 Bedtime stories for Aiden Christopher. Introduction. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information about LibriVox or to volunteer, please stop by LibriVox.org. Hello Aiden. It's Uncle Bob. I just wanted to take a minute and then say good night. I've got a collection of stories put together for you and I'm really glad to give them to you. These stories were collected from some kind and generous people. They're from all around the world, as far away as Australia, some from Canada, all over the United States, England, and even one young lady who was born in Africa and now resides in Belgium. What I have for you Aiden is a collection of poems, prose, and one solitary song. A very sweet little song. So if you'll set your head back on the pillow and make yourself comfortable, these stories will help take you to a place where you will experience both the fantastic and the phantasmagorical. And the place where these stories come from is a place where everyone gets to go. A place that's accessible to every woman, every man, and every child. Everyone who has ever lived, everyone who is living, and everyone who will come after us. So enjoy the stories Aiden. Sweet Dreams Recorded by Robert Scott June the 20th, 2007 The Old Rocking Horse by J. G. and C. Kernahan This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org The Old Rocking Horse by J. G. and C. Kernahan Sweet Dreams Aiden He was a very old rocking horse indeed. His first master, Sonny-headed little Robbie, had grown into a man with a beard and had given his old playmate to his sister's children. These children had in their turn grown into great school boys, so the old horse, like the other toys, was left forsaken in the big nursery at the top of the house. Broken down furniture and old magazines had found their way there, together with travelling trunks and portmanteaus. Spiders had spun their webs over the windows, and dust lay thick on everything. When little Basil found his way into the old nursery it seemed to him like an enchanted palace. The spiders and dust only made him think that somewhere he would find the sleeping beauty. The litter of toys and papers and boxes suggested hidden treasure. Once in this room of delightful possibilities he did not care how long his mother and aunt continued their weary-some talks downstairs of what they called old times. He stretched himself on a faded couch while he considered where to begin his operations, and stared at the deeply cut initials on the mantel shelf, and regretted that the chimney-piece in the nursery at home, being stone, did not lend itself to similar delights. With a sigh he rolled over, and the rocking horse met his gaze. He looked at it so long that his eyes blinked. Older people would have said that just then the old horse creaked, as old things have a way of doing. But children understand these things better than old folks, who have grown dull. Basil knew quite well that the old horse had sighed, and he asked him what was the matter. I was only wishing someone would smarten me up a bit, said the horse. My left eye is in that box with the tin soldiers. My tail is tied to a stick in that cupboard where the tools are. A bit of glue would stick both in, and one stirrup is nailed to the table-drawer for a handle. It could be got off and tied to my saddle-strap with a bit of string. My mane is gone for ever. Johnny put it on a mask for whiskers, one Guy Fox Day, and Herbert threw it in the bonfire. I don't suppose any of the nails can be got out that Tom knocked into my sides. They are in too tight. Nor can the buttons and marbles be got out of my inside that Johnny put in through the hole in my neck. But I might be smartened up a little. Oh, if that's all you want I daresay I can help you, said Basil, jumping up and running into the cupboard. Here's your tail, anyway, and here's a bottle of liquid glue, too. Now I'll look for your eye. You know, when on the old horse I hear the mother saying the other day that she would send me back to my old home if I were not so shabby. Basil, who had found the missing eye, was now fixing it in its place with plenty of glue, which ran down and dropped off the horse's nose. Basil was sure he saw a teardrop from the other eye. Does it hurt? he asked sympathetically. Oh, I don't mind that, said the horse. It is like old times to be hurt by little boy. Besides, one must always suffer if one would look fine. Yes, nurse says something like that when I cry, while she combs my hair, said Basil. Robby didn't cry to have his hair combed, said the horse shortly. He didn't even cry when the soap was in his eyes. By now he has grown into a brave man. When he fell off me and made his leg bleed, he said it was nothing, and just got on me again. But he did cry when he parted from me. He was a coward once, anyway. No, he wasn't, snorted the horse. It isn't cowardly to cry because you are leaving someone you love. All the same, don't toss your head like that or your eye will drop out. cried Basil, warningly. But you must go on telling me about Robby. I was his