car.</p>
</div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i258.png" width="500" height="457" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 2em;">
Up on high against the sky<br />
The elevated train goes by.<br />
Above it soars, above it roars<br />
On level with the second floors<br />
Of dirty houses, dirty stores<br />
Who have to see, who have to hear<br />
This noisy ugly monster near.<br />
And as it passes hear it yell,<br />
“I’m the deafening, deadening, thunderous, hideous,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 6em;">competent, elegant el.”</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 2em;">
Under the ground like a mole in a hole,<br />
I tear through the white tiled tunnel,<br />
With my wire brush on the rail I rush<br />
From station to lighted station.<br />
Levers pull, the doors fly ope’,<br />
People press against the rope.<br />
And some are stout and some are thin<br />
And some get out and some get in.<br />
Again I go. Beginning slow<br />
I race, I chase at a terrible pace,<br />
I flash and I dash with never a crash,<br />
I hurry, I scurry with never a flurry.<br />
I tear along, flare along, singing my lightning song,<br />
“I’m the rushing, speeding, racing, fleeting, rapid subway car.”</p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span></p>
<h2>THE SUBWAY CAR</h2>
<p>Whew-ee-ee-ee-ew-ew went the siren whistle.
And all the men and all the women hurried
toward the factory. For that meant it was time
to begin work. Each man and each woman went
to his particular machine. The steam was up;
the belts were moving; the wheels were whirring;
the piston rods were shooting back and forth. And
one man made a piece of wheel, and one man made
a part of a brake, and one man made a belt, and
one man made a leather strap, and one man made
a door, and one man made some straw-covered
seats, and one man made a window-frame, and
one man made a little wire brush. And then some
other men took all these things and began putting
them together. And when the car was finished
some other men came and painted it, and on the
side they painted the number 793.</p>
<p>The car stood on the siding wondering what he
was for and what he was to do. Suddenly he heard
another car come bumping and screeching down
the track. Before the new car could think what
was happening,—bang!—the battered old car went
smash into him. This seemed to be just what the
man standing along side expected. For the car
felt him swing on to the steps, and shout “Go
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span>
ahead.” At the same minute the car felt a piece
of iron slip from his own rear and hook into the
front of the other car.</p>
<p>And “go ahead” he did, though No. 793 thought
he would be wrenched to pieces.</p>
<p>“Whatever is happening to me?” he nervously
asked the car that was pushing him. “I feel my
wheels going round and round underneath me and
I can’t stop them. Can’t you just hear me creak?
I’m afraid I will split in two.”</p>
<p>The dilapidated old thing behind simply
screamed with delight as he jounced over a switch.</p>
<p>“See here, now,” he said in a rasping voice,
“what do you think wheels are for anyway if they
are not to go round? And if you can’t hang together
in a quiet little jaunt like this, you had
better turn into a baby carriage and be done with
it. Say, what do you think you were made for
anyway, Freshie?”</p>
<p>With this he gave a vicious pull. Freshie
thought it would probably loosen every carefully
fastened bolt in his whole structure.</p>
<p>“And what’s more,” continued the amused and
irritated old car, “if you think all you’ve got to
do is to be pulled around like a fine lady in a
limousine, you are pretty well fooled. Wait till
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span>
you feel the juice go through you—just wait—that’s
all I say.”</p>
<p>“What is juice?” groaned No. 793.</p>
<p>But he could get no answer except “Just wait,
you will find out soon enough.”</p>
<p>In another minute he had found out. He felt
his door pulled open and a heavy tread come
clump, clump, clump down the whole length of
him to the little closet room at the end. There
he felt levers pulled and switches turned. Suddenly
the little wire brush underneath him
dropped until it touched the third rail. Z-z-zr-zr-zr-zz-zz—What
in the name of all blazes was
happening to him? He tingled in every bolt. He
quivered with fear. “This must be the juice!”
Another lever was turned. He leaped forward
on the track, jerking and thumping and creaking.</p>
<p>Then he settled down and it wasn’t so bad. The
first scare was over. He did not go to pieces. On
the contrary he felt so excited and strong that he
almost told the old thing behind him to take off
his brush and let himself be pulled. But he was
afraid of the cross old car. So he ventured
timidly: “Isn’t this great? I should like to go
flying along in the sun like this all day.”</p>
<p>“In the sun?” snarled his old companion.
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span>
“Come now, Freshie, can’t you catch on to what
you are? You just look your fill at the old sun
now for you won’t see him again for some time.”</p>
<p>“Why not?” whimpered No. 793.</p>
<p>But he needed no answer. Ahead of him he
could see the track sliding down into a deep hole.
The earth closed over him in a queer rounded
arch, all lined with shiny white tiles. At the same
moment the lights all up and down his own ceiling
flashed on. He noticed then that he had a
red lantern on his front. He could tell it by the
red, glinting reflections it threw on the tiles as
he tore along. Ahead he could see a great cluster
of lights which seemed to be rushing towards him.
Of course he was really rushing towards them,
but he was so excited he got all mixed in his ideas.</p>
<p>“Where are we? And what on earth is that
rushing towards us? And why do we come down
here under the ground?” he screamed to the old
car behind.</p>
<p>“There’s no room for us on top,” jerked the old
car. “There are a heap of people in this old city
of New York, Freshie, and you will find ’em on
the surface or scooting in the elevated and here
jogging along underneath the earth.”</p>
<p>“People!” screamed No. 793, “I don’t see any.
What do we do with them in this hole anyway?”</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span>
Even as he spoke he felt the man in the little
closet room in his front turn something. His wire
brush lifted and all his strength seemed to ooze
away. Then something clutched his wheels. He
screeched,—yes, he really screeched, and then he
stood still, close to the station platform. The station
looked big to No. 793 and very brilliantly
lighted. It was jammed with people who stood
pressed against ropes in long rows.</p>
<p>A man on his own platform pulled down a
handle and then another. He felt his end doors
and then his center doors fly open. Then tramp,
tramp, tramp, tramp—a hundred feet came pounding
on his floor. He could feel them and somehow
he liked the feel. He could even feel two
small feet that walked much faster than the others,
and in another moment he felt two little knees
on one of his straw-covered seats. Then the
handles were pulled again. His doors banged
closed; z-zr-zr-rr—the brush underneath touched
the rail and the electricity shot through him. He
felt a hundred feet shift quickly and heavily. He
felt his leather straps clutched by a hundred
hands. And amid the noise he heard a little voice
say, “Father, isn’t this a brand new subway car?”
And then he knew what he was!</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>BORIS TAKES A WALK AND FINDS</strong></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em; margin-top: 1.7em;"><strong>MANY DIFFERENT KINDS OF TRAINS</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 6em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
This first story is an attempt to let a child discover
the significance of his everyday environment,—of
subways and elevated railways. Here there is no
content new to the city child. But the relationship
to congestion he has not always seen for himself. In
the second story the lay-out of New York on a
crowded island is discovered. Again the content is
old but its significance may be new. Both these stories
verge on the informational.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span></p>
<h2>BORIS TAKES A WALK AND FINDS<br />
MANY DIFFERENT KINDS OF TRAINS</h2>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 8em;">
Many little boys and girls<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With fathers and with mothers,</span><br />
Many little boys and girls<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With sisters and with brothers,</span><br />
Many little boys and girls<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They come from far away.</span><br />
They sail and sail to big New York,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And there they land and stay!</span><br />
And you would never, never guess<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When they grow big and tall,</span><br />
That they had come from far away<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When they were wee and small!</span></p>
</div>
<p>One of the little boys who sailed and sailed until
he came to big New York was named Boris. He
came as the others did, with his father and his
mother and his sisters and his brothers. He came
from a wide green country called Russia. In that
country he had never seen a city, never seen
wharves with ocean steamers and ferry boats and
tug boats and barges,—never seen a street so
crowded you could hardly get through, had never
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span>
seen great high buildings reaching up, up, up
to the clouds, he thought. And he had never heard
a city, never heard the noise of elevated trains and
surface cars and automobiles and the many, many
hurrying feet. He often thought of the wide green
country he had left behind, and he used to talk
about it to his mother in a funny language you
wouldn’t understand. For Boris and his family
still spoke Russian. But Boris was nine years old
and he loved new things as well as old. So he
grew to love this crowded noisy new home of his
as well as the still wide country he had left.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i269.png" width="500" height="364" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<p>Now Boris had been in New York quite a while.
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span>
But he hadn’t been out on the streets much. One
day he said to his mother in the funny language,
“I think I’ll take a walk!”</p>
<p>“All right,” she answered, “be careful you don’t
get run over by one of those queer wagons that
run without horses!”</p>
<p>“Yes I will,” laughed Boris for he was a careful
and a smart little boy and knew well how to
take care of himself for all he was so little.</p>
<p>So Boris went out on the street. He walked
to the corner and waited to go across.</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 4em;">
Kachunk, kachunk, kachunk went by an auto;<br />
Clopperty, clopperty, clopperty went by a horse;<br />
Thunk-a-ta, thunk-a-ta, bang, bang went by a truck.</p>
</div>
<p>He waited another minute.</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 4em;">
Kachunk, kachunk, kachunk went by an auto;<br />
Clopperty, clopperty, clopperty went by a horse;<br />
Thunk-a-ta, thunk-a-ta, bang, bang went by a truck.</p>
</div>
<p>He stood there a long while watching this
stream of autos and horses and trucks go by and
he thought:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 8em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Dear me! dear me!</span><br />
What shall I do?<br />
The’re so many things,<br />
I’ll never get through!”</p>
</div>
<p>Just then all the autos and the horses and the
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span>
trucks stopped. They stood still right in front of
him. And Boris saw that the big man standing
in the middle of the street had put up his hand to
stop them. So he scampered across. Boris didn’t
know that the big man was the traffic policeman!</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i271.png" width="500" height="367" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<p>Now Boris scampered down the block to the
next street. There he waited to go across.</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 4em;">
Kachunk, kachunk, kachunk went by an auto;<br />
Clopperty, clopperty, clopperty went by a horse;<br />
Thunk-a-ta, thunk-a-ta, bang, bang went by a truck.</p>
</div>
<p>He stood there a long time watching the autos
and horses and trucks go by. And he thought:</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span></p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 8em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Dear me! dear me!</span><br />
What shall I do?<br />
The’re so many things,<br />
I’ll never get through!”</p>
</div>
<p>Boris looked at the big policeman who stood in
the middle of <em>this</em> street. After a while the big
policeman raised his hand and all the autos and
horses and trucks stopped and Boris scampered
across and ran down the block to the next street
crossing. And there the same thing happened
again.</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 4em;">
Kachunk, kachunk, kachunk went by an auto;<br />
Clopperty, clopperty, clopperty went by a horse;<br />
Thunk-a-ta, thunk-a-ta, bang, bang went by a truck.</p>
</div>
<p>“I’ll not get much of a walk this way,” he
thought. “I have to wait and wait at each corner.
And the’re so many things I’ll never get through.”
Just then he saw a street car. “I might take a
car,” he thought. But then he saw on the street
a long line of cars waiting, waiting to get through.
“It wouldn’t do much good,” he thought. “They’re
just like me.”</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 8em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Dear me! dear me!</span><br />
What can they do?<br />
The’re so many things,<br />
They’ll never get through!”</p>
</div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span>
Then he noticed a big hole in the sidewalk.
