A Kindergarten Story Book Part 11

He has done so much for us all." So he cut and st.i.tched the neatest little coat you ever saw; for he said: "I have always heard that a brownie's clothes are ragged, so our brownie will need this, I know."

When the coat was done it just fitted Tommy and was very fine to see, all st.i.tched with gold thread and covered with brave bra.s.s b.u.t.tons.

That night the little coat was placed by the bowl of milk set for the brownie and, when the early morning came, the tailor was awakened by the sound of laughter and scuffling in the kitchen. "It's the brownie," thought he; and getting out of bed he crept softly down the stairs.

But when he reached the kitchen, instead of the brownie, he saw Johnnie and Tommy sweeping and making the fire and dusting and setting the table. Tommy had put on the coat that the tailor had made for the brownie, and was skipping about in it laughing and calling to Johnnie to see how fine he looked, but saying: "I wish he had made it to fit you, John."

"Boys, what does all this mean?" cried the tailor. "Tommy, why have you put on that coat?"

When the boys saw their father they ran to him and tried to tell him all about it. "There is no brownie, father," they cried, "but we have done the work. And O father! we are sorry that we were lazy and idle so long; but we mean to be brownies now, real brownies, and help you till we grow to be big men." The poor tailor was so happy that he knew not what to say, and there were tears in his eyes as he kissed each little son.

Tommy and Johnnie kept their promise and continued being brownies until they went away to homes of their own. But their little sister grew to be the best brownie of all; and she kept her father's house so bright and clean with mop and brush and broom and dustpan that not a speck of dirt was anywhere to be seen.

THE FAIRY SHOES.

ADAPTED FROM MRS. EWING.

Once upon a time a baby boy was born in a little brown house, far away in a country village, and everybody was invited to his christening and everybody was glad to come.

Now the baby's mother had a fairy G.o.dmother of whom she was very fond.

This fairy was rich and all the people said, "Surely she will bring a present to the baby on his christening-day, that is worth a great deal of money." But, at last when the time came, what do you suppose she really brought?--a pair of stout little leather shoes with copper toes.

In spite of the disappointment at the fairy's present the festivities went merrily on and, when the party was over and the fairy bade her G.o.d-daughter good-bye, she said: "My little present is not quite as shabby as it looks. Those shoes will never wear out and, besides, the little feet that have them on can never go wrong. When your baby has grown large enough to wear those shoes, if you send him on an errand, and tell him to come back quickly, and he forgets and stops to play, those little shoes will help him to remember by pinching his feet and pulling and twitching at his ankles until he will be glad to go on again. They will remind him to go straight to school and to come straight home again as you have bidden him. Indeed, wherever he is sent he will be quite sure to go, and he will come back again at just the right moment and, by the time his feet have grown too large to wear the little shoes, he will no longer need their help."

Days pa.s.sed by, months pa.s.sed by. The boy was no longer a baby, but had grown large enough to wear the fairy's shoes and, just as she had said, they always helped him to go the right way.

Months sped and years sped and another baby boy came to stay in the little brown house, and then another and another and another, until the mother had nine boys. Each one in turn wore the little shoes and, just as the fairy had said, they never wore out. At last they descended to the ninth and youngest boy and became Timothy's shoes.

Now the eighth little boy had rather small feet and had worn the shoes longer than the others, besides Timothy was the baby and, for one reason and another like these, his mother hated to put the rough little shoes upon him. For a long time Timothy had gone his own way, which was rarely the right way. At last he played truant from school so often and was late to dinner so many times, that his mother said she could bear it no longer, he must wear the fairy shoes. So she had them freshly blackened and the copper tips newly polished and, one morning, she brought them out and told Timothy to put them on.

"Now, Tim dear," she said, "go straight to school this morning. If you don't these little shoes will pinch your feet terribly."

