Greediness overreaches itself.



217

The most successful of modern literary fabulists was the French poet Jean de la Fontaine (1621-1695). A famous critic has said that his fables delight the child with their freshness and vividness, the student of literature with their consummate art, and the experienced man with their subtle reflections on life and character. He drew most of his stories from AEsop and other sources. While he dressed the old fables in the brilliant style of his own day, he still succeeded in being essentially simple and direct. A few of his 240 fables may be used to good effect with children, though they have their main charm for the more sophisticated older reader. (See Nos. 234, 241, and 242.) The best complete translation is that made in 1841 by Elizur Wright, an American scholar. The following version is from his translation. Notice that La Fontaine has changed the goose to a hen.

THE HEN WITH THE GOLDEN EGGS

LA FONTAINE

How avarice loseth all, By striving all to gain, I need no witness call But him whose thrifty hen, As by the fable we are told, Laid every day an egg of gold. "She hath a treasure in her body," Bethinks the avaricious noddy. He kills and opens—vexed to find All things like hens of common kind. Thus spoil'd the source of all his riches, To misers he a lesson teaches. In these last changes of the moon, How often doth one see Men made as poor as he By force of getting rich too soon!



218

THE WOLF IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING

A Wolf wrapped himself in the skin of a Sheep and by that means got admission into a sheep-fold, where he devoured several of the young Lambs. The Shepherd, however, soon found him out and hung him up to a tree, still in his disguise.

Some other Shepherds, passing that way, thought it was a Sheep hanging, and cried to their friend, "What, brother! is that the way you serve Sheep in this part of the country?"

"No, friends," cried he, turning the hanging body around so that they might see what it was; "but it is the way to serve Wolves, even though they be dressed in Sheep's clothing."

The credit got by a lie lasts only till the truth comes out.



219

THE HARE AND THE TORTOISE

The Hare one day laughed at the Tortoise for his short feet, slowness, and awkwardness.

"Though you may be swift as the wind," replied the Tortoise good-naturedly, "I can beat you in a race."

The Hare looked on the challenge as a great joke, but consented to a trial of speed, and the Fox was selected to act as umpire and hold the stakes.

The rivals started, and the Hare, of course, soon left the Tortoise far behind. Having reached midway to the goal, she began to play about, nibble the young herbage, and amuse herself in many ways. The day being warm, she even thought she would take a little nap in a shady spot, for she thought that if the Tortoise should pass her while she slept, she could easily overtake him again before he reached the end.

The Tortoise meanwhile plodded on, unwavering and unresting, straight towards the goal.

The Hare, having overslept herself, started up from her nap and was surprised to find that the Tortoise was nowhere in sight. Off she went at full speed, but on reaching the winning-post, found that the Tortoise was already there, waiting for her arrival.

Slow and steady wins the race.



220

THE MILLER, HIS SON, AND THEIR ASS

A Miller and his Son were driving their Ass to a neighboring fair to sell him. They had not gone far when they met with a troop of women collected round a well, talking and laughing.

"Look there," cried one of them, "did you ever see such fellows, to be trudging along the road on foot when they might ride?"

The Miller, hearing this, quickly made his Son mount the Ass, and continued to walk along merrily by his side. Presently they came up to a group of old men in earnest debate.

"There," said one of them, "it proves what I was saying. What respect is shown to old age in these days? Do you see that idle lad riding while his old father has to walk? Get down, you young scapegrace, and let the old man rest his weary limbs."

Upon this, the Miller made his Son dismount, and got up himself. In this manner they had not proceeded far when they met a company of women and children.

"Why, you lazy old fellow," cried several tongues at once, "how can you ride upon the beast while that poor little lad there can hardly keep pace by the side of you?"

The good-natured Miller immediately took up his Son behind him. They had now almost reached the town.

"Pray, honest friend," said a citizen, "is that Ass your own?"

"Yes," replied the old man.

"Oh, one would not have thought so," said the other, "by the way you load him. Why, you two fellows are better able to carry the poor beast than he you."

"Anything to please you," said the Miller; "we can but try."

So, alighting with his Son, they tied the legs of the Ass together, and by the help of a pole endeavored to carry him on their shoulders over a bridge near the entrance of the town. This entertaining sight brought the people in crowds to laugh at it, till the Ass, not liking the noise nor the strange handling that he was subject to, broke the cords that bound him and, tumbling off the pole, fell into the river. Upon this, the old man, vexed and ashamed, made the best of his way home again, convinced that by trying to please everybody he had pleased nobody, and lost his Ass into the bargain.

He who tries to please everybody pleases nobody.



221

THE TRAVELERS AND THE BEAR

Two Men, about to journey through a forest, agreed to stand by each other in any dangers that might befall. They had not gone far before a savage Bear rushed out from a thicket and stood in their path. One of the Travelers, a light, nimble fellow, got up into a tree. The other, seeing that there was no chance to defend himself single-handed, fell flat on his face and held his breath. The Bear came up and smelled at him, and taking him for dead, went off again into the wood. The Man in the tree came down and, rejoining his companion, asked him, with a sly smile, what was the wonderful secret which he had seen the Bear whisper into his ear.

"Why," replied the other, "he told me to take care for the future and not to put any confidence in such cowardly rascals as you are."

Trust not fine promises.



222

THE LARK AND HER YOUNG ONES

A Lark, who had Young Ones in a field of grain which was almost ripe, was afraid that the reapers would come before her young brood were fledged. So every day when she flew off to look for food, she charged them to take note of what they heard in her absence and to tell her of it when she came home.

One day when she was gone, they heard the owner of the field say to his son that the grain seemed ripe enough to be cut, and tell him to go early the next day and ask their friends and neighbors to come and help reap it.

When the old Lark came home, the Little Ones quivered and chirped round her and told her what had happened, begging her to take them away as fast as she could. The mother bade them be easy; "for," said she, "if he depends on his friends and his neighbors, I am sure the grain will not be reaped tomorrow."

Next day she went out again and left the same orders as before. The owner came, and waited. The sun grew hot, but nothing was done, for not a soul came. "You see," said the owner to his son, "these friends of ours are not to be depended upon; so run off at once to your uncles and cousins, and say I wish them to come early to-morrow morning and help us reap."

This the Young Ones, in a great fright, told also to their mother. "Do not fear, children," said she. "Kindred and relations are not always very forward in helping one another; but keep your ears open and let me know what you hear to-morrow."

The owner came the next day, and, finding his relations as backward as his neighbors, said to his son, "Now listen to me. Get two good sickles ready for to-morrow morning, for it seems we must reap the grain by ourselves."

The Young Ones told this to their mother.

"Then, my dears," said she, "it is time for us to go; for when a man undertakes to do his work himself, it is not so likely that he will be disappointed." She took away her Young Ones at once, and the grain was reaped the next day by the old man and his son.

Depend upon yourself alone.



223

THE OLD MAN AND HIS SONS

An Old Man had several Sons, who were always falling out with one another. He had often, but to no purpose, exhorted them to live together in harmony. One day he called them around him and, producing a bundle of sticks, bade them try each in turn to break it across. Each put forth all his strength, but the bundle resisted their efforts. Then, cutting the cord which bound the sticks together, he told his Sons to break them separately. This was done with the greatest ease.

"See, my Sons," exclaimed he, "the power of unity! Bound together by brotherly love, you may defy almost every mortal ill; divided, you will fall a prey to your enemies."

A house divided against itself cannot stand.



224

THE FOX AND THE GRAPES

A Fox, just at the time of the vintage, stole into a vineyard where the ripe sunny Grapes were trellised up on high in most tempting show. He made many a spring and a jump after the luscious prize; but, failing in all his attempts, he muttered as he retreated, "Well! what does it matter! The Grapes are sour!"



225

THE WIDOW AND THE HEN

A Widow woman kept a Hen that laid an egg every morning. Thought the woman to herself, "If I double my Hen's allowance of barley, she will lay twice a day." So she tried her plan, and the Hen became so fat and sleek that she left off laying at all.

Figures are not always facts.



226

THE KID AND THE WOLF

A Kid being mounted on the roof of a lofty house and seeing a Wolf pass below, began to revile him. The Wolf merely stopped to reply, "Coward! It is not you who revile me, but the place on which you are standing."



227

THE MAN AND THE SATYR

A Man and a Satyr having struck up an acquaintance, sat down together to eat. The day being wintry and cold, the Man put his fingers to his mouth and blew upon them.

"What's that for, my friend?" asked the Satyr.

"My hands are so cold," said the Man, "I do it to warm them."

In a little while some hot food was placed before them, and the Man, raising the dish to his mouth, again blew upon it. "And what's the meaning of that, now?" said the Satyr.

"Oh," replied the Man, "my porridge is so hot I do it to cool it."

"Nay, then," said the Satyr, "from this moment I renounce your friendship, for I will have nothing to do with one who blows hot and cold with the same mouth."



228

THE DOG AND THE SHADOW

A Dog had stolen a piece of meat out of a butcher's shop, and was crossing a river on his way home, when he saw his own shadow reflected in the stream below. Thinking that it was another dog with another piece of meat, he resolved to make himself master of that also; but in snapping at the supposed treasure, he dropped the bit he was carrying, and so lost all.

Grasp at the shadow and lose the substance—the common fate of those who hazard a real blessing for some visionary good.



229

THE SWALLOW AND THE RAVEN

The Swallow and the Raven contended which was the finer bird. The Raven ended by saying, "Your beauty is but for the summer, but mine will stand many winters."

Durability is better than show.