Down the hole went some steps and down the steps
hurried lots and lots of people. “I wonder what
this is?” thought Boris and down the steps he ran.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i273.png" width="500" height="430" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<p>At the bottom of the steps there was a big room
all lined with white tile and all lighted with electric
lights. On the side was the funniest little
house with a little window in it and a man looking
through the window. Boris watched carefully for
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span>
he didn’t understand. Everyone went up to the
window and gave the man 5 cents and the man
handed out a little piece of blue paper.</p>
<p>“That’s a ticket,” thought Boris, for he was a
very smart little boy. “These people must be
going somewhere.” So he reached down in his
pocket and pulled out a nickel. For all he was
so little, and so new to New York, he knew what
a 5 cent piece was quite well. He had to stand
on tiptoe to hand the man his nickel and to reach
his little blue ticket. Then he watched again.
Everyone dropped this ticket in a funny little box
by a funny little gate and another man moved a
handle up and down. So Boris did just the same.
He stood on tiptoe and dropped his ticket in the
box and walked through the little gate to a big
platform. And what do you think he saw there?
A great long tunnel stretching off in both directions,—a
long tunnel all lined with white tiles!
And on the bottom were rails! “I wonder what
runs on that track?” thought Boris.</p>
<p>Just then he heard a most terrible noise:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 8em;">
Rackety, clackety, klang, klong!<br />
Rackety, clackety, klang, klong!</p>
</div>
<p>and down the tunnel came a train of cars. “Yi-i-i-i—sh-sh-sh-sh!”
screamed the cars and stopped
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span>
right in front of Boris. And then what do you
suppose happened? The doors in the car right
in front of him flew open. Everyone stepped in.
So did Boris.</p>
<p>It was the front car. He walked to the front
and sat down where he could look out on the
tracks. He could also look into the funny little
box room and see the man who pulled the levers
and made the car go and stop. In a moment they
started:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 8em;">
Rackety, clackety, klang, klong!<br />
How fast! How fast!</p>
</div>
<p>Then “Yi-i-i-i—sh-sh-sh-sh!” The man put on the
brakes and they stopped at another station. In
another moment they started again. Rackety,
clackety, klang, klong! Then “Yi-i-i-i—sh-sh-sh-sh”
another station! And so they went flying from
lighted station to lighted station through the white-tiled
tunnel.</p>
<p>Boris was very happy. He sat quite still watching
out of the window and saying with the car;
rackety, clackety, klang, klong; rackety, clackety,
klang, klong! “This is the way to go if you’re in
a hurry,” he thought. He looked up and smiled
to think of all the autos and horses and trucks
above going oh! so slowly down the street!</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span>
At last he thought he would get out. So the
next time the man put the brakes on and the train
yelled “Yi-i-i-i—sh-sh-sh-sh!” Boris walked
through the open doors on to the platform, then
through the little gate, up some long steps and
found himself on the street again. But right near
him what do you think he saw? A park all full of
trees and grass! This made Boris happy for he
hadn’t seen so many trees and so much grass since
he had left the wide country in his old home in
Russia. A little breeze was blowing too! He
clapped his hands and ran around and laughed and
laughed and laughed and sang:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 8em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“I like the grass,</span><br />
I like the trees,<br />
I like the sky,<br />
I like the breeze!<br />
I touch the grass,<br />
I touch the trees,<br />
Let me play in the Park,<br />
Oh, please! oh, please!”</p>
</div>
<p>So he ran all round and played in the Park.</p>
<p>Suddenly he thought it was time to go home.
He looked for the hole in the sidewalk but he
couldn’t find it. And he didn’t know how to ask
for the subway for he didn’t know its name and
he couldn’t talk English. “I’ll have to walk!” he
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span>
thought. He knew he must walk south for he had
noticed which way the sun was when he went into
the hole in the sidewalk. And now he noticed
again where it was and so he could tell which way
was south.</p>
<p>So Boris went out on the street. He walked to
the corner and waited to go across.</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 4em;">
Kachunk, kachunk, kachunk went by an auto;<br />
Clopperty, clopperty, clopperty went by a horse,<br />
Thunk-a-ta, thunk-a-ta, bang, bang went by a truck.</p>
</div>
<p>He waited another minute.</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 4em;">
Kachunk, kachunk, kachunk went by an auto;<br />
Clopperty, clopperty, clopperty went by a horse;<br />
Thunk-a-ta, thunk-a-ta, bang, bang went by a truck.</p>
</div>
<p>He stood there a long time watching the stream
of autos and horses and trucks go by. And he
thought; “I’ll never get home if I have to go as
slowly as this.</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 8em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Dear me! dear me!</span><br />
What shall I do?<br />
The’re so many things<br />
I’ll never get through!”</p>
</div>
<p>And for all he was so smart he was a very little boy
and he began to cry for his legs were tired and
he was a little frightened, too.</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span>
Just then what do you suppose he saw? Down
the street way up in the air on a kind of trestle,
he saw a train of cars tearing by. “That’s just
what I want! That train doesn’t have to stop for
autos and horses and things!” thought Boris and
he ran down the street. When he got to the high
trestle, there was a long flight of stairs. Up the
steps went Boris. At the top he found another
funny little room with a window in it and a man
looking out. This time he knew just what to do.
He stood on tiptoe and gave the man 5 cents and
the man handed him a little red piece of paper.
Boris took it, walked through a little gate, stood
on tiptoe and dropped the ticket into another funny
little box and another man moved the handle up
and down and his ticket dropped down. And what
do you suppose he saw from the platform? Tracks
again! Tracks stretching out in both directions.
He didn’t have to wait on the platform long before
he heard the train coming. It seemed to say:</p>
<p>“I’m the elevated train, I’m the elevated train,
I’m the elevated, elevated, elevated train!” It
stopped right in front of Boris and Boris got into
the front car again. Here was another man in
another little box room moving more levers and
making this train stop and go. And Boris could
look right out in front and see the stations before
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span>
he reached them. He could see bridges before
they tore under them; he could look down and
see the horses and the autos and the trucks. He
smiled as he saw how slowly they had to go while
he was racing along above them.</p>
<p>So Boris was quite happy and sat very still and
watched out of the window. Suddenly he heard
the conductor call “Fourteenth Street!” Now that
was one of the few English words that Boris knew
for he lived on 14th Street. Now he was pleased
for he knew he was near home. So he got off
the car, ran down the long, long steps and found
himself on the street. Down 14th Street he ran
until he came to his house.</p>
<p>“Well,” called his mother. “You’ve been gone
a long time! What did you see on the streets?”</p>
<p>Boris smiled. “I haven’t been <em>on</em> the streets
much mother.”</p>
<p>His mother was surprised. “Where have you
been if you haven’t been on the streets?” she asked.</p>
<p>Boris laughed and laughed. “There were so
many things on the streets, so many autos and
horses and trucks,” he said, “that I couldn’t go
fast. So I found a wonderful train <em>under</em> the
streets and I went out on that. And I found a wonderful
train <em>over</em> the streets and I came home on
that!”</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span>
“Well, well,” said his mother. “Trains under
and trains over! Think of that!” And Boris did
think of them much. And when he was in bed
that night, he seemed to hear this little song about
them:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 8em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Now out on the streets</span><br />
There everything meets<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">And they’re all in a hurry to go.</span><br />
But what can they do<br />
For they can’t get through<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">And all are so terribly slow?</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 8em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“But under the street</span><br />
Where nothing can meet<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">The subway goes rackety, klack!</span><br />
It can dash and can race,<br />
It can flash and can chase,<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">For there’s nothing ahead on the track.</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 8em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“And over the street</span><br />
Where nothing can meet<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">Is a wonderful train indeed!</span><br />
High up the stair<br />
Way up in the air<br />
<span style="margin-left: -1em;">It goes at remarkable speed.”</span></p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span></p>
<h2>BORIS WALKS EVERY WAY IN NEW YORK</h2>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap"><strong>Part 1</strong></span></p>
<p>One morning when Boris was eating his breakfast,
he suddenly thought of the wide green country
around his old home in Russia. I don’t know
what made him think of it. He just did!
“Mother,” he said, “I want to see some grass.”</p>
<p>His mother smiled. “Want to go to the Park,
Boris?” she asked.</p>
<p>“No, more grass than that even. I want to see
it everywhere,” and Boris waved his arms around.
“I think I’ll go and find lots and lots of it!”</p>
<p>“I’d like to see lots and lots of grass too, Boris,”
smiled his mother. But her eyes were full of
tears too! “But I don’t know where you can go
in New York and see grass everywhere!”</p>
<p>“Then I’ll go out of New York!” cried Boris.
“If I walk far enough I’ll surely find grass,
won’t I?”</p>
<p>“You can try,” answered his mother. Boris
was now much bigger than when he came to New
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span>
York and could talk quite a little English too. So
his mother let him walk over the city alone. Boris
clapped his hands! For though he was much bigger,
he was still a little boy, you know!</p>
<p>“Which way had I better go?” thought Boris
when he was out on the street. “I think I’ll go
west first.” So he walked west. Though the
streets were crowded he had learned to go faster
than when he took his first walk and discovered
the subway and elevated. West, west, west he
went. Street after street,—houses set close together
all the way. Then at last he saw something
that made him run. The city came to an end!
And there was a big river, oh! such an enormous
river! The edge of the river was all docks,—docks
as far as he could look. Across on the other
side he could see another city with big chimneys
and lots and lots of smoke. There were lots of
boats in the river too. “Some day I’ll come and
watch them,” thought Boris excitedly, “but now
I want to find my grass.” So he turned around.
“I’ll have to go east, I guess,” he thought.</p>
<p>So east he went. East he went until he came
to his house. But he did not stop. He went right
by it. “How many houses there are” he thought.
“How many people there must be!” And still he
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span>
walked east. And still the houses were set close
together street after street. After a while he saw
something that made him run again. The city
came to an end! And there was another big river!
This edge too was all docks,—docks as far as he
could look. Across on the other side he could
see another city with big chimneys and lots of
smoke. “Well,” thought Boris, “isn’t it the funniest
thing that when I walk west I come to a river
and when I walk east I come to a river too!”</p>
<p>Now this puzzled him so that he thought he
must ask somebody about it. Close to him was a
big dock and at the dock was a flat barge. A lot
of men were unloading coal from her. He walked
up to one. “Please,” he said, “what river is this?”</p>
<p>The man stopped his work for a minute. “It’s
the East River of course. Where do you come
from, boy?”</p>
<p>“From Russia,” said Boris, “so you see I didn’t
know. And please, is the other river the West
River then?”</p>
<p>“What other river, boy? What are you talking
about?”</p>
<p>This made Boris feel very uncomfortable, but
he knew there was another river in the west for
hadn’t he just walked there? So he said bravely,
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span>
“If you keep walking west you <em>do</em> come to another
river. I know you do! For I’ve done it.
And it’s a bigger river than this, too!”</p>
<p>The man laughed out loud. “Right you are,
boy!” he said. “You’re a great walker, you are.
Did you walk all the way from Russia?” Now
Boris thought the man couldn’t know very much
to ask him such a question. But, then, he didn’t
know much either. He was asking questions too!