But Timothy did not mind. It was a bright, sunny morning in May and, if he had loitered on the way when the cold March winds blew up his jacket sleeves and made him s.h.i.+ver, and when the snow lay in great drifts by the roadside, how could he help wis.h.i.+ng to linger now when every bush held a bird and every bank a flower?

Once or twice Timothy stopped to pick spring flowers, but the shoes pinched his feet and he ran on again. At last he reached the bank overlooking the swamp and, gazing down, he saw great clumps of cowslips, with their dark green leaves and crowns of beautiful yellow flowers.

Then Timothy forgot all about school, forgot what his mother had said, forgot the shoes and their pinches and thought only of the cowslips.

Oh, he must have some!

In a moment away went his satchel on the gra.s.s and away went the flowers he had picked and he began scrambling down the bank toward the swamp as fast as he could go. But the little shoes, they meant to go another way. They meant to go to school and they pinched Timothy's feet and pulled and twitched at his ankles, trying to make him turn about and go in the right way, until he thought his feet would be wrenched off. Timothy was very determined, the harder the little shoes pinched the more he was bound to have the bright yellow flowers; so, in spite of the pain, he kept on going down toward the swamp.

When at last this little boy reached the foot of the bank and came to the edge of the swamp he found that the cowslips were all out of reach.

Still he would have them. Round and round the swamp he went, the shoes pinching and pulling harder at every step, till at last he grew quite desperate and, giving a big jump, he landed right out in the swamp in the very middle of a large clump of the flowers. Then something strange happened, his feet sank down, down into the mud and water until the little shoes were soaked right off. Poor, wayward Timothy's best friends were gone, but he did not know that. He just waded around in the swamp and picked cowslips to his heart's content.

At last, however, Timothy grew very tired. He hurt his foot on a sharp stick. A great green frog jumped into his face and startled him. He had more flowers than he could carry. Suddenly he remembered school and his lost shoes and thought of what his mother had told him. Oh!

how he did wish now that he had done just as she asked him to do.

"What shall I say to the teacher?" he thought. "Oh, what shall I do?

How I wish I had gone straight to school as the little shoes tried to have me go!"

Weary and sad Timothy climbed the bank. Wiping the mud from his clothes with his handkerchief and taking his satchel, he started slowly for school again, all the time wondering what he should say to the teacher about being late. At last he reached the door and prepared to tiptoe quietly in, but he had no sooner put his head inside and commenced to make an excuse than all the children began to laugh.

Timothy was very much ashamed. He looked to find, what they were laughing at and saw--What do you suppose he saw? Standing in the middle of the floor, in the place in the cla.s.s where he himself should have stood, were his little shoes, very muddy indeed and with a cowslip in each one of them.

"You have been in the swamp, Timothy," said the teacher. "Put on your shoes."

When his lessons and his punishment were over, Timothy was very glad to let the little shoes take him quickly home. And always after that he tried to do what his mother and the little shoes wished him to do.

PICCIOLA.

ADAPTED FROM "SAINTINE."

Long, long ago a good man was thrown into prison by a great king. The prison was dark and cold and still; for the gray stone walls and the stone roof and floor shut out the sunlight and all the beautiful sights and sounds of the world. There was no one for the man to talk to, and there was no work for him to do. There was one little window to let in the air, but it was so high up beyond his reach that he could not even get a glimpse of the blue sky. Here he was kept for weeks and months and years, and was not allowed to know anything about his family, friends or home. At last a door was opened into another part of the prison. The walls of this part were high and strong, and the floor was paved with the same great, gray stones, but there was no roof overhead.

Here the wind could come in and the rain and the sunlight. He was allowed to walk here just for one short hour each day, and then he had to go back to his dark cell and the door was shut upon him.

Once while walking here the prisoner saw a little mound of earth rising between two of the great stones of the floor. At first he thought that some tiny worm or insect was trying to build a house for itself.