230

MERCURY AND THE WOODMAN

A Woodman was felling a tree on the bank of a river, and by chance let slip his axe into the water, when it immediately sank to the bottom. Being thereupon in great distress, he sat down by the side of the stream and lamented his loss bitterly. But Mercury, whose river it was, taking compassion on him, appeared at the instant before him; and hearing from him the cause of his sorrow, dived to the bottom of the river, and bringing up a golden axe, asked the Woodman if that were his. Upon the Man's denying it, Mercury dived a second time, and brought up one of silver. Again the Man denied that it was his. So diving a third time, he produced the identical axe which the Man had lost. "That is mine!" said the Woodman, delighted to have recovered his own; and so pleased was Mercury with the fellow's truth and honesty that he at once made him a present of the other two.

The Man goes to his companions, and giving them an account of what had happened to him, one of them determined to try whether he might not have the like good fortune. So repairing to the same place, as if for the purpose of cutting wood, he let slip his axe on purpose into the river and then sat down on the bank and made a great show of weeping. Mercury appeared as before, and hearing from him that his tears were caused by the loss of his axe, dived once more into the stream; and bringing up a golden axe, asked him if that was the axe he had lost.

"Aye, surely," said the Man, eagerly; and he was about to grasp the treasure, when Mercury, to punish his impudence and lying, not only refused to give him that, but would not so much as restore him his own axe again.

Honesty is the best policy.



231

THE MICE IN COUNCIL

Once upon a time the Mice being sadly distressed by the persecution of the Cat, resolved to call a meeting to decide upon the best means of getting rid of this continual annoyance. Many plans were discussed and rejected.

At last a young Mouse got up and proposed that a Bell should be hung round the Cat's neck, that they might for the future always have notice of her coming and so be able to escape. This proposition was hailed with the greatest applause, and was agreed to at once unanimously. Upon this, an old Mouse, who had sat silent all the while, got up and said that he considered the contrivance most ingenious, and that it would, no doubt, be quite successful; but he had only one short question to put; namely, which of them it was who would Bell the Cat?

It is one thing to propose, another to execute.



232

THE MOUNTEBANK AND THE COUNTRYMAN

A certain wealthy patrician, intending to treat the Roman people with some theatrical entertainment, publicly offered a reward to any one who would produce a novel spectacle. Incited by emulation, artists arrived from all parts to contest the prize, among whom a well-known witty Mountebank gave out that he had a new kind of entertainment that had never yet been produced on any stage. This report, being spread abroad, brought the whole city together. The theater could hardly contain the number of spectators. And when the artist appeared alone upon the stage, without any apparatus or any assistants, curiosity and suspense kept the spectators in profound silence. On a sudden he thrust down his head into his bosom, and mimicked the squeaking of a young pig so naturally that the audience insisted upon it that he had one under his cloak and ordered him to be searched, which, being done and nothing appearing, they loaded him with the most extravagant applause.

A Countryman among the audience observed what passed. "Oh!" says he, "I can do better than this"; and immediately gave out that he would perform the next day. Accordingly on the morrow a yet greater crowd was collected. Prepossessed, however, in favor of the Mountebank, they came rather to laugh at the Countryman than to pass a fair judgment on him. They both came out upon the stage. The Mountebank grunts away at first, and calls forth the greatest clapping and applause. Then the Countryman, pretending that he concealed a little pig under his garments (and he had, in fact, really got one) pinched its ear till he made it squeak. The people cried out that the Mountebank had imitated the pig much more naturally, and hooted to the Countryman to quit the stage; but he, to convict them to their face, produced the real pig from his bosom. "And now, gentlemen, you may see," said he, "what a pretty sort of judges you are!"

It is easier to convict a man against his senses than against his will.



233

Stories dealing with the disastrous effects of "day-dreaming" are very common in the world's literature. The three selections that follow are given as very familiar samples for comparison. The first is a simple version by Jacobs.

THE MILKMAID AND HER PAIL

Patty, the Milkmaid, was going to market, carrying her milk in a Pail on her head. As she went along she began calculating what she could do with the money she would get for the milk. "I'll buy some fowls from Farmer Brown," said she, "and they will lay eggs each morning, which I will sell to the parson's wife. With the money that I get from the sale of these eggs I'll buy myself a new dimity frock and a chip hat; and when I go to market, won't all the young men come up and speak to me! Polly Shaw will be that jealous; but I don't care. I shall just look at her and toss my head like this." As she spoke, she tossed her head back, the Pail fell off it and all the milk was spilt. So she had to go home and tell her mother what had occurred.

"Ah, my child," said her mother,

"Do not count your chickens before they are hatched."



234

The next is Wright's translation of La Fontaine's famous fable on the day-dreaming theme. Notice how much more complicated its application becomes in contrast with the obvious truth of the proverb in the preceding version. La Fontaine is responsible for the story's popularity in modern times. The most fascinating study on the way fables have come down to us is Max Mueller's "On the Migration of Fables," in which he follows this story from India through all its many changes until it reaches us in La Fontaine.

THE DAIRYWOMAN AND THE POT OF MILK

LA FONTAINE

A pot of milk upon her cushioned crown, Good Peggy hastened to the market town, Short clad and light, with speed she went, Not fearing any accident; Indeed, to be the nimble tripper, Her dress that day, The truth to say, Was simple petticoat and slipper. And thus bedight, Good Peggy, light,— Her gains already counted,— Laid out the cash At single dash, Which to a hundred eggs amounted. Three nests she made, Which, by the aid Of diligence and care, were hatched. "To raise the chicks, I'll easy fix," Said she, "beside our cottage thatched. The fox must get More cunning yet, Or leave enough to buy a pig. With little care And any fare, He'll grow quite fat and big; And then the price Will be so nice, For which the pork will sell! Twill go quite hard But in our yard I'll bring a cow and calf to dwell— A calf to frisk among the flock!" The thought made Peggy do the same; And down at once the milk-pot came, And perished with the shock. Calf, cow, and pig, and chicks, adieu! Your mistress' face is sad to view; She gives a tear to fortune spilt; Then with the downcast look of guilt Home to her husband empty goes, Somewhat in danger of his blows. Who buildeth not, sometimes, in air His cots, or seats, or castles fair? From kings to dairywomen,—all,— The wise, the foolish, great and small,— Each thinks his waking dream the best. Some flattering error fills the breast: The world with all its wealth is ours, Its honors, dames, and loveliest bowers. Instinct with valor, when alone, I hurl the monarch from his throne; The people, glad to see him dead, Elect me monarch in his stead, And diadems rain on my head. Some accident then calls me back, And I'm no more than simple Jack.



235

The day-dreaming idea is next presented in the form found in the story of the barber's fifth brother in the Arabian Nights. Would this story be any more effective if it had a paragraph at the end stating and emphasizing the moral?

THE STORY OF ALNASCHAR

Alnaschar, my fifth brother, was very lazy, and of course wretchedly poor. On the death of our father we divided his property, and each of us received a hundred drachms of silver for his share. Alnaschar, who hated labor, laid out his money in fine glasses, and having displayed his stock to the best advantage in a large basket, he took his stand in the market-place, with his back against the wall, waiting for customers. In this posture he indulged in a reverie, talking aloud to himself as follows:

"This glass cost me a hundred drachms of silver, which is all I have in the world. I shall make two hundred by retailing it, and of these very shortly four hundred. It will not be long before these produce four thousand. Money, they say, begets money. I shall soon therefore be possessed of eight thousand, and when these become ten thousand I will no longer be a glass-seller. I will trade in pearls and diamonds; and as I shall become rich apace, I will have a splendid palace, a great estate, slaves, and horses; I will not, however, leave traffic till I have acquired a hundred thousand drachms. Then I shall be as great as a prince, and will assume manners accordingly.

"I will demand the daughter of the grand vizier in marriage, who, no doubt, will be glad of an alliance with a man of my consequence. The marriage ceremony shall be performed with the utmost splendor and magnificence. I will have my horse clothed with the richest housings, ornamented with diamonds and pearls, and will be attended by a number of slaves, all richly dressed, when I go to the vizier's palace to conduct my wife thence to my own. The vizier shall receive me with great pomp, and shall give me the right hand and place me above himself, to do me the more honor. On my return I will appoint two of my handsomest slaves to throw money among the populace, that every one may speak well of my generosity.

"When we arrive at my own palace, I will take great state upon me, and hardly speak to my wife. She shall dress herself in all her ornaments, and stand before me as beautiful as the full moon, but I will not look at her. Her slaves shall draw near and entreat me to cast my eyes upon her; which, after much supplication, I will deign to do, though with great indifference. I will not suffer her to come out of her apartment without my leave; and when I have a mind to visit her there, it shall be in a manner that will make her respect me. Thus will I begin early to teach her what she is to expect the rest of her life.

"When her mother comes to visit her she will intercede with me for her. 'Sir,' she will say (for she will not dare to call me son, for fear of offending me by so much familiarity), 'do not, I beseech, treat my daughter with scorn; she is as beautiful as an Houri, and entirely devoted to you.' But my mother-in-law may as well hold her peace, for I will take no notice of what she says. She will then pour out some wine into a goblet, and give it to my wife, saying, 'Present it to your lord and husband; he will not surely be so cruel as to refuse it from so fair a hand.' My wife will then come with the glass, and stand trembling before me; and when she finds that I do not look on her, but continue to disdain her, she will kneel and entreat me to accept it; but I will continue inflexible. At last, redoubling her tears, she will rise and put the goblet to my lips, when, tired with her importunities, I will dart a terrible look at her and give her such a push with my foot as will spurn her from me." Alnaschar was so interested in this imaginary grandeur that he thrust forth his foot to kick the lady, and by that means overturned his glasses and broke them into a thousand pieces.