So he answered, “Oh! no! I came on an enormous
boat. But please you haven’t told me the name of
the other river?”</p>
<p>The man laughed louder than ever. “It’s a
funny thing, boy, that we call it the North River.
But you are right: it <em>is</em> west! It’s really the Hudson
River, boy, that’s what it is. And a mighty
big river it is too. Want to know anything more?”
And the man turned back to his work.</p>
<p>“Well,” thought Boris. “I can’t get to my grass
today if I strike rivers everywhere I go.” And
he turned and walked home slowly, because he was
sorry. And he was very, very tired too. For you
see he had walked all the way across the city twice
and that is a pretty long walk even for a boy the
size of Boris.</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span></p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
Boris, he went out to walk<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To find the country wide.</span><br />
And he walked west and west he walked<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But found the Hudson wide!</span><br />
And so he turned himself about<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And walked the other way</span><br />
And he walked east and east he walked<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And there East River lay!</span></p>
</div>
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap"><strong>Part 2</strong></span></p>
<p>The next morning at breakfast, Boris suddenly
thought again of the wide green country around
his old home in Russia. I don’t know why he
thought of it again. He just did! And then he
thought of the Hudson River he had found by
walking west and of the East River he had found
by walking east. “I might try walking north this
time,” he thought. And so he said to his mother,
“I think I’ll go on another hunt for grass,—grass
that’s everywhere!” and again he waved his arms.</p>
<p>“All right,” answered his mother. “But I’m
afraid you’ll have to walk a long way to find grass
everywhere!”</p>
<p>Out on the street he began to walk north. Then
he remembered what a long long ride north in
the subway he had had the other day. “I’d better
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span>
take something if I want to get to the country
wide,” he thought.</p>
<p>So Boris went down to the subway and took the
train. He rode for ever and ever so long. He
kept wondering if there were still houses above
him or if it was all grass,—lots and lots of grass.
“I guess I’ll go up and see,” he thought. So up
he went at the next station. But there were still
houses everywhere. They weren’t so high nor
quite so close together; but still there was no grass.
So he kept on walking north. Then he saw something
that made him run. He could hardly believe
his eyes. There was <em>another river</em>! “Oh!
dear! oh! dear!” thought Boris. “I’ll never in
the world find the country wide if I strike a river
whatever way I go. I think I’ll take the subway
and go way, way south. Surely I can get through
that way. West a river, east a river, north a river.
Yes, I’ll go south!”</p>
<p>So again Boris went down to the subway and
took a train going south. He stayed on it so long
that he thought he must surely be way out in the
country wide under grass, grass, everywhere. “I
guess I’ll go up and see,” he thought.</p>
<p>So up he went at the next station. But when he
came up he found himself on a street. There were
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span>
high buildings all around him. He began to walk
south. The farther he walked, the higher the
buildings he found. At last he came to a place
where the buildings reached up, up, up,—up to
the clouds, he thought. He threw back his head
to look at them,—so high above him that it made
him almost dizzy to look at their tops. He wasn’t
sure they weren’t going to fall either! Then he
looked down again. And what did he see at the
end of the street? Trees, yes, green trees! “Perhaps
I am coming to the wide green country,” he
thought. And he hurried on.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i288.png" width="500" height="365" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span>
But when he got to the trees he saw that the city
came to an end again. And what a wonderful end
it was too! All around him was water,—water so
full of boats that it made Boris gasp. When he
looked to the west he could see a great river with
another city on the other side. “That’s the Hudson,”
thought Boris for he remembered what the
coal man had told him. When he looked to the
east he could see another great river. “That’s the
East River,” he thought for he remembered that
name too.</p>
<p>But what river was that out in front of him?
Then suddenly Boris remembered. That was New
York Harbor! This was where he had landed
when he had come in the giant steamer from Russia!
Out there was Ellis Island where he had
stayed with his father and his mother and his sisters
and his brothers until they had been looked at!
He thought he could see Ellis Island from where
he stood. But there were so many islands he
couldn’t be sure. But he <em>could</em> see the Statue of
Liberty, that enormous woman holding a torch
in her hand. He was sure of that. And he could
see the boats everywhere all over the harbor.
Boris stood there some time just staring and listening
and staring.
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span></p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
When Boris he went out again<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To find the country wide</span><br />
And he went north and north he went<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To Harlem River’s side.</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
Again he turned himself about<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And went the other way</span><br />
And he went south and south he went<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And there the harbor lay!</span></p>
</div>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap"><strong>Part 3</strong></span></p>
<p>Suddenly Boris remembered what he had come
for. He was looking for the wide green country,
for a place where grass grew everywhere. “This
is the funniest thing in the world,” he thought
scratching his head. “Wherever I walk in New
York I come to water. So many people and water
on every side of them! How do they ever get
out?” As soon as he thought of this, he began to
look around. Across the East River he could see
a giant bridge leaping from New York over to
another city and on the bridge were trains and cars
shooting back and forth and autos and horses and
people. “So that is the way they get out!” he
thought.</p>
<p>Then he looked to the west, to the Hudson
River. “No bridges there!” he said. “It’s too
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span>
wide.” Then he suddenly remembered the ferry
boat that had brought him from Ellis Island.
“Ferry boats, of course,” he thought. And sure
enough there were ferry boats and ferry boats
going back and forth from New York to the other
side and to the little islands out in the harbor too!</p>
<p>Now Boris walked along thinking hard about
all this water all around New York. Just then he
noticed a lot of people coming up out of a hole in
the sidewalk. “The Subway,” he thought, for you
remember he had been on the subway. But the
name over the steps didn’t spell “subway.” He
looked at it for a long time. At last he could read
it. “Hudson Tubes” it said. Hudson Tubes?
What could that mean? Boris wanted to know.
So he walked right up to a woman coming out
of the hole.</p>
<p>“What are the Hudson Tubes and where do
they take you?” he asked.</p>
<p>The woman laughed. “They take you to New
Jersey, of course,” she said.</p>
<p>“Is that over there?” Boris asked, pointing
across the Hudson. “And do they really go under
the Hudson River?”</p>
<p>“Yes, to be sure they do. Where do you want
to go?” she answered and then Boris remembered
what he had been hunting for. “I want to go to
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span>
a wide green country where there is grass everywhere.
But every way I walk in New York I
come to water. I know because I’ve walked east
and I’ve walked west and I’ve walked north and
I’ve walked south,” he said, feeling a little like
crying for he was very tired and he <em>was</em> only a
little boy too. The woman smiled and she looked
nice when she smiled. “You see, boy,” she said,
“New York is an island, so of course, you come
to water every way you walk. And it’s so full
of people that there isn’t any wide green country
left,—except the Parks of course.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I know the Parks,” said Boris, “but that
isn’t quite what I mean!”</p>
<p>The woman smiled again. “There <em>is</em> a wide
green country when you get out of the island,” she
said. “You’ll find it some day I’m sure,” and then
the woman hurried away. Boris was very, very
tired. So he took the subway home. When he
came in his mother called out, “Did you find the
wide green country, Boris?”</p>
<p>“No,” said Boris, “I couldn’t, you see. Because
what do you think New York is?”</p>
<p>“What do I think New York is, Boris? Why,
it’s the biggest city in the world!”</p>
<p>“That’s not what I mean. What do you think
it <em>is</em>? What is it built on I mean?”</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span>
“What is it built on? On good sound rock I
suppose!”</p>
<p>Boris laughed and laughed. “No, no,” he said.
“I mean it’s an island. Every way you walk, if
you walk long enough, you come to water. Now
isn’t that the funniest thing?” And Boris’s mother
thought it was funny too.</p>
<p>“So many people and all to live on an island!”
she kept saying to herself. “I should think it
would make them a lot of work!”</p>
<p>And Boris who remembered the bridges and the
ferry boats and the “tubes” thought so too!</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
Boris, he went out to walk<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To find the country wide</span><br />
And he walked west and west he walked<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But he found the Hudson wide!</span><br />
And so he turned himself about<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And walked the other way</span><br />
And he walked east and east he walked<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And there East River lay!</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
But Boris he went out again<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To find the country wide</span><br />
And he went north and north he went<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To Harlem River’s side.</span><br />
Again he turned himself about<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And went the other way</span><br />
And he went south and south he went<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And there the harbor lay!</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 7em;"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span>
Then Boris scratched his head and thought:<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Whatever way I go</span><br />
There’s always water at the end<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Whatever way I go!</span><br />
New York must be an island<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An island it must be</span><br />
So many people all shut in<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By rivers and by sea!</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
They’ve bridges and they’ve ferry boats<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Across the top to go;</span><br />
They’ve subways and they’ve Hudson tubes<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To burrow down below</span><br />
To get things in, to get things out<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">How busy they must be!</span><br />
In that enormous big New York<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On rivers and on sea!”</span></p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>SPEED</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 5em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
This story is a definite attempt to make the child
aware of a new relationship in his familiar environment.</p>
<p style="margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">The verse is for the older children. The story has
lent itself well to dramatization.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span></p>
<h2>SPEED</h2>
<p>Once there was a big beautiful white ox. His
back was broad, his horns were long and his eyes
were large and gentle. He went slowly sauntering
down the road one sunshiny summer day. As he
walked along he swung from side to side carefully
putting down his small feet. And this is
what he thought:</p>
<p>“I am pleased with myself—so large, so broad,
so strong am I. Is there anyone else who can
pull so heavy a load? Is there anyone else who
can plow so straight a furrow? What would the
world do without me?”</p>
<p>Just then he heard something tearing along the
road behind him. “Clopperty, clopperty, clopperty,
clopperty.” In a moment up dashed a big,
black horse.</p>
<p>“Greetings,” lowed the ox, slowly turning his
large gentle eyes on the excited horse. “Why such
haste, my brother?” The horse tossed his mane.
“I’m in a hurry,” he snorted, “because I’m made
to go fast. Why, I can go ten miles while you
crawl one! The world has no more use for a great
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span>
white snail like you. But if you want speed, I’m
just what you need. Watch how fast I go!” and
clopperty, clopperty he was off down the road.
As the ox watched the horse disappear he thought
of what he had heard.</p>
<p>“He called me a great white snail! He said he
could go ten miles while I crawled one! Surely
this swift horse is more wonderful than I!”</p>
<p>Now as the horse went frisking along this is
what he thought. “I am pleased with myself. I
am sleek, I am swift—swifter than the ox. What
would the world do without me?”</p>
<p>Just then he heard a strange humming overhead.
He glanced up. The sound came from a wire
taut and vibrating. Then he heard fast turning
wheels coming “Kathump, kathump.” And what
do you think that poor frightened horse saw coming
along the road? A self-moving car with a
trolley overhead touching the singing wire! His
eyes stuck out of his head and his mane stood on
end he was so scared. What made it go, he wondered.</p>
<p>“Hello, clodhopper,” shrieked the electric car.
“I didn’t know there were any of you four-footed
curiosities left. Surely the world has no more use
for you. Where you go in half a day, I go in an
hour; where you carry one man, I carry ten. If
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span>
you want speed I’m just what you need. Just
watch me!” He was gone leaving only the humming
wire overhead. The poor horse thought of
what he had heard.</p>
<p>“He called me a clodhopper! He said he could
go in an hour where I take half a day! Surely
this swift car is more wonderful than I!”</p>
<p>Now the trolley went swinging on his way thinking,
“I am pleased with myself. My power is the
same as the lightning that rips the sky. I am swift,—swifter
than the ox—swifter than the horse.