Looking closer he saw that it was only the home of a little plant. The stray seed had been brought by the wind, and it was now sending its roots down into the crevice between the stones. "Poor little plant!"

said the prisoner, "what a sad home you have found! Shall I not crush you? No! Perhaps you have come to comfort me in this terrible place."

Hurrying to his cell, he brought his cup of precious water. "Drink!

little one," he cried, as he poured the water out around it. "Drink!

and lift up your head."

The next day he watched it again and watered it, and the next day, and the next. How bravely it seemed to struggle to push its head up and its roots down, to open its leaves and to catch, the dull light. At last the little plant became a dear friend and companion to the man.

He would bend over it the whole hour each day and talk softly to it.

He called it Picciola,--his Picciola,--his little one, and as the plant grew and put on new beauty he forgot his wrongs and his heart was filled with love and gentleness.

Once there was a storm, and great hailstones beat down upon Picciola.

"Ah, my poor little one will be killed!" cried the prisoner. And he bent over her and sheltered her and the cruel hail fell upon his own head until the storm was past. Fearing that other storms might come when he was shut away from her, he built a little house around her with the wood that was given him to keep him warm, and made a roof over her with a mat which he wove from the straw of his own bed. This made him happy; for, though he could be with his Picciola for but one short hour each day, he felt that she was safe. So the little plant grew and grew, and opened her flowers and sent out her perfume to make glad the heart of her lonely friend.

But, alas! the day came when Picciola began to droop and wither. She seemed about to die. The poor prisoner was frantic with grief and cried, "Is my little one, my joy, my hope, the only thing for which I live, to be taken from me?" Searching, he found that as Picciola had grown taller her stem had had grown larger, and now there was not room enough for it in the crevice between the stones. Her sap,--her life blood,--was running away, as the rough edges of the stones cut into her delicate stem. Nothing could save her but to lift those cruel stones.

The prisoner tore at them with his weak hands. Weeping, he begged the jailer to raise them, but the jailer could do nothing. No one but the king could cause them to be lifted. But how could the prisoner ask the king? The king was far away. The prisoner must send a letter to him, but he had no pen, ink or paper; so he wrote on his handkerchief with a bit of charred wood and begged, not for his own life, but for the life of Picciola,--that the king would cause the stones that were killing her to be raised.

When the king read the prisoner's letter he said, "No man who is really wicked could care so much for a little, simple flower. I will not only have the stones raised that are killing his Picciola, but I will pardon him. He shall be free because of the love he bears his plant."

So the prisoner left his lonely cell carrying with him his Picciola,--his little one whom he had saved and who in turn had set him free.

CINDERELLA.

The room was dark, the fire was out and a little girl sat crying all alone in the ashes. "I want to go to the party too!" she sobbed. "I want to dance and wear a pretty dress, but my dress is ragged. My sisters have gone and left me. n.o.body wants me. It's so dark here I'm afraid. Oh! I'm so cold." The tears ran down the face of this forlorn little girl and fell in the ashes at her feet. Poor child! Poor little maid! She had to wash and scrub and dust, while her sisters did nothing but wear pretty clothes and go to all the parties. They never thought of taking her with them. She was only fit to blacken their boots and to mend their dresses. Because her hands and her hair were sometimes gray and dusty from tending the fire and sweeping the hearth, they called her Cinderella. She had helped her sisters to dress that very night, smiling all the time, but now that they were gone, Cinderella could keep back the tears no longer. She was sobbing as if her heart would break, when suddenly she heard a noise, the room was filled with light and, right in front of her stood a curious little old woman, with a long stick in her hand. She had pointed shoes on her feet and a ta.s.sel in her cap.

"You shall go to the party!" said the queer little creature, stamping her foot on the floor. "You have always been a good child. You have as much right to go as your sisters. You shall go! and you shall wear a pretty dress and ride in a fine carriage too, so dry your eyes, my dear, and bring me the biggest yellow pumpkin you can find in the garden," said the fairy; for this little old woman was really a fairy.