236

"The Camel and the Pig" is from P. V. Ramaswami Raju's Indian Folk Stories and Fables, an excellent book of adaptations for young readers. The idea that every situation in life has its advantages as well as its disadvantages is one of those common but often overlooked truths which serve so well as the themes of fable. Emerson's "Fable," the story of the quarrel between the mountain and the squirrel, is a most excellent presentation of the same idea (see No. 363). "The Little Elf," by John Kendrick Bangs, makes the same point for smaller folks.

THE CAMEL AND THE PIG

ADAPTED BY P. V. RAMASWAMI RAJU

A camel said, "Nothing like being tall! See how tall I am!"

A Pig who heard these words said, "Nothing like being short; see how short I am!"

The Camel said, "Well, if I fail to prove the truth of what I said, I will give up my hump."

The Pig said, "If I fail to prove the truth of what I have said, I will give up my snout."

"Agreed!" said the Camel.

"Just so!" said the Pig.

They came to a garden inclosed by a low wall without any opening. The Camel stood on this side the wall, and, reaching the plants within by means of his long neck, made a breakfast on them. Then he turned jeeringly to the Pig, who had been standing at the bottom of the wall, without even having a look at the good things in the garden, and said, "Now, would you be tall or short?"

Next they came to a garden inclosed by a high wall, with a wicket gate at one end. The Pig entered by the gate and, after having eaten his fill of the vegetables within, came out, laughing at the poor Camel, who had to stay outside, because he was too tall to enter the garden by the gate, and said, "Now, would you be tall or short?"

Then they thought the matter over, and came to the conclusion that the Camel should keep his hump and the Pig his snout, observing,—

"Tall is good, where tall would do; Of short, again, 'tis also true!"



237

Many scholars have believed that all fables originated in India. The great Indian collection of symbolic stories known as Jataka Tales, or Buddhist Birth Stories, has been called "the oldest, most complete, and most important collection of folklore extant." They are called Birth Stories because each one gives an account of something that happened in connection with the teaching of Buddha in some previous "birth" or incarnation. There are about 550 of these Jatakas, including some 2000 stories. They have now been made accessible in a translation by a group of English scholars and published in six volumes under the general editorship of Professor Cowell. Many of them have long been familiar in eastern collections and have been adapted in recent times for use in schools. Each Jataka is made up of three parts. There is a "story of the present" giving an account of an incident in Buddha's life which calls to his mind a "story of the past" in which he had played a part during a former incarnation. Then, there is a conclusion marking the results. Nos. 237 and 238 are literal translations of Jatakas by T. W. Rhys-Davids in his Buddhist Birth Stories. In adapting for children, the stories of the present may be omitted. In fact, everything except the direct story should be eliminated. The "gathas," or verses, were very important in connection with the original purpose of religious teaching, but are only incumbrances in telling the story either for its own sake or for its moral.

THE ASS IN THE LION'S SKIN

At the same time when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benares, the future Buddha was born one of a peasant family; and when he grew up he gained his living by tilling the ground.

At that time a hawker used to go from place to place, trafficking in goods carried by an ass. Now at each place he came to, when he took the pack down from the ass's back, he used to clothe him in a lion's skin and turn him loose in the rice and barley fields. And when the watchmen in the fields saw the ass they dared not go near him, taking him for a lion.

So one day the hawker stopped in a village; and while he was getting his own breakfast cooked, he dressed the ass in a lion's skin and turned him loose in a barley field. The watchmen in the field dared not go up to him; but going home, they published the news. Then all the villagers came out with weapons in their hands; and blowing chanks, and beating drums, they went near the field and shouted. Terrified with the fear of death, the ass uttered a cry—the bray of an ass!

And when he knew him then to be an ass, the future Buddha pronounced the first verse:

"This is not a lion's roaring, Nor a tiger's nor a panther's; Dressed in a lion's skin, 'Tis a wretched ass that roars!"

But when the villagers knew the creature to be an ass, they beat him till his bones broke; and, carrying off the lion's skin, went away. Then the hawker came; and seeing the ass fallen into so bad a plight, pronounced the second verse:

"Long might the ass, Clad in a lion's skin, Have fed on the barley green; But he brayed And that moment he came to ruin."

And even while he was yet speaking the ass died on the spot.



238

THE TALKATIVE TORTOISE

The future Buddha was once born in a minister's family, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benares; and when he grew up he became the king's adviser in things temporal and spiritual.

Now this king was very talkative; while he was speaking others had no opportunity for a word. And the future Buddha, wanting to cure this talkativeness of his, was constantly seeking for some means of doing so.

At that time there was living, in a pond in the Himalaya mountains, a tortoise. Two young hamsas, or wild ducks, who came to feed there, made friends with him, and one day, when they had become very intimate with him, they said to the tortoise:

"Friend tortoise! the place where we live, at the Golden Cave on Mount Beautiful in the Himalaya country, is a delightful spot. Will you come there with us?"

"But how can I get there?"

"We can take you if you can only hold your tongue, and will say nothing to anybody."

"Oh! that I can do. Take me with you."

"That's right," said they. And making the tortoise bite hold of a stick, they themselves took the two ends in their teeth, and flew up into the air.

Seeing him thus carried by the hamsas, some villagers called out, "Two wild ducks are carrying a tortoise along on a stick!" Whereupon the tortoise wanted to say, "If my friends choose to carry me, what is that to you, you wretched slaves!" So just as the swift flight of the wild ducks had brought him over the king's palace in the city of Benares, he let go of the stick he was biting, and falling in the open courtyard, split in two! And there arose a universal cry, "A tortoise has fallen in the open courtyard, and has split in two!"

The king, taking the future Buddha, went to the place, surrounded by his courtiers; and looking at the tortoise, he asked the Bodisat, "Teacher! how comes he to be fallen here?"

The future Buddha thought to himself, "Long expecting, wishing to admonish the king, have I sought for some means of doing so. This tortoise must have made friends with the wild ducks; and they must have made him bite hold of the stick, and have flown up into the air to take him to the hills. But he, being unable to hold his tongue when he hears any one else talk, must have wanted to say something, and let go the stick; and so must have fallen down from the sky, and thus lost his life." And saying, "Truly, O king! those who are called chatter-boxes—people whose words have no end—come to grief like this," he uttered these verses:

"Verily the tortoise killed himself While uttering his voice; Though he was holding tight the stick, By a word himself he slew.

"Behold him then, O excellent by strength! And speak wise words, not out of season. You see how, by his talking overmuch, The tortoise fell into this wretched plight!"

The king saw that he was himself referred to, and said, "O Teacher! are you speaking of us?"

And the Bodisat spake openly, and said, "O great king! be it thou, or be it any other, whoever talks beyond measure meets with some mishap like this."

And the king henceforth refrained himself, and became a man of few words.



239

The following is, also, an oriental story. It is taken from the Hitopadesa (Book of Good Counsel), a collection of Sanskrit fables. This collection was compiled from older sources, probably in the main from the Panchatantra (Five Books), which belonged to about the fifth century. Observe the emphasis placed upon the teaching of the fable by putting the statement of it at the beginning and recurring to it at the close.

A LION TRICKED BY A RABBIT

He who hath sense hath strength. Where hath he strength who wanteth judgment? See how a lion, when intoxicated with anger, was overcome by a rabbit.

Upon the mountain Mandara there lived a lion, whose name was Durganta (hard to go near), who was very exact in complying with the ordinance for animal sacrifices. So at length all the different species assembled, and in a body represented that, as by his present mode of proceeding the forest would be cleared all at once, if it pleased his Highness, they would each of them in his turn provide him an animal for his daily food. And the lion gave his consent accordingly. Thus every beast delivered his stipulated provision, till at length, it coming to the rabbit's turn, he began to meditate in this manner: "Policy should be practiced by him who would save his life; and I myself shall lose mine if I do not take care. Suppose I lead him after another lion? Who knows how that may turn out for me? I will approach him slowly, as if fatigued."

The lion by this time began to be very hungry; so, seeing the rabbit coming toward him, he called out in a great passion, "What is the reason thou comest so late?"

"Please your Highness," said the rabbit, "as I was coming along I was forcibly detained by another of your species; but having given him my word that I would return immediately, I came here to represent it to your Highness."

"Go quickly," said the lion in a rage, "and show me where this vile wretch may be found!"

Accordingly, the rabbit conducted the lion to the brink of a deep well, where being arrived, "There," said the rabbit, "look down and behold him." At the same time he pointed to the reflected image of the lion in the water, who, swelling with pride and resentment, leaped into the well, as he thought, upon his adversary; and thus put an end to his life.

I repeat, therefore:

He who hath sense hath strength. Where hath he strength who wanteth judgment?



240

Marie de France lived probably in the latter part of the twelfth century and was one of the most striking figures in Middle English literature. She seems to have been born in France, lived much in England, translated from the Anglo-Norman dialect into French, and is spoken of as the first French poet. One of her three works, and the most extensive, is a collection of 103 fables, which she says she translated from the English of King Alfred. Her original, whatever it may have been, is lost. One of her fables, in a translation by Professor W. W. Skeat, is given below. It contains the germ of Chaucer's "Nun's Priest's Tale," in The Canterbury Tales.

