THE STORY HOUR

CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION. Kate Douglas Wiggin

PREFACE. Kate Douglas Wiggin and Nora A. Smith

THE ORIOLE'S NEST. Kate Douglas Wiggin

DICKY SMILY'S BIRTHDAY. Kate Douglas Wiggin

AQUA; OR, THE WATER BABY. Kate Douglas Wiggin

MOUFFLOU. Adapted from Ouida by Nora A. Smith

BENJY IN BEASTLAND. Adapted from Mrs. Ewing by Kate Douglas Wiggin
and Nora A. Smith

THE PORCELAIN STOVE. Adapted from Ouida by Kate Douglas Wiggin

THE BABES IN THE WOOD. E. S. Smith

THE STORY OF CHRISTMAS. Nora A. Smith

THE FIRST THANKSGIVING DAY. Nora A. Smith

LITTLE GEORGE WASHINGTON. Part I. Nora A. Smith

GREAT GEORGE WASHINGTON. Part II. Nora A. Smith

THE MAPLE-LEAF AND THE VIOLET. Nora A. Smith

MRS. CHINCHILLA. Kate Douglas Wiggin

A STORY OF THE FOREST. Nora A. Smith

PICCOLA. Nora A. Smith

THE CHILD AND THE WORLD. Kate Douglas Wiggin

WHEN I WAS A LITTLE GIRL. Kate Douglas Wiggin

FROEBEL'S BIRTHDAY. Nora A. Smith




INTRODUCTION.

Story-telling, like letter-writing, is going out of fashion. There are
no modern Scheherezades, and the Sultans nowadays have to be amused in
a different fashion. But, for that matter, a hundred poetic pastimes
of leisure have fled before the relentless Hurry Demon who governs
this prosaic nineteenth century. The Wandering Minstrel is gone, and
the Troubadour, and the Court of Love, and the King's Fool, and the
Round Table, and with them the Story-Teller.

"Come, tell us a story!" It is the familiar plea of childhood. Unhappy
he who has not been assailed with it again and again. Thrice miserable
she who can be consigned to worse than oblivion by the scathing
criticism, "She doesn't know any stories!" and thrice blessed she who
is recognized at a glance as a person likely to be full to the brim of
them.

There are few preliminaries and no formalities when the Person with a
Story is found. The motherly little sister stands by the side of her
chair, two or three of the smaller fry perch on the arms, and the baby
climbs up into her lap (such a person always has a capacious lap), and
folds his fat hands placidly. Then there is a deep sigh of blissful
expectation and an expressive silence, which means, "Now we are ready,
please; and if you would be kind enough to begin it with 'Once upon a
time,' we should be much obliged; though of course we understand that
all the stories in the world can't commence that way, delightful as it
would be."

The Person with a Story smiles obligingly (at least it is to be hoped
that she does), and retires into a little corner of her brain, to
rummage there for something just fitted to the occasion. That same
little corner is densely populated, if she is a lover of children. In
it are all sorts of heroic dogs, wonderful monkeys, intelligent cats,
naughty kittens; virtues masquerading seductively as fairies, and
vices hiding in imps; birds agreeing and disagreeing in their little
nests, and inevitable small boys in the act of robbing them; busy bees
laying up their winter stores, and idle butterflies disgracefully
neglecting to do the same; and then a troop of lost children,
disobedient children, and lazy, industrious, generous, or heedless
ones, waiting to furnish the thrilling climaxes. The Story-Teller
selects a hero or heroine out of this motley crowd,--all longing to be
introduced to Bright-Eye, Fine-Ear, Kind-Heart, and Sweet-Lips,--and
speedily the drama opens.

Did Rachel ever have such an audience? I trow not. Rachel never had
tiny hands snuggling into hers in "the very best part of the story,"
nor was she near enough her hearers to mark the thousand shades of
expression that chased each other across their faces,--supposing they
had any expression, which is doubtful. Rachel never saw dimples
lurking in the ambush of rosy cheeks, and popping in and out in such a
distracting manner that she felt like punctuating her discourse with
kisses! Her dull, conventional, grown-up hearers bent a little forward
in their seats, perhaps, and compelled by her magic power laughed and
cried in the right places; but their eyes never shone with that starry
lustre that we see in the eyes of happy children,--a lustre that is
dimmed, alas, in after years. Their eyes still see visions, but the
"shadows of the prison house" have fallen about us, and the things
which we have seen we "now can see no more!"