What would the world do without me?”</p>
<p>Just then he heard a terrifying noise. It
sounded like a mightly monster coughing his life
away. “Chug, a chug a chug a chug, chug.” Then
to his horror he saw coming across the green field
a gigantic iron creature with black smoke and fiery
sparks streaming from a nose on top of his head.</p>
<p>“Well, slowpoke,” screamed the engine as he
came near the car. “Out o’ breath? No wonder.
You’re not made to go fast like me, for I move
by the great power of steam. Look at my monstrous
boilers; see my hot fire. Where you go in
half a day, I go in an hour; where you carry one
man I carry twenty. If you want speed I’m just
what you need! Goodbye. Take your time, slow
coach.” And chug, chug, he was off leaving only
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span>
a trail of dirty smoke behind him. The poor trolley
car thought of what he had heard.</p>
<p>“He called me a slowpoke! He said he could
go in an hour where I take a half day! Surely
this ugly engine is greater than I!”</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i301.png" width="500" height="373" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<p>Now the engine raced down to the freight depot
which was near the great shipping docks. As he
waited to be loaded he thought:</p>
<p>“I am pleased with myself. I am swift—swifter
than the ox, swifter than the horse, swifter than
the electric car. What would the world do without
me? I serve everyone, I go everywhere——”</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span>
Just here he was interrupted by the deep booming
voice of a freight steamer lying alongside the
wharf. “Tooooot” is what the voice said, “you
ridiculous landlubber! You go everywhere?
What about the water? Can you go to France and
back again? It’s only I who can haul the world’s
goods across the ocean! And even where you <em>can</em>
go, you never get trusted if they can possibly trust
me, now do you? Did you ever think why men use
river steamers instead of you? Did you ever think
why men cut the great Panama Canal so that sea
could flow into sea? Well, it’s simply because
they’re smart and prefer me to you when they can
get me. You eat too much coal with your speed,—that’s
what the trouble is with you—you ridiculous
landlubber!”</p>
<p>This long speech made the old steamer quite
hoarse so he cleared his throat with a long
“Toooot” and sank into silence.</p>
<p>“Of course, what he says is true,” thought the
engine. “At the same time it is equally true that
<em>on land</em> I <em>do</em> serve everyone, I go everywhere——”</p>
<p>Just here he was interrupted again by a most unexpected
noise. It sounded half like a steel giggle,
half like a brass hiccough. It made the engine uneasy.
He was sure someone was laughing at him.
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span>
Majestically he turned his headlight till it lighted
up a funny little automobile who was laughing
and laughing and shaking frantically like this and
going “zzzzz.”</p>
<p>“You silly little road beetle,” shouted the great
engine, “what on earth’s the matter with you?”</p>
<p>The automobile gave one violent shake, turned
off his spark and said in an orderly voice, “It
struck my funny bone to hear you say you went
everywhere <em>on land</em>, that’s all. Don’t you realize
you’re an old fuss budget with your steam and your
boiler and your fire and what not? You’re tied
to your rails and if everything about your old tracks
isn’t kept just so you tumble over into a ditch or
do some fool thing. Now I’m the one that can
endure real hardships. Sparks and gasoline! you
just sit right there, you baby, you railclinger, and
watch me take that hill! Honk, honk!” And he
was off up the hill.</p>
<p>The engine slowly turned back his headlight till
the light shone full on his shiny rails. He thought
of what he had heard. “He called me a railclinger—yes,
that I am. How can that preposterous
little beetle run without tracks? I’m afraid
he’s more wonderful than I.”</p>
<p>Now the automobile went jouncing and bouncing
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span>
up the rough road puffing merrily and thinking,
“I’m mightily pleased with myself. Look at
the way I climb this hill. There’s nothing really
so wonderful as I——”</p>
<p>Just then he heard a sound that made his engine
boil with fright. Dzdzdzdzdzr—it seemed to
come right out of the sky. He got all his courage
together and turned his searchlights up. The sight
instantly killed his engine. Above him soared a
giant aeroplane. It floated, it wheeled, it rose, it
dropped. It looked serene, strong and swift.
Down, down came the great thing. Through the
terrific droning the automobile could just make
out these words:</p>
<p>“Dzdzdzdz. You think you’re wonderful, you
poor little creeping worm tied to the earth! I pity
all you slow, slow things that I look down on as
I fly through the sky. Ox made way for horse,
horse made way for engine, car and auto but all,—all
make way for me. For if you want speed, I’m
just what you need. Dzdzdzdzdz.”</p>
<p>And the great aeroplane wheeled and rose like a
giant bird. The automobile watched him, too
humbled to speak. Up, up, up, went the aeroplane—up,
up, up ’til it was out of sight.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span></p>
<h2>SPEED</h2>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 8em;">
<span style="margin-left: -2em;">The hounds they speed with hanging tongues;</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: -2em;">The deer they speed with bursting lungs;</span><br />
Foxes hurry,<br />
Field mice scurry.<br />
Eagles fly<br />
Swift, through the sky,<br />
<span style="margin-left: -2em;">And man, his face all wrinkled with worry,</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: -2em;">Goes speeding by tho’ he couldn’t tell why!</span><br />
But a little wild hare<br />
He pauses to stare<br />
At the daisies and baby and me<br />
Just sitting,—not trying to go anywhere,<br />
Just sitting and playing with never a care<br />
In the shade of a great elm tree.<br />
And the daisies they laugh<br />
As they hear the world pass,<br />
What is speed to the growing flowers?<br />
And my baby laughs<br />
As he sits in the grass,<br />
We all laugh through the sunshiny hours,—<br />
Through the long, dear sunshiny hours!<br />
For flowers and babies<br />
And I still know<br />
’Tis fun to be happy,<br />
’Tis fun to go slow,<br />
’Tis fun to take time to live and to grow.</p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>FIVE LITTLE BABIES</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 5em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
This story was originally written because the
children thought a negro was dirty. The songs are
authentic. They have been enjoyed by children as
young as four years old.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span></p>
<h2>FIVE LITTLE BABIES</h2>
<p>This is going to be a story about some little
babies,—five different little babies who were born
in five different parts of this big round world and
didn’t look alike or think alike at all.</p>
<p>One little baby was all yellow. He just came
that way. His eyes were black and slanted up in
his little face. His hair was black and straight.
He wore gay little silk coats and gay little silk
trousers with flowers and figures sewed all over
them. When he looked up he saw his father’s
face was yellow and so was his mother’s. And
his father’s hair was black and so was his mother’s.
And when he was a little older he saw they both
wore gay silk coats and gay silk trousers with
flowers and figures sewed all over them. But the
baby didn’t think any of this was queer,—not even
when he grew up. For every one he knew had
yellow skin and wore silk coats and trousers. So
of course he thought all the world was that way.</p>
<p>But long before he was old enough to notice any
of these things he knew his mother loved her little
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span>
yellow baby with slanting black eyes. And he
loved to have her take him in her arms and sing
to him, saying:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Chu Sir Tsun Ching Min. Tsoun Sun</span><br />
Gi Gi. Koo Yin Fee Min Kwei<br />
Hua Shiang Lee Pan Run Yin.<br />
Fon Chin Yoa Sir. Loo Yi To<br />
Choa Yeo Liang Sung. Tsun Tze<br />
Doo Soo Soo Wei Gun. Tsin Tsin.”</p>
</div>
<p>For all this happened in China and he was a little
Chinese Baby.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>Another little baby was all brown. He just
came that way. His eyes were black and his hair
was black. He wore pretty colored silk shawls
and little silk dresses. And when he looked up
he saw his father’s face was brown and that he
wore a big turban on his head. And he saw that
around his mother’s brown face was long soft
hair. He saw that she wore pretty colored silk
shawls and long silk trousers and bare feet. But
the baby didn’t think any of this was queer,—even
when he grew up. He thought every one had
brown skin and that everybody dressed like himself
and his father and his mother.</p>
<p>But long before he was old enough to notice
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span>
any of these things, he knew his mother loved her
little brown baby with black eyes. And he loved
to have her take him in her arms and sing to him,
saying:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Arecoco Jarecoco, Jungle parkie bare,</span><br />
Marabata cunecomunga dumrecarto sare,<br />
Hillee milee puneah jara de naddeah,<br />
Arecoco Jarecoco Jungle parkie bare.”</p>
</div>
<p>For all this happened in India and he was a little
Indian baby.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>Now another little baby was all black. He just
came that way. His eyes were black and his hair
was black and curled in tight kinky curls all over
his little head. And this little baby didn’t wear
anything at all except a loin cloth. When he
looked up he saw the black faces and kinky black
hair of his father and his mother. And when
he was a little older he saw that they didn’t wear
any clothes either except a loin cloth and a feather
skirt and some shells. Neither did this baby think
any of this was queer,—not even when he grew
older. He thought all the world looked and
dressed like that.</p>
<p>But long before he was old enough to notice
any of these things, he knew his mother loved her
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span>
little black baby with kinky black hair. And he
loved to have her take him in her arms and sing
to him, saying,</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“O túla, mntwána, O túla,</span><br />
Unyóko akamúko,<br />
Uséle ezintabéni,<br />
Uhlú shwa izigwégwe,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 5em;">Iwá.</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
O túla, mntwána, O túla,<br />
Unyóko w-zezobúya,<br />
Akupatéle ínto enhlé,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 5em;">Iwá.”</span></p>
</div>
<p>For all this happened in Africa and he was a little
negro baby.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>Still another little baby,—he was the fourth,—was
all red. He just came that way. His eyes
were black and his hair was straight and black.