THE COCK AND THE FOX

MARIE DE FRANCE

A Cock our story tells of, who High on a trash hill stood and crew. A Fox, attracted, straight drew nigh, And spake soft words of flattery. "Dear Sir!" said he, "your look's divine; I never saw a bird so fine! I never heard a voice so clear Except your father's—ah! poor dear! His voice rang clearly, loudly—but Most clearly when his eyes were shut!" "The same with me!" the Cock replies, And flaps his wings, and shuts his eyes. Each note rings clearer than the last— The Fox starts up and holds him fast; Toward the wood he hies apace. But as he crossed an open space, The shepherds spy him; off they fly; The dogs give chase with hue and cry. The Fox still holds the Cock, though fear Suggests his case is growing queer. "Tush!" cries the Cock, "cry out, to grieve 'em, 'The cock is mine! I'll never leave him!'" The Fox attempts, in scorn, to shout, And opes his mouth; the Cock slips out, And in a trice has gained a tree. Too late the Fox begins to see How well the Cock his game has played; For once his tricks have been repaid. In angry language, uncontrolled, He 'gins to curse the mouth that's bold To speak, when it should silent be. "Well," says the Cock, "the same with me; I curse the eyes that go to sleep Just when they ought sharp watch to keep Lest evil to their lord befall." Thus fools contrariously do all; They chatter when they should be dumb, And, when they ought to speak, are mum.



241

The following is Wright's translation of the first fable in La Fontaine's collection. Rousseau, objecting to fables in general, singled out this particular one as an example of their bad effects on children, and echoes of his voice are still in evidence. It would, he said, give children a lesson in inhumanity. "You believe you are making an example of the grasshopper, but they will choose the ant . . . they will take the more pleasant part, which is a very natural thing." Another observer said: "As for me, I love neither grasshopper nor ant, neither avarice nor prodigality, neither the miserly people who lend nor the spendthrifts who borrow." These statements represent complex, analytic points of view which are probably outside the range of most children. They will see the grasshopper simply as a type of thorough shiftlessness and the ant as a type of forethought, although La Fontaine does suggest that the ant might on general principles be a little less "tight-fisted." The lesson that idleness is the mother of want, the necessity of looking ahead, of providing for the future, of laying up for a rainy day—these are certainly common-sense conclusions and the only ones the story itself will suggest to the child.

THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE ANT

LA FONTAINE

A grasshopper gay Sang the summer away, And found herself poor By the winter's first roar. Of meat or of bread, Not a morsel she had! So a begging she went, To her neighbor the ant, For the loan of some wheat, Which would serve her to eat, Till the season came round. "I will pay you," she saith, "On an animal's faith, Double weight in the pound Ere the harvest be bound." The ant is a friend (And here she might mend) Little given to lend. "How spent you the summer?" Quoth she, looking shame At the borrowing dame. "Night and day to each comer I sang, if you please." "You sang! I'm at ease; For 'tis plain at a glance, Now, ma'am, you must dance."



242

The translation of the following fable is that of W. Lucas Collins, in his La Fontaine and Other French Fabulists. This fable has always been a great favorite among the French, and the translator has caught much of the sprightly tone of his original.

THE COCK, THE CAT, AND THE YOUNG MOUSE

LA FONTAINE

A pert young Mouse, to whom the world was new, Had once a near escape, if all be true. He told his mother, as I now tell you: "I crossed the mountains that beyond us rise, And, journeying onwards, bore me As one who had a great career before me, When lo! two creatures met my wondering eyes,— The one of gracious mien, benign and mild; The other fierce and wild, With high-pitched voice that filled me with alarm; A lump of sanguine flesh grew on his head, And with a kind of arm He raised himself in air, As if to hover there; His tail was like a horseman's plume outspread." (It was a farmyard Cock, you understand, That our young friend described in terms so grand, As 'twere some marvel come from foreign land.) "With arms raised high He beat his sides, and made such hideous cry, That even I, Brave as I am, thank heaven! had well-nigh fainted: Straightway I took to flight, And cursed him left and right. Ah! but for him, I might have got acquainted With that sweet creature, Who bore attractiveness in every feature: A velvet skin he had, like yours and mine, A tail so long and fine, A sweet, meek countenance, a modest air— Yet, what an eye was there! I feel that, on the whole, He must have strong affinities of soul With our great race—our ears are shaped the same. I should have made my bow, and asked his name, But at the fearful cry Raised by that monster, I was forced to fly." "My child," replied his mother, "you have seen That demure hypocrite we call a Cat: Under that sleek and inoffensive mien He bears a deadly hate of Mouse and Rat. The other, whom you feared, is harmless—quite; Nay, perhaps may serve us for a meal some night. As for your friend, for all his innocent air, We form the staple of his bill of fare."

Take, while you live, this warning as your guide— Don't judge by the outside.



243

John Gay (1685-1732) was an English poet and dramatist. His work as a whole has been pretty well forgotten, but he has been recently brought back to the mind of the public by the revival of his satirical Beggar's Opera, the ancestor of the modern comic opera. Gay published a collection of fables in verse in 1727, "prepared for the edification of the young Duke of Cumberland." A second group, making sixty-six in all, was published after his death. Since these fables are probably the best of their kind in English, a few of them are frequently met with in collections. "The Hare with Many Friends" has been the favorite, and rightly so, as it has something of the humor and point that belong to the real fable. Perhaps the fact that it has a personal application enabled Gay to write with more vigor and sincerity than elsewhere.

THE HARE WITH MANY FRIENDS

JOHN GAY

Friendship, like love, is but a name, Unless to one you stint the flame. The child whom many fathers share, Hath seldom known a father's care. 'Tis thus in friendship; who depend On many rarely find a friend. A Hare, who, in a civil way, Complied with everything, like Gay, Was known by all the bestial train Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain. Her care was, never to offend, And every creature was her friend. As forth she went at early dawn, To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn, Behind she hears the hunter's cries, And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies. She starts, she stops, she pants for breath; She hears the near advance of death; She doubles, to mislead the hound, And measures back her mazy round: Till, fainting in the public way, Half dead with fear she gasping lay. What transport in her bosom grew, When first the Horse appeared in view! "Let me," says she, "your back ascend, And owe my safety to a friend. You know my feet betray my flight; To friendship every burden's light." The Horse replied: "Poor honest Puss, It grieves my heart to see thee thus; Be comforted; relief is near, For all your friends are in the rear." She next the stately Bull implored; And thus replied the mighty lord, "Since every beast alive can tell That I sincerely wish you well, I may, without offence, pretend, To take the freedom of a friend; Love calls me hence; a favorite cow Expects me near yon barley-mow; And when a lady's in the case, You know, all other things give place. To leave you thus might seem unkind; But see, the Goat is just behind." The Goat remarked her pulse was high, Her languid head, her heavy eye; "My back," says he, "may do you harm; The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm." The Sheep was feeble, and complained His sides a load of wool sustained: Said he was slow, confessed his fears, For hounds eat sheep as well as hares. She now the trotting Calf addressed, To save from death a friend distressed. "Shall I," says he, "of tender age, In this important care, engage? Older and abler passed you by; How strong are those, how weak am I! Should I presume to bear you hence, Those friends of mine may take offence. Excuse me, then. You know my heart. But dearest friends, alas, must part! How shall we all lament! Adieu! For see, the hounds are just in view."



244

Tomas de Yriarte (1750-1791) was a Spanish poet of some note, remembered now mainly as the author of Literary Fables, the first attempt at literary fable-writing in Spanish. As the name is meant to imply, they concern themselves with the follies and weaknesses of authors. There are about eighty fables in the complete collection, and they are full of ingenuity and cleverness. One of the simplest and best of these is given here in the translation by R. Rockliffe, which first appeared in Blackwood's Magazine in 1839. It laughs at the lucky chance by which even stupidity sometimes "makes a hit" and then stupidly proceeds to pat itself on the back.

THE MUSICAL ASS

TOMAS YRIARTE

The fable which I now present Occurred to me by accident; And whether bad or excellent, Is merely so by accident. A stupid ass one morning went Into a field by accident And cropp'd his food and was content, Until he spied by accident A flute, which some oblivious gent Had left behind by accident; When, sniffing it with eager scent, He breathed on it by accident, And made the hollow instrument Emit a sound by accident. "Hurrah! hurrah!" exclaimed the brute, "How cleverly I play the flute!"

A fool, in spite of nature's bent. May shine for once—by accident.



245

Ivan Andreevitch Krylov (1768-1844) was a Russian author whose fame rests almost entirely upon his popular verse fables (200 in number) which have been used extensively as textbooks in Russian schools. They have "joyousness, simplicity, wit, and good humor." The following specimen is from I. H. Harrison's translation of Krylov's Original Fables. It gives a good illustration of the necessity of "teamwork."

THE SWAN, THE PIKE, AND THE CRAB

IVAN KRYLOV

When partners with each other don't agree, Each project must a failure be, And out of it no profit come, but sheer vexation.

A Swan, a Pike, and Crab once took their station In harness, and would drag a loaded cart; But, when the moment came for them to start,

They sweat, they strain, and yet the cart stands still; what's lacking? The load must, as it seemed, have been but light; The Swan, though, to the clouds takes flight, The Pike into the water pulls, the Crab keeps backing.

Now which of them was right, which wrong, concerns us not; The cart is still upon the selfsame spot.



246

This fable from the Old Testament is one of the very oldest on record in which a story is practically applied to a human problem. The causes of political corruption apparently have not changed much in three thousand years. American citizens gather together at certain times to choose mayors and other officers to rule over them, and when they say to the fruitful olive tree, or fig tree, or vine, "Come thou and reign over us," he replies, "Should I forsake my productive factory, or mine, or profession, to be mayor?" But when they say to the bramble, "Come thou and reign over us," he replies, "Put your trust in me, and let those suffer who object to my management of public affairs." Jotham's lesson of political duty is one greatly needed in the present-day attempt to raise our standard of citizenship.