dearest friend, went on the horse. He told me about all his troubles, and showed me all his new things. And he used to learn his lessons, sitting on my back. When he had a piece of cake he used to push a bit of it in through the hole in my neck, and rock me to make it drop into my stomach. Oh! Then the hole has been there a long time. Yes, Robby made it to feed me through. Those other boys only put buttons and marbles in, and old nails. Robby always gave me a bit of cake, with the biggest plum in it. When he was ill he asked for me, and the mother had to put me by the bedside. And I watched him night and day. His little hand grew so thin and pale, and he used to slip it out from under the quilt to stroke me. There your tail's in now, cried Basil. So now I will see if I can get the stirrup off the drawer, and then I'll sponge you a bit. If you could only make me look nice, they would send me back for Robby's boy. And I should see Robby again before I die. You're a kind little boy, and Robby will love you. Tell me some more. You look ever so much better already," said Basil, tugging away the stirrup. And I daresay, when you get back to Robby, he will have you painted up, and then you will feel just like you used to feel. Yes," said the old horse, he will have me done up like new. And he will tell his little boy to love me for his sake, and all my happy days will begin again. Often at night I have listened to the wind roaring in the chimney, and have shivered with cold, and have thought how Robby would have put a rug over me if he were here. Just then the gong sounded for luncheon. I must go now," said Basil, but I will come up again and finish you. "'Auntie!' Basil began, when he was seated at the table. I have been up, mending the old rocking-horse. Won't you send it to Uncle Robby's boy?' Basil was too wise to repeat all the horse that told him, for he knew that grown-up people never understand that toys talk to the children. "'Yes, I think I will,' Aunty replied. The gas was lit in the entrance hall of the big house in a country town. A little white frock-child raced to the door to meet a tall, handsome man who had just entered. Papa, papa! The old walking-horse is Tum. It was used when he was an echo-boy. Tum, and see it!' The father perched his little son on his shoulder, and mounted the stairs to the registry, where the fire-light danced on the walls. The old rocking-horse was waiting, almost faint with joy. He was soon to see his beloved master, to feel his caress. The father placed his son on the floor, and advanced to his old playmate. "'What an old scarecrow!' he exclaimed, laughing. Whatever could your aunt have been thinking of to send it? We will dispatch it to be chopped up for firewood, and buy you a new one.' So the old horse was carried off to the backyard. But nobody knew that his heart was broken. The Jumblies by Edward Lear Good evening, Aidan. Tonight I'd like to read you The Jumblies by Edward Lear. They went to see in a sieve they did. In spite of all their friends could say, On a winter's mourn, on a stormy day, In a sieve they went to see. And when the sieve turned round and round, And everyone cried, You'll all be drowned. They called aloud, Our sieve ain't big, But we don't care a button, We don't care a fig. In a sieve we'll go to see. Far and few, far and few Are the lands where the Jumblies live. Their heads are green and their hands are blue, And they went to see in a sieve. They sailed away in a sieve they did, In a sieve they sailed so fast, With only a beautiful pea-green veil, Tied with a ryben by way of sail, To a small tobacco-pipe mast. O, won't they be soon upset, you know, For the sky is dark and the voyage is long? And happen what may it's extremely wrong In a sieve to sail so fast? Far and few, far and few Are the lands where the Jumblies live. Their heads are green and their hands are blue, And they went to see in a sieve. The water it soon came in, it did, The water it soon came in. So to keep them dry they wrapped their feet, And a pinky paper all folded neat, And they fasted to down with a pin. And they passed the night in a crockery jar, And each of them said, How wise we are, though the sky be dark and the voyage long, Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong, While round in our sieve we spin. Far and few, far and few Are the lands where the Jumblies live. Their heads are green and their hands are blue, And they went to see in a sieve. And all night long they sailed away, And when the sun went down, They whistled and warbled a moony song To the echoing sound of a coppery gong, In the shade of the mountains brown. Oh, Timbalo, how happy we are, When we live in a sieve in a crockery jar, And all night long in the moonlight pale We sail away with a pea-green sail, In the shade of the mountains brown. Far and few, far and few Are the lands where the Jumblies live. Their heads are green and their hands are blue, And they went to see in a sieve. They sailed to the western sea they did, To a land all covered with trees, And they bought an owl and a useful