He was bound up tight and slipped into a basket
and carried around on his mother’s back. He
didn’t think this was queer, even when he grew
up. He thought all little babies were carried that
way. And he thought all fathers and mothers had
red skin and black hair and wore leather coats
and trousers trimmed with feathers. For his did.</p>
<p>But long before he was old enough to notice any
of these things he knew his mother loved her little
red baby that she carried on her back, and he
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span>
loved to have her take him out of his basket bed
and rock him in her arms and sing to him, saying:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Cheda-e</span><br />
Nakahu-kalu<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Be-be!</span><br />
Nakahu-kalu<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Be-be!</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">E-Be-be!”</span></p>
</div>
<p>For all this happened in America long, long ago,
and he was a little Indian baby.</p>
<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p>The last little baby, and he makes five, was all
white. He just came so too. His eyes were blue
and his hair was gold and he looked like a little
baby you know. And he wore dear little white
dresses and little knitted shoes. When he looked
up he saw his father’s white skin and his mother’s
blue eyes. When the baby was big enough he saw
what kind of clothes his father and his mother
wore,—but the story doesn’t tell what they were
like. And when the baby was big enough he saw
they all lived in a big dirty noisy city, but the
story doesn’t tell what kind of a house they lived
in. And the story doesn’t tell whether he thought
any of these things queer when he was little or
when he grew up; probably because you know all
these things yourselves. But the story does tell that
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span>
long before he was old enough to notice any of
these things he knew his mother loved her little
white baby with blue eyes and golden hair. And
it tells that he loved to have her rock him in her
arms and sing to him this song:</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 7em;">
<span style="margin-left: -.4em;">“Listen, wee baby,</span><br />
I’d sing you a song;<br />
The arms of the mothers<br />
Are tender and strong,<br />
The arms of the mothers<br />
Where babies belong!<br />
Brown mothers and yellow<br />
And black and red too,<br />
They love their babies<br />
As I, dear, love you,—<br />
My little white blossom<br />
With wide eyes of blue!<br />
And your wee golden head,<br />
I do love it, I do!<br />
And your feet and your hands<br />
I love you there too!<br />
And my love makes me sing to you<br />
Sing to you songs,<br />
Lying hushed in my arms<br />
Where a baby belongs!”</p>
</div>
<p>For all this is happening in your own country
every day and he is a little American baby. Perhaps
you know his father,—perhaps you know the
baby,—perhaps, oh, perhaps, you have heard his
mother sing!</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>ONCE THE BARN WAS FULL OF HAY</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 5em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
This story made a special appeal to the school children
because the school building was originally a
stable in MacDougal Alley. They had even witnessed
this evolution from stable to garage. The
children have seemed to enjoy the rhythmic language
without any sense of strangeness.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span></p>
<h2>ONCE THE BARN WAS FULL OF HAY</h2>
<div class="box">
<p>
Once the barn was full of hay,<br />
Now ’tis there no more.<br />
I wonder why the hay has left the barn?</p>
<p>
The old horse stood in the stall all day.<br />
He wanted to be on the streets.<br />
He was strong, was this old horse.<br />
He was wise, was this old horse.<br />
And he was brave as well.<br />
And he was proud, oh, very proud to be strong and wise and brave!<br />
He wanted to be on the streets,<br />
And he wondered what was wrong<br />
That now for ten long days<br />
No one had to come harness him up.<br />
Old Tom, the aged driver, seemed to have gone away,<br />
And only the stable boy had given him water and oats,<br />
And poked him hay from the loft above.<br />
And as the old horse thought of this<br />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span>
He reached up high with his quivering nose,<br />
And pushing his lips far back on his teeth,<br />
Pulled down a mouthful of hay.<br />
But as he stood chewing the hay<br />
Again he wondered and wondered again<br />
Why nobody needed him,<br />
Why nobody wished to drive.</p>
<p>
For almost every day<br />
Old Tom would harness him up<br />
To a dear little, neat little, sweet little carriage<br />
And down the alley they’d go and around to the front of the house.<br />
And there he’d stand and wait, this dear, this steady old horse,<br />
Flicking the flies with his tail,<br />
Till the door of the house would open wide<br />
And out would come his mistress dear with the baby in her arms,<br />
And running along beside<br />
Would come her little boy, the little boy he loved so well,<br />
Who gave him sugar from his hand and patted his nose and neck.<br />
And into the carriage they all would get,<br />
His mistress and baby and little boy.<br />
And Tom would tighten the reins a bit<br />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span>
And off down the street they’d go,<br />
Clopperty, clopperty, clopperty, clop.<br />
When he was out on the streets,—<br />
This dear old, steady old horse,—<br />
He knew just what to do, when to go and when to stand still.<br />
And when with clang! clang! clang!<br />
Fire engines shrieked down the street<br />
He’d stand as still as a rock<br />
So his mistress and her baby were never frightened a bit!<br />
And the little boy laughed and watched and laughed!<br />
And when the great policeman, so big in the middle of the street,<br />
Held up his hand,<br />
The old horse stopped<br />
But watched him close<br />
For the first wave of the hand that would tell him to go ahead.<br />
Always the first to stop,<br />
Always the first to go,<br />
The old horse loved the streets.</p>
<p>
Now he wanted the streets.<br />
And while he stood and chewed his hay and wondered what was wrong,<br />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span>
Suddenly there came a rumble<br />
Of noises all a-jumble,<br />
A quaking and a shaking<br />
A terrifying tremble<br />
Making the old horse quiver and stand still!<br />
It came from the alley,<br />
His own peaceful alley<br />
Where he knew every horse, every coach, every wagon!<br />
Bump, thump, like a lump of lead jolting,<br />
Bang, whang, like a steam engine bolting,<br />
Down it came crashing<br />
Down it came smashing,<br />
Till it stopped with a snort at his own stable door!<br />
The old horse pulled at his halter<br />
And strained to look round at the door.<br />
Out of the tail of his eye he could see<br />
The doors, the doors to his very own barn,<br />
Swing wide under the crane where they hoistedthe hay.<br />
And there in the alley, oh what did he see<br />
This old horse with his terrified eye?<br />
A monster all shiny and black<br />
With great headlights stuck way out in front,<br />
With brass things that grated and groaned<br />
As the driver pulled this thing and that.<br />
And there on the back of this monster<br />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span>
Sat old Tom<br />
Who had driven him now for fifteen long years.<br />
And out of the mouth of the monster, as there opened a neat little door,<br />
Stepped his mistress dear<br />
With her eager little boy and the baby in her arms.<br />
And the poor horse trembled to see those that he loved so well<br />
So near this terrible monster.<br />
“’Twill eat them all!” he thought.<br />
And for the first time in all his brave and prudent life<br />
The old horse was frightened.<br />
He raised his head,<br />
He spread his nostrils,<br />
He neighed with all his strength.<br />
His mistress dear<br />
Would surely hear,<br />
Would hear and understand!<br />
He wanted to save her, save the boy and save the little baby<br />
From this terrible ugly beast<br />
Snorting there so near!<br />
And his mistress dear, she heard.<br />
But did she understand?<br />
She came and laid her hand upon his quivering side.<br />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span>
“Poor dear old horse,” she said,<br />
“Your day is gone and you must go!”<br />
What could she mean?<br />
What could she mean?<br />
What could she mean?<br />
“You have been strong; but not so strong as is our new machine!<br />
You have been brave; but see this thing, this thing can know no fear!<br />
You have been wise; but this machine is like a part of Tom.<br />
He pulls a lever, turns a wheel and this machine obeys!<br />
Poor dear old horse<br />
Your day is gone<br />
And now you too must go!”<br />
So that was what she meant!<br />
So that was what she meant!<br />
So that was what she meant!</p>
<p>
The old horse heard but how could he understand?<br />
How could he know that she had said<br />
They wanted him no longer?<br />
How could he know that this big monster, this new automobile<br />
Was going to do his work for them<br />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span>
And do it better than he!<br />
He knew that something was wrong.<br />
He was puzzled and sad and frightened.<br />
With head drooped low and feet that dragged<br />
He let old Tom untie his rope<br />
And lead him from the stall.<br />
For one short moment as he passed the shiny automobile<br />
He straightened his head and widened his nostrils<br />
And snorted and snorted again.<br />
But there within the monster, lying safe upon a seat,<br />
He saw the little baby<br />
Laughing and all alone.<br />
And the old horse was puzzled, was puzzled and frightened too.<br />
Then old Tom pulled him gently through the wide swinging doors<br />
And led him down the alley.<br />
Past the stables with other horses,<br />
Past the grooms and stable boys,<br />
Down the alley he knew so well<br />
Went the old horse for the last time.<br />
For he never came back again.<br />
They had no need of him; they liked their auto better!<br />
Down the alley he slowly went<br />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span>
And as he turned into the street below<br />
One last long look he gave to the stable at the end,<br />
One last long look at his mistress dear with the baby in her arms,<br />
One last long look at the little boy waving and calling: “Goodbye, goodbye”.<br />
One last long look, and then he was gone!</p>
<p>
Once the barn was full of hay:<br />
Now ’tis there no more.<br />
I wonder why the hay has left the barn?</p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>THE WIND</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 5em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
This story is composed entirely of observations on
the wind dictated by a six-year-old and a seven-year-old
class. Every phrase (except the one word “toss”)
is theirs. The ordering only is mine.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span></p>
<h2>THE WIND</h2>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 6em;">
In the summer-time the wind goes like breathing,<br />
But in a winter storm it growls and roars.</p>
</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i326.png" width="500" height="380" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<p>Sometimes the wind goes oo-oo-oo-oo-oo! It
sounds like water running. It makes a singing
sound. It blows through the grass. It blows
against the tree and the tree bows over and bends
way down. It whistles in the leaves and makes
a rustling sound. The tree shakes, the branches
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span>
and leaves all rustle. The wind knocks the leaves
off the trees and tosses them up in the air. Then
it blows them straight in to the window and drags
them around on the floor. It makes the leaves
whirl and twirl.</p>
<p>And sometimes the wind is frisky. It whisks
around the corners. It comes blowing down the
street. It blows the papers round and round on
the ground. It tears them and rares them, then
up, it takes them sailing. It sweeps around the
house, blowing and puffing. It blows the wash
up. It blows the chickens off the trees. It makes
the nuts come rattling down. It turns the windmill
and makes the fire burn. It blows out the
matches, it blows out the candles, it blows out the
gas lights. It hits the people on the street. Some
it keeps back from walking and some it pushes
forward. It unbuttons the coat of a little girl, it
unbuttons her leggings too and the little girl feels
all chilly in the frisky wind. It blows up her
skirt. It pulls off her hat and blows through her
hair till she feels all chilly on her head too. Puff!
it goes, puff! puff! Then off go other hats spinning
down the street. It gets under umbrellas and
turns them inside out. The frisky wind blows
harder and harder. The houses shake. The windows
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span>
rattle. And the people on the street are
whirling and twirling like the leaves.</p>
<p>Sometimes there is a storm. The wind roars
over the ocean and makes the waves bigger than
the ships. The waves go up and down, and up
and down, and the ship goes rocking and rocking,
this way and that way, this way and that way, to
the right, to the left, to the right, to the left, back
and forth and back and forth. A boat gets tossed
on the sea. The sails are all torn to pieces by
the storm. The masts get broken off and fall down
on the ship. The ship just rocks and rocks. Then
pretty soon it bumps into a rock and is wrecked
and sinks. And all the men get drowned.</p>
<p>The wind growls and roars over the mountain.
