Child's Story Garden by - (reading books for 5 year olds TXT) 📕

a very cold night,

and the boys and the schoolmaster had to walk very fast to keep warm.

But little Hans did not mind the cold so much, because the stars smiled

down upon him and seemed like so many diamonds set in a deep blue

canopy, each one glittering and flashing in the darkness. The snow, too,

was a sparkling mass, and Hans wondered if the stars could see

themselves reflected in the tiny snow crystals which covered the earth.

 

At last they reached the church, whose windows were shedding forth a

soft, golden light on the stillness and darkness of the cold winter

night. This little group of worshipers quietly passed into the church

and sank noiselessly into their pews. It was a beautiful place to Hans.

He loved it dearly, and was always happy to come here. The candles were

all lighted, and they burned steadily brighter and brighter, filling the

church with a beautiful mellow light. The grand old organ softly and

clearly sent forth its tones, each one growing richer, deeper and

sweeter, and gradually the voices of the choir boys and the tones of the

organ filled the old church with such beautiful music that little Hans’s

heart seemed to bound within him, and his whole soul was enraptured,

while there shone from his face a radiance that only a divine

inspiration could bring forth.

 

At length, after the people had sung, each one knelt and offered

thanksgiving to the Heavenly Father, little Hans, too, knelt and offered

thanks for the blessings which he had received during that year, and for

the tender care of the Father of all.

 

The people then quietly passed out of the warm church into the cold of

the night. Hans was the last one out, and as he carefully made his way

down the icy steps he noticed a little boy no larger than himself

sitting on the steps, with his head resting against the church. He was

fast asleep. His face was beautiful, and seemed clothed in a golden

light. Beside him, tied in a cloth, were a square, a hammer, a saw and

other tools of a carpenter. He had neither shoes nor stockings on his

feet, although his clothing was spotless and of the purest white. It

grieved Hans that the child should have no shoes, not even one to place

for the Christ-child to fill with gifts.

 

Hans stooped and took from his right foot the wooden shoe and placed it

in front of the sleeping child, so that the Christ-child would not pass

him by. Hans then limped along on the ice and snow, not feeling how cold

it was, but only thinking of the poor child asleep out in the cold.

 

The other boys were talking of the good things awaiting them at home, of

the feasts, the plum pudding, the Christmas trees, and the many drums,

wagons and blocks the Christ-child would put in their shoes that night.

 

When Hans arrived home he found his aunt awaiting him, and when she saw

that he had only one shoe, and he had told her all about the other one,

she was very angry with him, and sent him to bed. Hans placed the wooden

shoe from his left foot at the fireside, hoping that the Christ-child

would remember him as he passed by.

 

The first sunbeam that crept into Hans’s bedroom and kissed him the next

morning awoke him, and he bounded downstairs, and flew to the great open

fireplace to find his shoe.

 

Hans rubbed his eyes and caught his breath, for, to his great surprise,

there were both of his wooden shoes, filled with beautiful toys; by the

fireside he found warm clothing and many other things to make him

comfortable and happy.

 

Hearing loud voices, Hans went to the door. The people were standing in

a crowd about the priest, who was talking to them. He told Hans that

where he had seen the child asleep on the church steps there was now in

the window above a beautiful crown set with precious jewels. He said

that the child was the Christ-child, whom the Heavenly Father had again

sent among men on earth for that night, and that it was He with whom

Hans had shared his wooden shoes.

 

The people bowed themselves before that miracle that the good God had

seen fit to work, to reward the faith and charity of a child.

 

Francois Coppee, [Adapted]

THE MYTH OF ARACHNE

A long time ago there lived a maiden whose name was Arachne. She could

weave the most beautiful fabrics that people had ever seen. She chose

the most exquisite colors. They were the colors that were found in the

flowers, the green of the trees and grass, and the varied, dainty tints

and shades from the blue sky and its gorgeous sunsets.

 

People had said that Arachne learned to weave from the birds, although

some of them thought that Arachne had been taught to weave by the

goddess Athena. When Arachne heard that the people thought that Athena

had taught her to weave she became very angry. She declared that Athena

had not taught her to weave; that no one had taught her. She said she

would compete with the goddess Athena in weaving. The goddess Athena was

a noble goddess. She was the Goddess of Wisdom, and of all the Arts and

Crafts. When she heard what Arachne had declared she said: “It is very

wrong that Arachne should be so proud and envious. I will go to see

her.”

 

The goddess Athena disguised herself in humble apparel and visited

Arachne. She talked with her about her weaving, and still Arachne

boasted of the wonderful weaving she could do; but the goddess told her

that she was foolish to be so boastful.