THE BRAMBLE IS MADE KING

Judges ix: 6-16

And all the men of Shechem gathered together, and all the house of Millo, and went, and made Abimelech king, by the plain of the pillar that was in Shechem. And when they told it to Jotham, he went and stood in the top of Mount Gerizim, and lifted up his voice, and cried, and said unto them:—

"Hearken unto me, ye men of Shechem, that God may hearken unto you. The trees went forth on a time to anoint a king over them; and they said unto the olive tree, 'Reign thou over us.' But the olive tree said unto them, 'Should I leave my fatness, wherewith by me they honor God and man, and go to be promoted over the trees?'

"And the trees said to the fig tree, 'Come thou and reign over us.' But the fig tree said unto them, 'Should I forsake my sweetness and my good fruit, and go to be promoted over the trees?'

"Then said the trees unto the vine, 'Come thou and reign over us.' And the vine said unto them, 'Should I leave my wine, which cheereth God and man, and go to be promoted over the trees?'

"Then said all the trees unto the bramble, 'Come thou and reign over us.' And the bramble said unto the trees, 'If in truth ye anoint me king over you, then come and put your trust in my shadow: and if not, let fire come out of the bramble and devour the cedars of Lebanon.'"



247

The concrete illustrations by means of which Jesus constantly taught are called parables. "Without a parable spake he not unto them." The parable differs from the fable proper in dealing with more fundamental or ideal truth. The fable moves on the plane of the prudential virtues, the parable on the plane of the higher self-forgetting virtues. Because of that difference there is in the parable "no jesting nor raillery at the weakness, the follies, or the crimes of men." All is deeply earnest, befitting its high spiritual point of view. As a rule the parables use for illustration stories of what might actually happen. Two of the most familiar of the parables follow. What true neighborliness means is the message of "The Good Samaritan."

THE GOOD SAMARITAN

Luke x:25-37

And behold, a certain lawyer stood up and tempted him, saying, "Master, what shall I do to inherit eternal life?" He said unto him, "What is written in the law? how readest thou?" And he answering said, "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength, and with all thy mind; and thy neighbor as thyself." And He said unto him, "Thou hast answered right; this do, and thou shalt live." But he, willing to justify himself, said unto Jesus, "And who is my neighbor?"

And Jesus answering said, "A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell among thieves, which stripped him of his raiment, and wounded him, and departed, leaving him half dead. And by chance there came down a certain priest that way; and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. And likewise a Levite, when he was at the place, came and looked on him, and passed by on the other side. But a certain Samaritan, as he journeyed, came where he was; and when he saw him, he had compassion on him, and went to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine, and set him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn, and took care of him. And on the morrow, when he departed, he took out two pence and gave them to the host and said unto him, 'Take care of him: and whatsoever thou spendest more, when I come again I will repay thee.'

"Which now of these three, thinkest thou, was neighbor unto him that fell among the thieves?"

And he said, "He that showed mercy on him."

Then said Jesus unto him, "Go and do thou likewise."



248

THE PRODIGAL SON

Luke xv:10-32

"Likewise I say unto you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth."

And he said, "A certain man had two sons; and the younger of them said to his father, 'Father, give me the portion of goods that falleth to me.' And he divided unto them his living.

"And not many days after, the younger son gathered all together, and took his journey into a far country, and there wasted his substance with riotous living. And when he had spent all, there arose a mighty famine in that land; and he began to be in want. And he went and joined himself to a citizen of that country; and he sent him into his fields to feed swine. And he would fain have filled his belly with the husks that the swine did eat; and no man gave unto him.

"And when he came to himself, he said, 'How many hired servants of my father's have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger! I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, "Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son; make me as one of thy hired servants."'

"And he arose and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him. And the son said unto him, 'Father, I have sinned against heaven and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.' But the father said to his servants, 'Bring forth the best robe and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet; and bring hither the fatted calf and kill it; and let us eat and be merry; for this my son was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.' And they began to be merry.

"Now his elder son was in the field; and as he came and drew nigh to the house, he heard music and dancing. And he called one of the servants and asked what these things meant. And he said unto him, 'Thy brother is come; and thy father hath killed the fatted calf, because he hath received him safe and sound.' And he was angry and would not go in; therefore came his father out and entreated him. And he answering, said to his father, 'Lo, these many years do I serve thee, neither transgressed I at any time thy commandment; and yet thou never gavest me a kid that I might make merry with my friends. But as soon as this thy son was come, which hath devoured thy living with harlots, thou hast killed for him the fatted calf.' And he said unto him, 'Son, thou art ever with me; and all that I have is thine. It was meet that we should make merry, and be glad; for this thy brother was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found.'"



249

This little apologue is taken from Norwood (1867), a novel written by Henry Ward Beecher for the New York Ledger in the days when that periodical, under the direction of Robert Bonner, was the great family weekly of America. In the course of the fiction Mr. Beecher emphasizes the value of stories for children. "Story-hunger in children," he says, "is even more urgent than bread-hunger." And after the story has been told: "How charming it is to narrate fables for children. . . . Children are unconscious philosophers. They refuse to pull to pieces their enjoyments to see what they are made of. Rose knew as well as her father that leaves never talked. Yet, Rose never saw a leaf without feeling that there was life and meaning in it."

THE ANXIOUS LEAF

HENRY WARD BEECHER

Once upon a time a little leaf was heard to sigh and cry, as leaves often do when a gentle wind is about.

And the twig said, "What is the matter, little leaf?"

And the leaf said, "The wind just told me that one day it would pull me off and throw me down to die on the ground!"

The twig told it to the branch on which it grew, and the branch told it to the tree. And when the tree heard it, it rustled all over, and sent back word to the leaf, "Do not be afraid; hold on tightly, and you shall not go till you want to." And so the leaf stopped sighing, but went on nestling and singing.

Every time the tree shook itself and stirred up all its leaves, the branches shook themselves, and the little twig shook itself, and the little leaf danced up and down merrily, as if nothing could ever pull it off.

And so it grew all summer long till October. And when the bright days of autumn came, the little leaf saw all the leaves around becoming very beautiful. Some were yellow, and some scarlet, and some striped with both colors.

Then it asked the tree what it meant. And the tree said, "All these leaves are getting ready to fly away, and they have put on these beautiful colors, because of joy."

Then the little leaf began to want to go, and grew very beautiful in thinking of it, and when it was very gay in color, it saw that the branches of the tree had no color in them, and so the leaf said, "Oh, branches! why are you lead color and we golden?"

"We must keep on our work clothes, for our life is not done; but your clothes are for holiday, because your tasks are over."

Just then, a little puff of wind came, and the leaf let go without thinking of it, and the wind took it up, and turned it over and over, and whirled it like a spark of fire in the air and then it fell gently down under the edge of the fence among hundreds of leaves, and fell into a dream and never waked up to tell what it dreamed about!



250

Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790), more than any other American, has emphasized for us the value of proverbial sayings and the significance of the symbolic story. This account of how one may pay too much for a whistle was written in 1779 while Franklin was representing the colonies at Paris, and addressed to his friend Madame Brillon. The making of apologues seemed to be a favorite sort of game in the circle in which Franklin moved, and his plain common sense is always uppermost in whatever he produces. The lesson of the whistle is always needed; we are prone to put aside the essential thing for the temporary and showy. More than a century ago Noah Webster put this story in his school-reader, and most school-readers since have contained it. The selection is here reprinted complete. Teachers usually omit some of the opening and closing paragraphs.

THE WHISTLE

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

I am charmed with your description of Paradise, and with your plan of living there; and I approve much of your conclusion, that, in the mean time, we should draw all the good we can from this world. In my opinion, we might all draw more good than we do, and suffer less evil, if we would take care not to give too much for whistles. For to me it seems that most of the unhappy people we meet with are become so by neglect of that caution.

You ask what I mean? You love stories, and will excuse my telling one of myself.

When I was a child of seven years old, my friends, on a holiday, filled my pockets with coppers. I went directly to a shop where they sold toys for children; and being charmed with the sound of a whistle, that I met by the way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered and gave all my money for one. I then came home, and went whistling all over the house, much pleased with my whistle, but disturbing all the family. My brothers, and sisters, and cousins, understanding the bargain I had made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was worth; put me in mind what good things I might have bought with the rest of the money; and laughed at me so much for my folly, that I cried with vexation; and the reflection gave me more chagrin than the whistle gave me pleasure.

This, however, was afterward of use to me, the impression continuing on my mind; so that often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary thing, I said to myself, Don't give too much for the whistle; and I saved my money.

As I grew up I thought I met with many, very many, who gave too much for the whistle.

When I saw one too ambitious of court favor, sacrificing his time, his repose, his liberty, his virtue, and perhaps his friends, to attain it, I have said to myself, This man gives too much for his whistle.

When I saw another fond of popularity, constantly employing himself in political bustles, neglecting his own affairs, and ruining them by that neglect, He pays, indeed, said I, too much for his whistle.

If I knew a miser, who gave up every kind of comfortable living, all the pleasure of doing good to others, all the esteem of his fellow-citizens, and the joys of benevolent friendship, for the sake of accumulating wealth, Poor man, said I, you pay too much for your whistle.

When I met with a man of pleasure, sacrificing every laudable improvement of the mind, or of his fortune, to mere corporal sensations, and ruining his health in their pursuit, Mistaken man, said I, you are providing pain for yourself, instead of pleasure; you give too much for your whistle.