There is thunder and lightning. The thunder
says, “Boompety, boom, boom, boom!” The
lightning is all shiny. The rain comes pouring
down. The wind whistles in the trees. It blows
a tree over. It crashes down. The lightning goes
crack! and splits the tree in two. And then the
tree catches on fire and the leaves burn like paper.</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 6em;">
In the summer-time the wind goes like breathing,<br />
But in a winter storm it growls and roars.</p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>THE LEAF STORY</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 5em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
All the content and many of the expressions
were taken from stories on dried leaves dictated by
a six-year-old and a seven-year-old class.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</a></span></p>
<h2>THE LEAF STORY</h2>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i332.png" width="500" height="375" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 3em;">
I want to fly up in the air!<br />
If I take two leaves in my hands and put two leaves on my feet<br />
And the wind blows<br />
Perhaps I’ll fly up in the air!<br />
Listen!<br />
Something stirs in the dried leaves,<br />
The tree bends, the tree bows,<br />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</a></span>
The wind sweeps through the brown leaves.<br />
The brown leaves crackle and rattle and dance,<br />
They rustle and murmur and pull at the bough,<br />
They shiver, they quiver till they pull themselves loose<br />
And are free.<br />
Up, up they fly!<br />
Little brown specks in the sky.<br />
They twist and they spin,<br />
They whirl and they twirl,<br />
They teeter, they turn somersaults in the air.<br />
Then for a moment the wind holds its breath.<br />
Down, down, down float the leaves,<br />
Still turning and twisting,<br />
Still twirling and whirling,<br />
The brown leaves float to the earth.<br />
Puff! goes the wind,<br />
Up they fly again<br />
With a little soft rustling laugh.<br />
Then down they float.<br />
Down, down, down.<br />
On the ground the leaves go as if walking or running.<br />
They go and then they stop.<br />
They scurry along,<br />
Still twisting and turning,<br />
Still twirling and whirling,<br />
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</a></span>
They hurry along,<br />
With a soft little rustle<br />
They tumble, they roll and they roll.</p>
<p style="margin-left: 3em;">
I want to fly up in the air!<br />
If I take two leaves in my hands and put two leaves on my feet<br />
And the wind blows,<br />
Perhaps I’ll fly up in the air.</p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</a></span></p>
<h2>A LOCOMOTIVE</h2>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
In the daytime, what am I?<br />
In the hubbub, what am I?<br />
A mass of iron and of steel,<br />
Of boiler, piston, throttle, wheel,<br />
A monster smoking up the sky,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A locomotive!</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 3em;">That am I!</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 10em;">
In the darkness, what am I?<br />
In the stillness, what am I?<br />
Streak of light across the sky,<br />
A clanging bell, a shriek, a cry,<br />
A fiery demon rushing by,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A locomotive</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 3em;">That am I!</span></p>
</div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i336.png" width="500" height="372" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</a></span></p>
<h2>MOON MOON</h2>
<p class="center">(<em>To the tune of “Du, du, liegst mir im herzen.</em>”)</p>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 9em;">
Moon, moon,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shiny and silver,</span><br />
Moon, moon,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Silver and white;</span><br />
Moon, moon,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Whisper to children</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Sleep through the silvery night.”</span><br />
There, there, there, there,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sleep through the silvery night.</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 9em;">
Sun, sun,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shiny and golden,</span><br />
Sun, sun,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Golden and gay;</span><br />
Sun, sun,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shout to the children</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Wake to the sunshiny day!”</span><br />
There, there, there, there,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wake to the sunshiny day.</span></p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</a></span></p>
<h2>AUTOMOBILE SONG</h2>
<div class="box">
<p style="margin-left: 9em;">
A-rolling, bowling, fast or slow,<br />
A-racing, chasing, off we go.<br />
The jolly automobile<br />
Whizzes along with flying wheel.<br />
We go chug, chug-chug, chug-up!<br />
Then we go s-l-i-d-i-n-g down.<br />
We go scooting over the hills,<br />
We go tooting back to town.</p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>SILLY WILL</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 5em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
In this story I have used a device to tie together
many isolated familiar facts. I have never found
that six-year-old children did not readily discriminate
the actual from the imaginary.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</a></span></p>
<h2>SILLY WILL</h2>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap"><strong>Part 1</strong></span></p>
<p>Once there was a little boy. Now he was a
very silly little boy, so silly that he was called
Silly Will. He had an idea that he was tremendously
smart and that he could quite well get along
by himself in this world. This foolish idea made
him do and say all sorts of silly things which led
to all sorts of terrible happenings as this story
will show.</p>
<p>One day he went out walking. He walked down
the road until he met a little girl. The little girl
was crying.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter with you?” asked Silly Will.</p>
<p>“Oh!” sobbed the little girl, “our cow has died
and I don’t know what we shall do. I don’t know
how we can get along without her milk and everything.
We depended on her so!”</p>
<p>“Depended on a cow!” cried Silly Will. “Whoever
heard of such a thing! I’ve often seen that
stupid old cow of yours. Clumsy, lumbering
thing! Cows are no good! I wouldn’t depend on
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</a></span>
any animal, not I! It wouldn’t matter to me if all
the cows in the world died!” And Silly Will
strutted off down the road.</p>
<p>The little girl looked after him with astonishment.
“I just wish no cow would ever give that
silly boy anything!” she thought.</p>
<p>Before long he met an old woman. The old
woman was crying too.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter with you?” asked Silly Will.</p>
<p>“Oh!” cried the old woman wringing her hands.
“Our sheep has fallen over a cliff and broken its
legs and it’s going to die. I don’t know how we
shall get along without her wool for spinning. We
depended so much on her!”</p>
<p>“Depended on a sheep!” cried Silly Will.
“Whoever heard of such a thing! I’ve often heard
your stupid old sheep bleating. Sheep are no
good. I wouldn’t depend on any animal, not I!
It wouldn’t matter to me if all the sheep in the
world died!” And Silly Will strutted off down
the road feeling very smart.</p>
<p>The old woman looked after him greatly surprised.
“Silly little boy!” she thought. “He little
knows! I just wish no sheep would give him
anything!”</p>
<p>Then before long Silly Will met a man. The
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</a></span>
man was sitting beside the road with his face in
his hands.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter with you?” asked Silly Will.</p>
<p>The man looked up. “Oh, our horse has died!”
he sighed dolefully, “and I don’t know how we
can get along without him to plow for us now that
it’s seeding time. And there’s not much use getting
in the seeds anyway without a horse to carry
the grain to market when it’s ripe. We depended
so on our horse!”</p>
<p>“Depended on a horse!” cried Silly Will.
“Whoever heard of such a thing! First I meet a
little girl who says she depended on a cow for
food: then I meet an old woman who says she
depended on a sheep for clothes. And here is a
man who says he depends on a horse to work and
to carry for him! As for me, I depend on no animal,
not I! It wouldn’t matter to me if there
were no animals in the world. They needn’t give
me anything! I wish they wouldn’t!”</p>
<p>The man looked at him greatly amazed. “Silly
little boy!” he said. “I hope your silly wish will
come true. How little you understand! I just
wish tonight all the animal kingdom would leave
you and then perhaps you would understand a
little!” But Silly Will walked home feeling very
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</a></span>
smart, for he <em>didn’t</em> understand. Silly people
never <em>do</em> understand!</p>
<p>Now that night a strange thing happened to
Silly Will. I can’t explain how or why it happened.
But in the middle of the night, all the animals
<em>did</em> leave Silly Will. Not only the cow and
the sheep and the horse but all the animal kingdom!
He was sound asleep in his flannel nightgown
snuggled under warm wool blankets. Suddenly
he felt a jerk. What was happening? He
sat up in bed just in time to see his blankets whisk
off him and disappear. He looked down. His
night shirt was gone! He heard a faint sound
almost like the bleating of the old woman’s sheep.
“Ba-ba-a-a I take back my wool!”</p>
<p>Then he was aware that something queer had
happened to his mattress. It was just an empty
bag of ticking. He heard a faint sound almost
like the neighing of the man’s horse who had died.
“Whey-ey-ey, I take back my hair!”</p>
<p>He reached for his pillow. It too was an empty
sack.</p>
<p>“Hh-ss-s-hh” hissed a faint sound almost like a
goose. “I take back my feathers!”</p>
<p>“Whatever is happening?” screamed Silly Will.
“Let me get a light.” He found a match and
struck it, but his candlestick was empty. “Ba-a-moo-oo”
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</a></span>
said some faint voices. “I take back my fat!”</p>
<p>By this time Silly Will was thoroughly frightened
and shivering with cold besides.</p>
<p>“I’d better get dressed,” he thought, and groped
his way to the chair where he had left his clothes.
He could find only his cotton underwaist and his
cotton shirt. His wool undershirt and drawers,
his trousers and stockings, and his silk necktie were
gone. And so were his leather shoes. Just the
lacings lay on the floor. “Mooooo” he seemed to
hear a faint sound almost like the little girl’s cow
he had made fun of in the afternoon. “I take back
my hide.”</p>
<p>He put on the few cotton clothes that were left,
but there were no buttons to hold them together.
“Moooooo,” he heard a faint voice say. “I take
back my bones.”</p>
<p>Terrified he ran to the closet to see what more he
could find. “I’ll surely freeze,” he thought as he
lighted another match. “I’ll slip on my coat and
get into bed.” But his warm coat with the fur collar
was gone, too. “Chee, chee, chee,” he seemed
to hear a faint sound almost like the squirrel he was
fond of frightening. “I take back my skin!”</p>
<p>But he did find some cotton stockings and some
old overalls. These he put on relieved to find they
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</a></span>
had metal buttons. Then poor Silly Will
crawled back to bed wearing his cotton clothes and
waited for morning to come. He didn’t sleep much
for the wire spring cut into him. He was cold, too.</p>
<p>As soon as it was light he hunted around for
more clothes. He found some straw bed-room slippers.
His rubbers too were there and he put them
on over his slippers. Then he ran downstairs to
get something to eat.</p>
<p>“Anyway,” he thought, “those old animals can’t
get me when it comes to eating. I never did care
much about meat.”</p>
<p>The pantry door squeaked as he opened it. It
sounded for all the world like a far away barnyard—hens,
cows, and pigs. He looked around. No
milk, no eggs, no bacon! “Bread and butter will
do me,” he thought.</p>
<p>But the butter had gone too! He opened the
bread box. The bread was still there! He almost
wept from relief. By hunting around he found a
good deal to eat. Cocoa made with water instead
of milk was pretty good. Then there were crackers
and apples. His oatmeal wasn’t very good without
milk or butter. But he ate it. He knew he
would have plenty of vegetables and fruits and
cereals.</p>
<p>And the day was warm enough so that he didn’t
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</a></span>
mind his cotton clothes. But his feet did hurt
him. He wondered about wooden shoes and
thought he would try to make some.</p>
<p>He was a little worried too about his bed. He
hunted around in the house until he found two
cotton comforters. One he put under his sheet in
place of his mattress and one on top in place of his
blankets. So, on the whole, he thought, he could
manage to get along.</p>
<p>Poor little Silly Will! He had never before
thought how much the animals did for him. Once
in a while he would think of the little girl and the
old woman and the man he had met that afternoon.
But not for long. And he never remembered
that some time winter would come. But long
before that time came, Silly Will had got himself
into still more trouble. For even now he didn’t
understand!</p>
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap"><strong>Part 2</strong></span></p>
<p>From this time on nothing went well with Silly
Will. When he had eaten the vegetables he had in
the house he walked over to a gardener who lived
nearby. He wanted to get potatoes and other supplies
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</a></span>
for the winter. To his horror he found everything
drooping and wilted and withered. “What’s
the matter with the vegetables, gardener?” asked
Silly Will.</p>
<p>“A frost,” sighed the gardener. “It’s killed all
the potatoes. I hope you weren’t depending on
them?”</p>
<p>“Oh, of course not,” said Silly Will, gulping
hard. “I certainly wouldn’t depend on a vegetable.
That would be too ridiculous. If the frost should
kill all the vegetables, it would make no difference
to me!” Nevertheless in his heart he felt unhappy
and a little frightened at the thought of the coming
winter. But still he didn’t understand. Silly
people never do understand.</p>
<p>He walked on down the road saying to himself,
“I’ll go order my winter wood anyway. I’m almost
out of it at home.” Just then he looked up. He
expected to see the green forest stretching up the
hillside. He stared. The hillside was black smoking
stumps, fallen blackened trees, white ashes!
Beside the dead trees stood the old forester wringing
his hands. Silly Will didn’t even speak to him.
He could see what had happened without asking.