 

This made Arachne angry, and she said: “I am not afraid at all, not of

any one in the world.” At this moment the goddess threw aside her plain

garments and revealed herself the goddess Athena. This did not frighten

Arachne. She looked calmly at Athena and told her that she would give up

anything, even her life, to prove to the people that she could weave

even better than the goddess.

 

They then set about to arrange their looms, to select their threads, and

to begin work. At last they began. Whirr! Whirr! went the shuttles.

Spin! Spin! they sang, faster and faster, in and out, over and under,

flew the shuttles.

 

Arachne had chosen the most delicate, lovely threads that she could

find, but while she wove these beautiful threads she was thinking of her

revenge and other evil and wicked thoughts, while her skillful and swift

fingers moved faster and faster.

 

At the same time Athena was sitting in the sunlight, busily and

carefully weaving over and under, and in and out, her dainty, beautiful

silken threads, which seemed to have come from the very sunbeams

themselves. The colors were most harmonious and exquisite. Even the

rainbow was surpassed. Athena was thinking of the fleecy clouds, which

were to her as white ships that sailed through the blue sea of the sky.

She thought of the brown earth, with its emerald decking of trees and

meadows; of the buttercups and daisies of gold, and the roses and lilies

which dotted Mother Earth’s carpet. She thought of the butterflies that

flitted about, and of the birds, in coats of red, blue, glossy black,

and dazzling gold.

 

When Arachne looked at Athena’s work she shuddered with shame, for,

although her own work had been skillfully done, it was marred by the

envy, malice and evil thoughts she had woven into it. While Athena’s

work was no more skillfully woven, it was by far the more beautiful. The

azure sky, with fluffy white clouds; the meadows, dotted with flowers,

and fields, with their shady green trees, filled with birds of gorgeous

hues, all made a wonderful picture.

 

Poor Arachne knew her fate. She hastened away and took with her the

threads that she had been using in weaving, and wrapped them about her

neck. She thought she would end her life by hanging to a tree. This made

the beautiful and kind Athena sad, and she said to Arachne: “You must

live—live on forever,” and she touched Arachne and changed her form.

Arachne gradually grew smaller and smaller, until she was no larger than

a honeybee. She had many legs and wore a brown, fuzzy coat. Instead of

hanging by the threads she had used she now hung from a dainty silken

spider web, for Arachne was still a weaver, but not a weaver as of old.

 

Today, perchance, if you should see a busy little spider, it might be

one of Arachne’s children, or perhaps Arachne herself. No one

knows—neither you nor I.

THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH

It was spring, and the little town of Killingworth told of the joy of

living again. Every little rivulet had broken from its frozen chain,

which had held it fast during the long winter, and was rushing on,

rejoicing at its freedom. The purple buds, holding wonderful secrets of

things to come, were bursting forth from every tree and bush, while from

the topmost boughs the birds called and sang to their mates: “Oh! be

happy, be happy, for spring has come!”

 

There were all the messengers of spring—the robin, the oriole, and the

bluebird—filling the orchard with their glad melody. The little sparrow

chirped in glee for the very joy of living, and the hungry crows, in

great crowds, called loudly the tidings of spring. But not long could

they stop to sing, for the homes must be made, and soon from every tree

and bush could be seen these dainty, downy nests, and in every nest the

eggs, and in every egg a wonderful secret about which all the happy

birds twittered and sang together.

 

The farmers, as they plowed their fields and made their gardens that

spring, heard these treetop concerts, and saw the multitude playing and

working about them, and they shook their heads and said: “Never before

have we had so many birds in Killingworth. We must surely do something,

or they will eat up half of our crops, and take the grain and fruits

that should go to feed our own children.” Then it was decided to have a

meeting. All in the town were free to come, and here they were to decide

what was to be done with the troublesome birds. The meeting was held in

the new town hall, and to it came all the great men of the town, and

from far and near the farmers gathered. The great hall was crowded. The

doors and windows were open, and through them came a beautiful flood of

bird music, but the sturdy farmers and great men shook their heads as

they heard it. And then they told how the birds were eating the grains

and spoiling the fruit, and every one said the birds must go. There

seemed to be not a single friend to the singers outside, until one man

arose—the teacher in the town, much loved by the children, and himself

loving everything that God had made. He looked sadly on the men around

him, and then he said:

 

“My friends, can you drive away these birds that God has made and sent

to us, for a few handfuls of grain and a little fruit? Will you lose all

this music that you hear outside? Think of the woods and orchard without

the birds, and of the empty nests you will see. You say the birds are

robbing you; but instead they are your greatest helpers. With their

bright little eyes they see the little bugs and worms which destroy the