If I see one fond of appearance, or fine clothes, fine houses, fine furniture, fine equipages, all above his fortune, for which he contracts debts, and ends his career in a prison, Alas! say I, he has paid dear, very dear, for his whistle.

When I see a beautiful, sweet-tempered girl married to an ill-natured brute of a husband, What a pity, say I, that she should pay so much for a whistle!

In short, I conceive that great part of the miseries of mankind are brought upon them by the false estimates they have made of the value of things, and by their giving too much for their whistles.

Yet I ought to have charity for these unhappy people, when I consider that, with all this wisdom of which I am boasting, there are certain things in the world so tempting, for example, the apples of King John, which happily are not to be bought; for if they were put to sale by auction, I might very easily be led to ruin myself in the purchase, and find that I had once more given too much for the whistle.



251

"The Ephemera" was also addressed to Madame Brillon, the "amiable Brillante" of the final sentence. It is an allegorical story emphasizing the relative shortness of human life. Franklin's "Alas! art is long and life is short!" anticipates Longfellow's "Art is long and time is fleeting." But hundreds of writers had preceded both of them in calling attention to this at the same time commonplace and significant fact. At the end, Franklin's quiet acceptance of the rather gloomy outlook suggested by the ephemeral nature of life is noteworthy, and is characteristic of his general temper.

THE EPHEMERA

An Emblem of Human Life

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

You may remember, my dear friend, that when we lately spent that happy day in the delightful garden and sweet society of the Moulin Joly, I stopped a little in one of our walks, and stayed some time behind the company. We had been shown numberless skeletons of a kind of little fly, called an ephemera, whose successive generations, we were told, were bred and expired within the day. I happened to see a living company of them on a leaf, who appeared to be engaged in conversation. You know I understand all the inferior animal tongues. My too great application to the study of them is the best excuse I can give for the little progress I have made in your charming language. I listened through curiosity to the discourse of these little creatures; but as they, in their national vivacity, spoke three or four together, I could make but little of their conversation. I found, however, by some broken expressions that I heard now and then, they were disputing warmly on the merit of two foreign musicians, one a cousin, the other a moscheto; in which dispute they spent their time, seemingly as regardless of the shortness of life as if they had been sure of living a month. Happy people! thought I; you live certainly under a wise, just, and mild government, since you have no public grievances to complain of, nor any subject of contention but the perfections and imperfections of foreign music. I turned my head from them to an old grey-headed one, who was single on another leaf, and talking to himself. Being amused with his soliloquy, I put it down in writing, in hopes it will likewise amuse her to whom I am so much indebted for the most pleasing of all amusements, her delicious company and heavenly harmony.

"It was," said he, "the opinion of learned philosophers of our race, who lived and flourished long before my time, that this vast world, the Moulin Joly, could not itself subsist more than eighteen hours; and I think there was some foundation for that opinion, since, by the apparent motion of the great luminary that gives life to all nature, and which in my time has evidently declined considerably towards the ocean at the end of our earth, it must then finish its course, be extinguished in the waters that surround us, and leave the world in cold and darkness, necessarily producing universal death and destruction. I have lived seven of those hours, a great age, being no less than four hundred and twenty minutes of time. How very few of us continue so long! I have seen generations born, flourish, and expire. My present friends are the children and grandchildren of the friends of my youth, who are now, also, no more! And I must soon follow them; for, by the course of nature, though still in health, I cannot expect to live above seven or eight minutes longer. What now avails all my toil and labor in amassing honey-dew on this leaf, which I cannot live to enjoy! What the political struggles I have been engaged in, for the good of my compatriot inhabitants of this bush, or my philosophical studies for the benefit of our race in general! for, in politics, what can laws do without morals? Our present race of ephemerae will in a course of minutes become corrupt, like those of other and older bushes, and consequently as wretched. And in philosophy how small is our progress! Alas! art is long, and life is short! My friends would comfort me with the idea of a name, they say, I shall leave behind me; and they tell me I have lived long enough to nature and to glory. But what will fame be to an ephemera who no longer exists? And what will become of all history in the eighteenth hour, when the world itself, even the whole Moulin Joly, shall come to its end, and be buried in universal ruin?"

To me, after all my eager pursuits, no solid pleasures now remain, but the reflection of a long life spent in meaning well, the sensible conversation of a few good lady ephemerae, and now and then a kind smile and a tune from the ever amiable Brillante.



252

The brief allegory that follows is very generally regarded as the finest and noblest specimen of its type. It is here reprinted approximately in the form of its first appearance, now more than two hundred years ago, as more in keeping with its spirit than a modern dress would be. The world of recent times is not so much given to this kind of writing as the eighteenth century was. Like Franklin's "Ephemera," Addison's vision grows out of "profound contemplation on the vanity of human life." The key to the symbolism is found in the "threescore and ten arches" of the bridge, representing the scriptural limit of physical existence, with some broken arches for any excess of that limit. The fact that "the bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches" is a reference to the great number of years assigned to some of the patriarchs. The splendid concluding vision in which Mirzah sees the compensations for the ills of this life suggests a very different type of mind from that of the "this-worldly" closing paragraph in Franklin's apologue. "The Vision of Mirzah" is No. 159 of the Spectator (September 1, 1711).

THE VISION OF MIRZAH

JOSEPH ADDISON

When I was at Grand Cairo I picked up several oriental manuscripts, which I have still by me. Among others I met with one entitled The Visions of Mirzah, which I have read over with great pleasure. I intend to give it to the public when I have no other entertainment for them; and I shall begin with the first vision, which I have translated word for word as follows:

On the fifth day of the moon, which according to the custom of my forefathers I always kept holy, after having washed myself, and offered up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As I was here airing myself on the tops of the mountains, I fell into profound contemplation on the vanity of human life; and passing from one thought to another, surely, said I, man is but a shadow and life a dream. Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the summit of a rock that was not far from me, where I discovered one in the habit of a shepherd, with a musical instrument in his hand. As I looked upon him he applied it to his lips, and began to play upon it. The sound of it was exceeding sweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes that were inexpressibly melodious, and altogether different from anything I had ever heard. They put me in mind of those heavenly airs that are played to the departed souls of good men upon their first arrival in paradise to wear out the impressions of their last agonies, and qualify them for the pleasures of that happy place. My heart melted away in secret raptures.

I had been often told that the rock before me was the haunt of a genius; and that several had been entertained with music who had passed by it, but never heard that the musician had before made himself visible. When he had raised my thoughts by those transporting airs which he played, to taste the pleasure of his conversation, as I looked upon him like one astonished, he beckoned to me, and by the waving of his hand directed me to approach the place where he sat. I drew near with that reverence which is due to a superior nature: and as my heart was entirely subdued by the captivating strains I had heard, I fell down at his feet and wept. The genius smiled upon me with a look of compassion and affability that familiarized him to my imagination, and at once dispelled all the fears and apprehensions with which I approached him. He lifted me from the ground, and taking me by the hand, Mirzah, said he, I have heard thee in thy soliloquies: follow me.

He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and placed me on the top of it. Cast thy eyes eastward, said he, and tell me what thou seest. I see, said I, a huge valley and a prodigious tide of water rolling through it. The valley that thou seest, said he, is the vale of misery, and the tide of water that thou seest is part of the great tide of eternity. What is the reason, said I, that the tide I see rises out of a thick mist at one end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at the other? What thou seest, says he, is that portion of eternity which is called time, measured out by the sun, and reaching from the beginning of the world to its consummation. Examine now, said he, this sea that is thus bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in it. I see a bridge, said I, standing in the midst of the tide. The bridge thou seest, said he, is human life; consider it attentively. Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it consisted of threescore and ten entire arches, with several broken arches, which added to those that were entire, made up the number about an hundred. As I was counting the arches the genius told me that the bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches; but that a great flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condition I now beheld it. But tell me further, said he, what thou discoverest on it. I see multitudes of people passing over it, said I, and a black cloud hanging on each end of it. As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the passengers dropping through the bridge, into the great tide that flowed underneath it; and upon further examination, perceived there were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in the bridge which the passengers no sooner trod upon, but they fell through them into the tide and immediately disappeared. These hidden pit-falls were set very thick at the entrance of the bridge, so that the throngs of people no sooner broke through the cloud, but many of them fell into them. They grew thinner towards the middle, but multiplied and lay closer together towards the end of the arches that were entire.

There were indeed some persons, but their number was very small, that continued a kind of hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell through one after another, being quite tired and spent with so long a walk.

I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful structure, and the great variety of objects which it presented. My heart was filled with a deep melancholy to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and jollity, and catching at everything that stood by them to save themselves. Some were looking up towards the heavens in a thoughtful posture, and in the midst of a speculation stumbled and fell out of sight. Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of baubles that glittered in their eyes and danced before them, but often when they thought themselves within the reach of them, their footing failed and down they sank. In this confusion of objects, I observed some with scimetars in their hands, who ran to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting several persons upon trap-doors which did not seem to lie in their way, and which they might have escaped, had they not been thus forced upon them.

The genius seeing me indulge myself in this melancholy prospect, told me I had dwelt long enough upon it: take thine eyes off the bridge, said he, and tell me if thou seest anything thou dost not comprehend. Upon looking up, what mean, said I, those great flights of birds that are perpetually hovering about the bridge, and settling upon it from time to time? I see vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and among many other feathered creatures several little winged boys, that perch in great numbers upon the middle arches. These, said the genius, are envy, avarice, superstition, despair, love, with the like cares and passions that infect human life.