He turned around. Slowly he walked home. He
went right to bed. He still pretended that he
wasn’t unhappy or frightened. He kept saying to
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</a></span>
himself, “I don’t really depend on the wood at all.
Of course that would be silly! I’ve got coal. It
wouldn’t matter to me if all the plants left me.”
And with that thought he fell asleep. You see
even now he didn’t understand. Silly people
never do understand.</p>
<p>Now that night another strange thing happened
to Silly Will. I can’t explain how or why it happened.
But in the middle of the night all the plants
<em>did</em> leave Silly Will,—not only the potatoes and the
trees but the whole vegetable kingdom.</p>
<p>He was asleep all curled up to keep warm in his
cotton clothes. Suddenly he felt the comforter and
sheet under him jerk away and he was left lying
on the wire spring. At the same time the comforter
and sheet over him disappeared. So did
his nightshirt. Then bang! His wooden bed was
gone. The house began to creak and rock. He
jumped up and tore down stairs. He just got outside
the front door when the whole house collapsed.</p>
<p>The moon was shining. Silly Will could see
quite plainly. There stood the brick chimneys rising
out of a pile of plaster dumped on top of the
concrete foundations. There was the slate roof
and the broken window of glass. The air was full
of a sound like the violent trembling of many
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[Pg 336]</a></span>
leaves. It sounded for all the world as if it said,
“I take back my wood!”</p>
<p>“Whatever will I do?” groaned Silly Will as he
shivered all naked in the moonlight. Then his eye
lighted on the kitchen stove. There it stood with
the stove pipe all safely connected with the chimney.</p>
<p>“I’ll build a coal fire,” he thought. There stood
the iron coal scuttle. But alas! It was empty!
He heard a far-away murmur like a faint wind
stirring in giant ferns. And they said, “I take back
my buried leaves!”</p>
<p>By this time Silly Will was shaking with cold.
“I’ve heard that newspapers are warm,” he
thought. But the pile behind the stove was gone.
Again came the murmur of trees—“I take back
my pulp,” and a queer soft sound which he couldn’t
quite make out. Was it “I take back my cotton?”</p>
<p>Silly Will was thoroughly terrified now.</p>
<p>“I’ll go somewhere to think,” he said to himself.
So he crept down the cement steps to the
cellar and crawled into a sheltered corner. But
he couldn’t think of anything pleasant. He could
hear a confused noise all around him. Sometimes
it sounded like growls, like animal cries, like animal
calls. “The animal kingdom has left him,”
it seemed to say.</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[Pg 337]</a></span>
Again it sounded like the wind rustling a thousand
leaves. “The vegetable kingdom has left
him,” it seemed to say.</p>
<p>“I’ve nothing to wear,” sobbed Silly Will. “And
I’m afraid I’ve nothing to eat.” At the thought
of food he jumped up and ran over to the cellar
pantry. He found just three things. They did not
make a tempting meal! They were a crock of salt,
a tin of soda and a porcelain pitcher of water.</p>
<p>“What shall I ever do? How shall I live? I’ll
never have another glass of milk or cup of cocoa.
I’ll never have anything to wear. I’ll freeze and
I’ll starve. I might just as well die now!” And
poor little Silly Will broke down and cried and
cried and cried.</p>
<p>“I can’t live without other living things,” he
sobbed. “I can’t eat only minerals and I can’t keep
warm in minerals. Everybody has to depend on
animals and vegetables. And after all I’m only a
little boy! I’ve got to have living things to keep
alive myself!”</p>
<p>Then a wonderful thing happened to Silly Will.
I can’t explain how or why it happened. Suddenly
he felt all warm and comfortable. “Perhaps I’m
freezing,” he thought. “I’ve heard that people feel
warm when they are almost frozen to death.”</p>
<p>Slowly he put out his hand. Surely that was a
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[Pg 338]</a></span>
linen sheet! Surely that was a woolen blanket.
Surely he had on his flannel nightgown. He sat
straight up. Surely this was his own bed: this was
his own room: this was his own house. He could
scarcely believe his eyes. He gave a great shout.</p>
<p>“Moo-oo-oo,” answered a cow under a tree outside
his window. And the leaves of the tree rustled
at him too.</p>
<p>“Hello, old cow! Hello, old tree!” cried Silly
Will running to the window. “Isn’t it good we’re
all alive?” And when you think of it that wasn’t
a silly remark at all!</p>
<p>“Moo-oo-oo,” lowed the old cow. “Swish-sh-sh-sh,”
rustled the tree. And suddenly Silly Will
thought he understood! I wonder if he did!</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[Pg 339]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>EBEN’S COWS</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 5em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
This story attempts to make an industrial process
a background for real adventure.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[Pg 341]</a></span></p>
<h2>EBEN’S COWS</h2>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap"><strong>Part 1</strong></span></p>
<p>Eben was looking at the cows. And the cows
were looking at Eben. What Eben saw was
twenty-six pairs of large gentle eyes, twenty-six
mouths chewing with a queer sidewise motion,
twenty-six fine fat cattle, some red, some white,
some black, some red and white, and some black
and white, all in a bright green meadow. What
the cows saw, held by his mother on the rail fence,
was a fat baby with a shining face and waving
arms. What Eben heard was the heavy squashy
footsteps of the slow-moving cows as they lumbered
toward the little figure on the fence. What the
cows heard was a high, excited little voice saying
a real word for the first time in its life, “Cow! cow!
oh, cow! oh, cow!” And so with his first word
began Eben’s life-long friendship with the cows.</p>
<p>Eben Brewster lived in a little white farm-house
with green blinds. The cows lived in a great long
red barn, which was connected with the little white
farm-house by a wagon-shed and tool-house. High
up on the great red barn was printed GREEN
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[Pg 342]</a></span>
MOUNTAIN FARM. Long before Eben knew
how to read he knew what those big letters said,
and he knew that the lovely rolling hills that
ringed the farm around, were called the Green
Mountains. In front of both house and barn
stretched the bright green meadows where day
after day fed the twenty-six cows. In a neighboring
meadow played the long-legged calves. For
at Green Mountain Farm there were always many
calves. In the summer they usually had fifteen
or twenty calves a few months old. For every cow
of course had her baby once a year. The little
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[Pg 343]</a></span>
bull calves they sold; but the little cow calves
they raised.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i357.png" width="500" height="403" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<p>When Eben was three years old he made friends
with the calves his own way. He wiggled through
the bars of the gate into their pasture. The calves
stared at him; they sniffed at him. Then they came
a little closer. They stared at him again. They
sniffed at him again. Then they came closer still.
Then one little black and white thing came right
up to him and licked his face and hands. And
three-year-old Eben liked the feel of the soft nose
and the rough tongue and he liked the sweet cow
smell.</p>
<p>So it came about that Eben played regularly
with the calves. It always amused his father
Andrew to watch them together. “I never saw a
child so crazy about cows!” he used to say. One
day he put a pretty little new calf,—white with
red spots,—into the pasture. Eben ran to the calf
at once. “What shall we call the calf, Eben?”
asked his father. “Think of some nice name for
her.” Eben put his arms around the calf’s neck
and smiled. “I call him ’ittle Sister,” he said. For
little baby sister was the only thing three-year-old
Eben loved better than a calf. And the name stuck
to the calves of Green Mountain Farm. From that
time on they were always called Little Sisters!</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[Pg 344]</a></span>
Real little sister or Nancy, as she was called,
grew apace. To her Eben was always wonderful.
At six years he seemed equal to about anything.
It did not surprise her at all one day to hear her
father say, “Eben, you get the cows tonight.” But
it did surprise Eben. He had helped his father
drive them home for years. And now he was to
do it alone! Down the dusty road he went, switch
in hand, taking such big important strides that the
footprints of his little bare feet were almost as
far apart as a man’s. The cows stood facing the
bars. He took down the bars. The cows filed
through one by one. Nancy and her father, waiting
to help him turn the cows in at the barn, knew
he was coming. They could see the cloud of dust
and hear the many shuffling feet and the shrill
boy’s voice calling: “Hi, Spotty, don’t you stop to
eat! Go ’long there, Crumplehorn, don’t you know
the way home yet! Hurry up, Redface. Can’t
you keep in the road?” Eben felt older from that
day.</p>
<p>From the day he began driving home the cows
alone Eben took a real share in the work at the
farm. He put the cows’ heads into the stanchions
when each one lumbered into her stall. He fed
them hay and ensilage through the long winter
months when the meadows were white with snow.
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[Pg 345]</a></span>
He put the cans to catch the cream and the
skimmed milk when his father turned the separator.
He took the separator apart and carried
it up to his mother to be washed. Nancy helped
and talked. Only she really talked more than she
helped!</p>
<p>Eben’s talk ran much on cows. His poor
mother read all she could in the encyclopedia, but
even then she couldn’t answer all his questions.
Why does a cow have four stomachs? Why does
her food come back to be chewed? Why does
she chew sideways? Why does she have to be
milked twice a day? Why doesn’t she get out of
the way when an auto comes down the road?
When Eben asked his father these things the
farmer would shake his head and answer, “I guess
it’s just because she’s a cow.”</p>
<p>There came a very exciting day at Green
Mountain Farm. For twenty years Andrew
Brewster and his men had milked his cows morning
and evening. His hands were hard from the
practice. The children loved to watch him milk.
With every pull of his strong hands he made a
fine white stream of milk shoot into the pail, squirt,
squirt, squirt. Eben had often tried, but pull as
he would, he could only get out a few drops. And
even as Andrew Brewster had milked his cows
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[Pg 346]</a></span>
morning and evening until his hands were horny,
so had his father done before him. Yes, and his
father’s father, too. For three generations of
Brewsters had hardened their hands milking cows
on Green Mountain Farm. Then there came this
exciting day, and a new way of milking began at
the big red barn.</p>
<p>A milking machine was put in. It ran by a wonderful
little puffing gasolene engine. It milked
two cows at once. And it milked all twenty-six
of them in twenty minutes. Andrew Brewster
could manage the whole herd alone with what
help Eben could give him. It was a great day for
him. It was a great day for Eben and Nancy too.</p>
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap"><strong>Part 2</strong></span></p>
<p>There came another day which was even more
exciting for the two children than when the milking
machine was put into the big red barn. This
story is really about that day. Eben was then ten
years old and Nancy seven. Their father and
mother had gone for the day to a county fair. The
two children were to be alone all day, which made
up for not going to the fair. The children had
long since eaten the cold dinner their mother had
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[Pg 347]</a></span>
left for them. They had done all their chores
too. Nancy had gathered the eggs and Eben had
chopped the kindling and brought in the wood.
They had fed the baby chickens and given them
water. Then they had gone to the woods for an
afternoon climb over the big rocks and a wade in
the brook. Now they were waiting for their father
and mother to come back. They had been waiting
for a long time, for it was seven o’clock. The
last thing their mother had called out as she drove
off behind the two old farm horses was, “We’ll be
back by five o’clock, children.”</p>
<p>What could have happened? “Eben,” said
Nancy, “we’d better eat our own supper and get
something ready for Father and Mother. I guess
I’ll try to scramble some eggs.”</p>
<p>“Go ahead,” answered Eben. “But we’re not the
ones I’m worrying about—nor Father and Mother
either. It’s those poor cows.”</p>
<p>“Oh! the cows!” cried Nancy. “And the poor
Little Sisters! They’ll be so hungry.” Both children
ran to the door. “Just listen to them,” said
Eben. “They’ve been waiting in the barn for over
an hour now. I certainly wish Father would
come.” From the big red barn came the lowing
of the restless cattle. “I’m going to have another
look at them,” said Eben. “Come along, Nancy.”</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[Pg 348]</a></span>
The two children peered into the big dark barn.