I here fetched a deep sigh; alas, said I, man was made in vain! How is he given away to misery and mortality! tortured in life, and swallowed up in death! The genius, being moved with compassion towards me, bid me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. Look no more, said he, on a man in the first stage of his existence, in his setting out for eternity; but cast thine eye on that thick mist into which the tide bears the several generations of mortals that fall into it. I directed my sight as was ordered, and (whether or no the good genius strengthened it with any supernatural force, or dissipated part of the mist that was before too thick for the eye to penetrate) I saw the valley opening at the farther end, and spreading forth into an immense ocean that had a huge rock of adamant running through the midst of it, and dividing it into two equal parts. The clouds still rested on one-half of it, insomuch that I could discover nothing in it; but the other appeared to me a vast ocean planted with innumerable islands, that were covered with fruits and flowers, and interwoven with a thousand little shining seas that ran among them. I could see persons dressed in glorious habits with garlands upon their heads, passing among the trees, lying down by the sides of the fountains, or resting on beds of flowers; and could hear a confused harmony of singing birds, falling waters, human voices, and musical instruments. Gladness grew in me upon the discovery of so delightful a scene. I wished for the wings of an eagle, that I might fly away to those happy seats; but the genius told me there was no passage to them except through the gates of death that I saw opening every moment upon the bridge. The islands, said he, that lie so fresh and green before thee, and with which the whole face of the ocean appears spotted as far as thou canst see, are more in number than the sands of the sea-shore; there are myriads of islands behind those which thou here discoverest, reaching farther than thy eyes, or even than thine imagination, can extend itself. These are the mansions of good men after death, who, according to the degree and kinds of virtue in which they excelled, are distributed among these several islands, which abound with pleasures of different kinds and degrees, suitable to the relishes and perfections of those who are settled in them; every island is a paradise, accommodated to its respective inhabitants. Are not these, O Mirzah, habitations worth contending for? Does life appear miserable that gives the opportunities of earning such a reward? Is death to be feared that will convey thee to so happy an existence? Think not a man was made in vain who has such an eternity reserved for him. I gazed with inexpressible pleasure on these happy islands. At length, said I, Show me now, I beseech thee, the secrets that lie hid under those dark clouds which cover the ocean on the other side of the rock of adamant. The genius making me no answer, I turned about to address myself to him a second time, but I found that he had left me. I then turned again to the vision which I had been so long contemplating, but, instead of the rolling tide, the arched bridge, and the happy islands, I saw nothing but the long hollow valley of Bagdat, with oxen, sheep, and camels grazing upon the sides of it.



253

"The Discontented Pendulum" was one of seventy-nine brief prose selections by Jane Taylor (1783-1824) which appeared first in a paper for young people and were, after the author's death, gathered together and published as Contributions of Q. Q. (1826). This one selection only from that volume still lives, is reprinted often in school-readers, and by virtue of its cleverness and point deserves its happy fate. The author attached to it a "Moral" almost as long as the story itself, and that has long since fallen by the wayside. Perhaps that is because the story is too clear to need the "Moral." Here are a few sentences from it: "The present is all we have to manage: the past is irrecoverable; the future is uncertain; nor is it fair to burden one moment with the weight of the next. Sufficient unto the moment is the trouble thereof. . . . One moment comes laden with its own little burden, then flies, and is succeeded by another no heavier than the last; if one could be sustained, so can another, and another. . . . Let any one resolve to do right now, leaving then to do as it can, and if he were to live to the age of Methuselah, he would never err. . . . Let us then, 'whatever our hands find to do, do it with all our might, recollecting that now is the proper and the accepted time.'"

THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM

JANE TAYLOR

An old clock that had stood for fifty years in a farmer's kitchen without giving its owner any cause of complaint, early one summer's morning, before the family was stirring, suddenly stopped.

Upon this, the dial-plate (if we may credit the fable) changed countenance with alarm: the hands made an ineffectual effort to continue their course; the wheels remained motionless with surprise; the weights hung speechless; each member felt disposed to lay the blame on the others. At length the dial instituted a formal inquiry as to the cause of the stagnation; when hands, wheels, weights, with one voice, protested their innocence. But now a faint tick was heard below, from the pendulum, who thus spoke:

"I confess myself to be the sole cause of the present stoppage; and am willing, for the general satisfaction, to assign my reasons. The truth is that I am tired of ticking." Upon hearing this, the old clock became so enraged that it was on the point of striking.

"Lazy wire!" exclaimed the dial-plate, holding up its hands.

"Very good!" replied the pendulum, "it is vastly easy for you, Mistress Dial, who have always, as everybody knows, set yourself up above me—it is vastly easy for you, I say, to accuse other people of laziness! You, who have had nothing to do all the days of your life but to stare people in the face, and to amuse yourself with watching all that goes on in the kitchen! Think, I beseech you, how you would like to be shut up for life in this dark closet, and wag backwards and forwards, year after year, as I do."

"As to that," said the dial, "is there not a window in your house on purpose for you to look through?"

"For all that," resumed the pendulum, "it is very dark here; and although there is a window, I dare not stop, even for an instant, to look out. Besides, I am really weary of my way of life; and if you please, I'll tell you how I took this disgust at my employment. This morning I happened to be calculating how many times I should have to tick in the course only of the next twenty-four hours: perhaps some of you, above there, can give me the exact sum."

The minute hand, being quick at figures, instantly replied, "Eighty-six thousand four hundred times."

"Exactly so," replied the pendulum: "well, I appeal to you all, if the thought of this was not enough to fatigue one? And when I began to multiply the stroke of one day by those of months and years, really it is no wonder if I felt discouraged at the prospect; so after a great deal of reasoning and hesitation, thinks I to myself—I'll stop."

The dial could scarcely keep its countenance during this harangue; but, resuming its gravity, thus replied:

"Dear Mr. Pendulum, I am really astonished that such a useful, industrious person as yourself should have been overcome by this sudden suggestion. It is true you have done a great deal of work in your time. So we have all, and are likely to do; and although this may fatigue us to think of, the question is, whether it it will fatigue us to do: would you now do me the favor to give about half a dozen strokes to illustrate my argument?"

The pendulum complied, and ticked six times at its usual pace. "Now," resumed the dial, "may I be allowed to inquire if that exertion was at all fatiguing or disagreeable to you?"

"Not in the least," replied the pendulum;—"It is not of six strokes that I complain, nor of sixty, but of millions."

"Very good," replied the dial, "but recollect that although you may think of a million strokes in an instant, you are required to execute but one; and that however often you may hereafter have to swing, a moment will always be given you to swing in."

"That consideration staggers me, I confess," said the pendulum.

"Then I hope," resumed the dial-plate, "we shall all immediately return to our duty; for the maids will lie in bed till noon if we stand idling thus."

Upon this, the weights, who had never been accused of light conduct, used all their influence in urging him to proceed; when, as with one consent, the wheels began to turn, the hands began to move, the pendulum began to wag, and, to its credit, ticked as loud as ever; while a beam of the rising sun that streamed through a hole in the kitchen shutter, shining full upon the dial-plate, it brightened up as if nothing had been the matter.

When the farmer came down to breakfast that morning, upon looking at the clock he declared that his watch had gained half an hour in the night.



254

Count Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910) was a Russian novelist, poet, and social reformer; author, among other important works, of War and Peace and Anna Karenina. He wrote many short stories and sketches, a number of which are markedly symbolic in character. The one that follows is a good illustration of a type of such tales pleasing to modern minds. We no longer produce the formal fable or allegory. In Tolstoy's story are two historical characters of so pronounced individuality that their names always suggest definite ideas—Croesus, riches and worldly greatness; Solon, wisdom and worldly poverty and lowliness. These ideas are brought into conflict, and the outcome allows us to see which is the basic one in Tolstoy's theory of life. Who is the happy warrior? One would merely have to quote some words from the story to have an answer. And if the reader feels the force of the answer, as Tolstoy evidently hoped he would, it means a new or at least a more distinctly held ideal of living.

CROESUS AND SOLON

LEO TOLSTOY

In olden times—long, long before the coming of Christ—there reigned over a certain country a great king called Croesus. He had much gold and silver, and many precious stones, as well as numberless soldiers and slaves. Indeed, he thought that in all the world there could be no happier man than himself.

But one day there chanced to visit the country which Croesus ruled a Greek philosopher named Solon. Far and wide was Solon famed as a wise man and a just; and, inasmuch as his fame had reached Croesus also, the king commanded that he should be conducted to his presence.

Seated upon his throne, and robed in his most gorgeous apparel, Croesus asked of Solon: "Have you ever seen aught more splendid than this?"

"Of a surety have I," replied Solon. "Peacocks, cocks, and pheasants glitter with colors so diverse and so brilliant that no art can compare with them."

Croesus was silent as he thought to himself: "Since this is not enough, I must show him something more, to surprise him."

So he exhibited the whole of his riches before Solon's eyes, as well as boasted of the number of foes he had slain, and the number of territories he had conquered. Then he said to the philosopher:

"You have lived long in the world, and have visited many countries. Tell me whom you consider to be the happiest man living?"

"The happiest man living I consider to be a certain poor man who lives in Athens," replied Solon.

The king was surprised at this answer, for he had made certain that Solon would name him himself; yet, for all that, the philosopher had named a perfectly obscure individual!

"Why do you say that?" asked Croesus.

"Because," replied Solon, "the man of whom I speak has worked hard all his life, has been content with little, has reared fine children, has served his city honorably, and has achieved a noble reputation."

When Croesus heard this he exclaimed:

"And do you reckon my happiness as nothing, and consider that I am not fit to be compared with the man of whom you speak?"

To this Solon replied:

"Often it befalls that a poor man is happier than a rich man. Call no man happy until he is dead."

The king dismissed Solon, for he was not pleased at his words, and had no belief in him.

"A fig for melancholy!" he thought. "While a man lives he should live for pleasure."

So he forgot about Solon entirely.

Not long afterwards the king's son went hunting, but wounded himself by a mischance, and died of the wound. Next, it was told to Croesus that the powerful Emperor Cyrus was coming to make war upon him.

So Croesus went out against Cyrus with a great army, but the enemy proved the stronger, and, having won the battle and shattered Croesus' forces, penetrated to the capital.

Then the foreign soldiers began to pillage all King Croesus' riches, and to slay the inhabitants, and to sack and fire the city. One soldier seized Croesus himself, and was just about to stab him, when the king's son darted forward to defend his father, and cried aloud:

"Do not touch him! That is Croesus, the king!"

So the soldiers bound Croesus, and carried him away to the Emperor; but Cyrus was celebrating his victory at a banquet, and could not speak with the captive, so orders were sent out for Croesus to be executed.

In the middle of the city square the soldiers built a great burning-pile, and upon the top of it they placed King Croesus, bound him to a stake, and set fire to the pile.

Croesus gazed around him, upon his city and upon his palace. Then he remembered the words of the Greek philosopher, and, bursting into tears, could only say:

"Ah, Solon, Solon!"

The soldiers were closing in about the pile when the Emperor Cyrus arrived in person to view the execution. As he did so he caught these words uttered by Croesus, but could not understand them.

So he commanded Croesus to be taken from the pile, and inquired of him what he had just said. Croesus answered:

"I was but naming the name of a wise man—of one who told me a great truth—a truth that is of greater worth than all earthly riches, than all our kingly glory."

And Croesus related to Cyrus his conversation with Solon. The story touched the heart of the Emperor, for he bethought him that he too was but a man, that he too knew not what Fate might have in store for him. So in the end he had mercy upon Croesus, and became his friend.



SECTION VI

MYTHS



BIBLIOGRAPHY

I. GENERAL HANDBOOKS

Bulfinch, Thomas, Mythology: The Age of Fable.

Gayley, Charles Mills, Classic Myths in English Literature and in Art.

II. GREEK AND ROMAN

Baker, Emilie Kip, Stories of Old Greece and Rome.

Baldwin, James, Old Greek Stories.

Francillon, R. E., Gods and Heroes, or the Kingdom of Jupiter.

Guerber, H. A., Myths of Greece and Rome.

Hawthorne, Nathaniel, A Wonder-Book for Boys and Girls.

Hawthorne, Nathaniel, Tanglewood Tales: A Second Wonder-Book.

Kingsley, Charles, Greek Heroes.

Kupfer, Grace H., Stories of Long Ago.

Peabody, Josephine P., Old Greek Folk Stories.

III. NORTHERN MYTHS

Anderson, R. B., Norse Mythology, or The Religion of Our Forefathers.

Baker, Emilie Kip, Stories of Northern Myths.

Boult, Katherine F., Heroes of the Northland.

Brown, Abbie Farwell, In the Days of the Giants.

Colum, Padraic, The Children of Odin.

Guerber, H. A., Myths of Northern Lands.

Keary, Anna and Eliza, The Heroes of Asgard.

Mabie, Hamilton Wright, Norse Stories.

Wilmot-Buxton, E. M., Stories of Norse Heroes.



IV. NATURE MYTHS ("POURQUOI" STORIES)

Cook, Flora J., Nature Myths.

Holbrook, Florence, The Book of Nature Myths.

V. CRITICAL WORKS

Cox, Sir G. W., Mythology of the Aryan Nations. 2 vols.

Fiske, John, Myths and Myth-Makers.

Frazer, J. G., The Golden Bough. 12 vols.

Hartland, E. S., The Legend of Perseus. 3 vols.

Lang, Andrew, Myth, Ritual, and Religion. 2 vols.

Mueller, Max, Contributions to the Science of Mythology.

Ruskin, John, Athena, Queen of the Air.

Spencer, Herbert, Principles of Sociology.

Tylor, E. B., Primitive Culture. 2 vols.



SECTION VI. MYTHS

INTRODUCTORY

What myths are. It seems that every race of people in the period of barbarism and early civilization has created fanciful, childlike stories to explain such things as the origin of earth, sun, stars, clouds, life, death, fire, man, lower animals, and plants, and the characteristics of particular plants and animals. In most cases, if not all, they have accounted for the origin of such things by the theory that they were created by gods and super-human heroes. Among such peoples as the Greek and Norse folk, many stories also grew up regarding the gods and super-human heroes and their relations with one another and with men. All of these old stories about the creation of things and about the gods and super-human heroes are called myths. As time went on and the peoples became civilized, the original myths were regarded merely as fanciful tales, and were used to furnish characters and plots for many stories told chiefly for entertainment. Often, as in the story of Ulysses, legends of national heroes were combined with them. Even in our time such writers as Hawthorne and Kingsley and Lowell have used these old characters and plots as the basis of stories, many of which differ greatly from the original myths.

Myths and other folk stories. Myths were pretty largely matters of faith to begin with. They were the basis of old-time religious beliefs, explaining to the mind of primitive man how things came to be as they are. This tendency to adopt what are to educated minds fanciful explanations of all that is beyond their understanding is easily observable in the way children explain the unknown. It seems fairly clear, on the other hand, that fairy stories were told by the folk as matter of entertainment. They did not believe that pigs actually talked, that a princess could sleep a hundred years, that a bean-stalk could grow as fast and as far as Jack's did, or that toads and diamonds could actually come out of one's mouth. It may be, as some theorists insist, that remains of myth survive in some of these fairy stories. On the whole, however, the folk believed these tales only in the sense in which we believe in a fine story such as "The Vision of Sir Launfal" or "Enoch Arden." They express the pleasing imaginings and longings of the human spirit, its ideals of character and conduct, its sense of the wonder and mystery of the universe. The fairy tale, in general, is nearer the surface of life; the myth was concerned with the most fundamental problems of the whence and the why of things.

Such distinctions, however, belong to the realm of scientific scholarship. The teacher is concerned with myths simply as splendid stories that have come down to us from a time when human beings seemed to feel themselves bound into a unity with nature and all mysterious powers around them; stories that through constant repetition were rounded and perfected, and finally, through use by the poets, have reached us in a fairly systematic form. The so-called "poetic mythology" is the one of special value for our purposes. It comes to us through Ovid in the South, and does not distinguish between the gods of Greece and Rome. It comes through the Eddas of the North. It is this poetic mythology that furnishes the basis of allusion in literature and in art, and which is retold for us in the various versions for modern readers. If we hold fast to this correct idea that as teachers in elementary schools our interest in myths is exactly like our interest in other folk products, an interest in them as stories tested by the ages, an interest in them as presenting familiar and suggestive types of character and conduct, an interest in them as stimulating our sense of wonder and mystery, we shall not be disturbed by the violent discussions that sometimes rage over the advisability of using myths with children.

Values of myth. To make the above proposition as clear as possible, let us first tabulate briefly the values of myth, borrowing a suggestion from Jeremiah Curtin:

1. A wonderful story told in most effective fashion. To realize this value, one needs to recall only the efforts of Prometheus in bringing down fire for man and his heroic endurance of vengeful tyranny as a result. The work of Hercules in slaying the many-headed serpent or in cleansing the Augean stables, the adventures of Theseus culminating in the labyrinth of the horrible Minotaur, the beautiful hospitality of Baucis and Philemon, the equally beautiful sadness of the death of Balder—all these simply hint the riches of the myth as story. This story interest is the one that appeals to all human beings as human beings and is therefore fundamental.

2. Myth preserves much material of social and antiquarian interest. It helps us understand the institutions and customs of primitive stages in human development, and as such has great value for scientific students of human society.

3. Myth preserves evidences of how the mind of man looked out upon his surroundings and what it did in the way of interpreting them. It makes most valuable contributions, therefore, to the history of the human mind, and must be taken into account in the science of anthropology.

It must be evident that the second and third values are only in the slightest degree within the range of the child in his early years of school work.

Objections to myth. The objections to the use of myths in school may also be brought under three heads:

1. They come from a plane of ethics much lower than our own. This is the one strong argument against all folk material, and it has a validity that must be frankly recognized. There are the miscellaneous love affairs of Jupiter, and certain stories that have elements of horror and brutality. Such stories we cannot use, "though an error on that side is better than effeminancy." Occasional defects cannot outweigh the great positive ethical worth of myth. We must simply make intelligent choice. The situation is not different from what it is in choosing from modern poetry and story. It would be poor evidence of our sanity if we ruled out all poetry because some of it is not fit. Let us, however, omit entirely those myths that are not suitable rather than attempt making them over to suit modern conceptions. We may properly allow liberties to a literary artist like Hawthorne that a mere artisan should not take.

2. Myth deals with the worn-out and obsolete ideas of the past, and will give children false religious and scientific notions. But one does not rule out Paradise Lost because Milton's cosmogony is so purely fanciful, nor Dante because of his equally fantastic structure of the Inferno. Neither children nor older readers are ever led astray by these purely incidental backgrounds against which and by means of which the human interest is powerfully projected.

3. Myth is too deeply symbolical. But readers of different ages and abilities find results up to their stature. We do not demand that the children shall be able to understand all that is back of Gulliver's Travels, or Pilgrim's Progress, before we give them those books. What is worth while in literature has an increasing message as the powers of the reader increase.