The unmistakable cow smell came to them strong
in the dark. Stretching down the whole length
was stall after stall, each holding an impatient
cow. The children could see the restless hind feet
moving and stamping; they could see the flicking
of many tails; they could feel the cows pulling
at the stanchions. On the other side were the stalls
of the Little Sisters. They too were moving about
wildly. Over above it all rose the deafening sound
of the plaintive lowings. By the door stood the
gasolene engine. It was attached to a pipe which
ran the whole length of the great barn above the
cows’ stalls. Eben’s eyes followed this pipe until
it was lost in the dark.</p>
<p>“Moo-oo-oo,” lowed the cow nearest at hand, so
loud that both children jumped. “Poor old Redface,”
said Nancy. “I wish we could help you.”
“We’re going to,” said Eben in an excited voice,
“See here, Nancy. We’re going to milk these
cows!” “Why, Eben Brewster, we could never
do it alone!” Nancy’s eyes went to the gasolene
engine as she spoke. “We’ve got to,” said Eben.
“That’s all there is about it.”</p>
<p>So the children began with trembling hands.
They lighted two lanterns. “I wish the cows
would stop a minute,” said Nancy. “I can’t seem
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[Pg 349]</a></span>
to think with such a racket going on.” Eben
turned on the spark of the engine. He had done
it before, but it seemed different to do it when his
father wasn’t standing near. Then he took the
crank. “I hope she doesn’t kick tonight,” he
wished fervently. He planted his feet firmly and
grasped the handle! Round he swung it, around
and around. Only the bellowing of the cows answered.
He began again. Round he swung the
handle; around and around. “Chug, chug-a-chug,
chug, chug, chug-a-chug, chug,” answered the engine.
Nancy jumped with delight. “You’re as
good as a man, Eben,” she cried.</p>
<p>“Come now, bring the lantern,” commanded
Eben. Nancy carried the lantern and Eben a rubber
tube. This tube Eben fastened on to the first
faucet on the long pipe between the first two cows.
This rubber tube branched into two and at the end
of each were four hollow rubber fingers. Eben
stuck his fingers down one. He could feel the air
pull, pull, pull. “She’s working all right, Nancy,”
he whispered in a shaking voice. “Put the pail
here.” Nancy obeyed. Eben took one bunch of
four hollow rubber fingers and slipped one finger
up each udder of one cow. Then he took the other
bunch and slipped one finger up each udder of
the second cow. The cows, feeling relief was near,
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[Pg 350]</a></span>
quieted at once. “I can see the milk,” screamed
Nancy, watching a tiny glass window in the rubber
tube. And sure enough, through the tube and
out into the pail came a pulsing stream of milk.
Squirt, squirt, squirt, squirt. In a few minutes
the two cows were milked and the children moved
on to the next pair. Nancy carried the pail and
Eben the rubber tube which he fastened on to the
next faucet. And in another few minutes two
more cows were milked. So the children went the
length of the great red barn, and gradually the
restless lowings quieted as pail after pail was filled
with warm white milk.</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t try the separator if it weren’t for
the poor Little Sisters,” said Eben anxiously as
they reached the end of the barn. “They’ve got
to be fed,” said Nancy. “But I can’t lift those
pails.” Slowly Eben carried them one by one with
many rests back to the separator by the gasoline
engine. He took the strap off one wheel and put
it around the wheel of the separator. “I can’t
lift a whole pail,” sighed Eben. Taking a little
at a time he poured the milk into the tray at the
top of the separator. In a few minutes the yellow
cream came pouring out of one spout and the
blue skimmed milk out of another. In another
few minutes the calves were drinking the warm
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[Pg 351]</a></span>
skimmed milk. “There, Little Sisters, poor,
hungry Little Sisters,” said Nancy, as she watched
their eager pink tongues.</p>
<p>Eben turned off the engine. “I’m sorry I
couldn’t do the final hand milking,” he said. “I
wonder if we’d better turn the cows out?” Before
Nancy could answer both children heard a
sound. They held their breath. Surely those were
horses’ feet! Cloppety clop clop clop cloppety
clop clop clop. Up to the barn door dashed the
old farm horses. From the dark outside the children
heard their mother’s voice, “Children, children,
are you there? The harness broke and I
thought we’d <em>never</em> get home.” Carrying a lantern
apiece the children rushed out and into her
arms. “Here, Eben,” called his father. “You
take the horses quick. I must get started milking
right away. Those poor cows!” The children
were too excited to talk plainly. They both jabbered
at once. Then each took a hand of their
father and led him into the great red barn. There
by the light of the lanterns Andrew Brewster could
see the pails of warm white milk and yellow
cream. He stared at the quiet cows and at the Little
Sisters. Then he stared at Eben and Nancy.
“Yes,” cried both children together. “We did it.
We did it ourselves!”</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[Pg 353]</a></span></p>
<p class="ralign2" style="font-size: 1.3em;"><strong>THE SKY SCRAPER</strong></p>
<p style="margin-top: 5em; margin-left: 10em; margin-right: 10em;">
The story tries to assemble into a related form
many facts well-known to seven-year-olds and to
present the whole as a modern industrial process.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[Pg 354]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i369.png" width="500" height="348" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[Pg 355]</a></span></p>
<h2>THE SKY SCRAPER</h2>
<p>Once in an enormous city, men built an enormous
building. Deep they built it, deep into the
ground; high they built it, high into the air. Now
that it is finished the men who walk about its feet
forget how deep into the ground it reaches. But
they can never forget how high into the blue it
soars. Their necks ache when they throw back
their heads to see to the top. For, of all the buildings
in the world, this sky scraper is the highest.</p>
<p>The sky scraper stands in the heart of the great
city. From its top one can see the city, one can
hear the city, one can smell the city—the city
where men live and work. One can see the
crowded streets full of tiny men and tiny automobiles,
the riverside with its baby warehouses and
its baby docks, the river with its toy bridges and
toy giant steamers and tug boats and barges and
ferries. The city noise,—the distant, rumbling,
grumbling noise,—sounds like the purring of a
far-away giant beast. And over it all lies the smell
of gas and smoke.</p>
<p>The sky scraper stands in the heart of the great
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[Pg 356]</a></span>
city. But from its top in the blue, blue sky one
can see all over the land. Landward the fields
spread out like a map till they are lost in the mist
and smoke. Seaward lies the vast, the tremendous
stretch of the sea, the wrinkled, the crinkled, the
far-away sea that stretches to touch the sky.</p>
<p>Now this soaring sky scraper is the work of men—of
many, many men. Its lofty lacy tower was
first thought of by the architect. With closed eyes
he saw it, and with his well-trained fingers quickly
he drew its outline. Then at his office many men
with T squares and with compasses, sitting at high
long tables, with green-shaded lamps, worked far
into the nights till all the plans were ready.</p>
<p>Then the sky scraper began to grow. The first
men brought mighty steam shovels. One hundred
feet into the earth they burrowed. The gigantic
mouths of the steam shovels gnawed at the rock
and the clay. Huge hulks they clutched from this
underworld, heaved up with enormous derricks
and crashed out on the upper land. Deep they
dug, deep into the ground till they found the firm
bed-rock. With a network of steel they filled this
terrific hole. Into the rasping, revolving mixers
they poured tons of sand and cement and gravel
which steadily flowed in a sluggish stream to
strengthen the steel supports.</p>
<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[Pg 357]</a></span>
At last,—and that was an exciting day,—the
great beams began to rise. Again the derricks
ground, as slowly, steadily, accurately, they swung
each beam to its place. A thousand men swarmed
over the steel bones, some throwing red-hot rivets,
others catching them in pails, all to the song of
the rivet driver.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/i372.png" width="500" height="456" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<p>The riveter screamed and shrieked and shrilled.
It pierced the air of the narrow streets. On the
nearby buildings it vibrated, echoed. The sky
scraper seemed alive and thrilled by the quivering,
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">[Pg 358]</a></span>
throbbing, shrieking shrill,—by the song of
the riveter. Story by story the sky scraper grew,
a monstrous outline against the sky. And ever and
ever as it grew, hissed the rivet and screamed the
drill.</p>
<p>At length the sky scraper soared sixty dizzy
stories high. Then swiftly came the stone masons
and encased the giant steel frame. Swiftly in its
center, men reared the plunging elevators. Swiftly
worked the electrician, the plumber, the carpenter.
All workmen were called and all workmen
came. The world listened to the call of this sky
scraper standing in the heart of the great city.
From the mines of Minnesota to the swamps of
Louisiana came goods to serve its need. Long,
long ago, in olden days, the churches grew slowly
bit by bit, as one man carved a door post here and
another fitted a window there, each planning his
own part. Not so with the sky scraper. It grew
in haste. Its parts were made in factories scattered
the country over. Each factory was ready with a
part, and the railroad was ready swift to bring
them to its feet. The sky scraper grew in haste.
For it the many worked as one.</p>
<p>Planned by those who command and reared by
those who obey, in an enormous city men built this
enormous building. Deep they built it, deep into
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">[Pg 359]</a></span>
the ground; high they built it, high into the air.
And now they use this building built by them.
The sky scraper houses an army of ten thousand
men. All day they clamber up and down its core
<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">[Pg 360]</a></span>
like insects in a giant tree. They buzz and buzz,
and then go home.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 396px;">
<img src="images/i374.png" width="396" height="500" alt="image" title="" />
</div>
<p>But there with the shadowy silent streets at its
feet stands the lofty sky scraper. On its head there
glows a monstrous light. The rays pierce through
the fogs. And when the storm is screaming wild,
the light struggles through to the frightened boats
tossing on the mountain waves. The storm howls
and beats on the sides of the lofty lacy tower with
the shining light on top. The storms beat on its
side, the tower leans in the wind, the tower of
steel and of stone leans and leans a full two feet.
Then when the blast is past, this tower of steel
and of stone swings back to straightness again.</p>
<p>And so in the enormous city men built this enormous
building. Deep they built it, deep into the
ground; high, they built it, high into the air. Now
that it is finished, the men who walk about its feet
forget how deep into the ground it reaches. But
they can never forget how high into the blue it
soars. Their necks ache when they throw back
their heads to see to the top. For of all the buildings
in the world this sky scraper is the highest.</p>
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><strong>END</strong></p>
<hr style="width: 95%;" />
<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>
<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_A_1" id="Footnote_A_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_1"><span class="label">[A]</span></a> For a clear exposition of this field of literature for children
see “Literature in the Elementary School,” by Porter Lander MacClintock,
University of Chicago Press, 1907.</p></div>
<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_B_2" id="Footnote_B_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_B_2"><span class="label">[B]</span></a>
<em>At this point the teacher might ask, “What else?”
Not the first time, however. The children must get
the outline as a whole before they contribute. Otherwise
they will be entirely absorbed by the content.</em></p></div>
</div>
<pre>
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