cart, And a pound of rice and a cranberry tart, And a hive of silvery bees. And they bought a pig and some green jackdaws, And a lovely monkey with lollipop paws, And forty bottles of ring-bow-ree And no end of Stilton cheese. Far and few, far and few Are the lands where the Jumblies live. Their heads are green and their hands are blue, And they went to see in a sieve. And in twenty years they all came back, In twenty years or more. And everyone said, How tall they've grown, For they've been to the lakes and the torrible zone In the hills of the Shinkley Boar. And they drank their health and gave them a feast Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast. And everyone said, If we only live, We too will go to the sea in the sieve, To the hills of the Shinkley Boar. Far and few, far and few Are the lands where the Jumblies live. Their heads are green and their hands are blue, And they went to see in a sieve. End of The Jumblies by Edward Lear. Sweet dreams, Aiden. Good night. Water Lily's Mission. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Lucy Burgoyne. Sweet dreams, Aiden. Water Lily's Mission by J. G. Kernahan and C. Kernahan. Come away, beautiful flower, said the Kingfisher. Do not waste your beauty in this melancholy mare. Float away down the gleaming river, Where tall bullrushes grow, And where usual fine companions. But the Water Lily said, No, I cannot go, For up in Yonder Tower is a prisoner, And I share his lonely days. He watches me and smiles, And forgets that he is a captive. I cannot leave one so unhappy. As you like, said the Kingfisher, But you would not catch me spending my life Under those barren moors. And away flew the Kingfisher. A swallow came and wheeled round and round the tower. Swallow called the Water Lily. Come to me, and the swallow came twittering down. I am in a great hurry, he said, What do you want? Bite through my stem, swallow, And carry me up to the grating in the tower, And place me on that window sill. But you will die, and you are so beautiful, said the swallow, Looking regretfully at the Lily. Ah, some deaths are better than living, Said the Water Lily. So the swallow plucked the Water Lily, And carried her up to the prisoner's window. A thin hand passed through the bars, And took the flower. The captive pressed her passionately to his lips, And his tears fell fast on the waxen petals. As the tears fell, the Water Lily revived. How beautiful you are, said the captive, And he took his tin mug of water from a shelf And tenderly placed her in it, So she would not die. Just then a jailer entered. Ho, ho, he said, How did you come by that? It will just do for my buttonhole. And he seized the Water Lily, And placed it in his coat. The poor prisoner fell upon his knees, And begged hard that the flower might be left To him. Let me have a few days' joy, he pleaded. The flower will soon die, And you are free, And can gather the flowers when you will. But the rough jailer only laughed, And departed to his own pleasant room, Leaving the captive in tears. Look here, said the jailer, To his little daughter. There is the flower I have just taken away From the prisoner in the tower. I don't know how he got it, But he cried like a baby when I took it away. Poor prisoner, said the little girl, With tears in her own eyes. No, my little maid, do not weep, Said the jailer, taking the child in his arms. But the little one hid her face Against her father's breast, and sob. See, my Lily, I will take his flower back to him. Only do not cry so, said the jailer. Father, may I take it to him, said the little girl, Raising her tears-strained face to her father's, And gazing at him eagerly. Won't it do if I take it, asked the jailer. Oh, please, let me take it, said the child. The rough jailer had such tenderness through his child That it was difficult for him to refuse her anything. So it was that, when the prisoner lifted his weary head, As he heard his door open, he beheld a beautiful child, With blue eyes and yellow hair, And in her hand, stretched out to him, Was the water, Lily. Oh, but it is an angel, cried the prisoner, A smile lighting his haggard face, An angel from heaven, I must be going to die. No, poor man, it's little Lily, said the child, And she slid around arm about his neck. I am so sorry for you, the prisoner burst into passionate weeping, And kissed the small hand that lay upon his shoulder. The jailer blew his nose like a trumpet. You may be called anything, said the prisoner, But you are surely an angel. From this time Lily came to see her prisoner every day, And he grew almost gay. In the meantime the water Lily drooped and died, But she was happy, for she had fulfilled her mission. The prisoner took the dead flower and laid it on his heart. Poor little dead flower, he said, It was you who brought me my little comforter. As he said these words, he fancied he felt the dead flower move, And it might have been the beaking of his own heart. End of the Water Lily's mission, recorded by Lucy Burgoyne, Queensland, Australia. Good night, Aiden. Le Bello, by Oscar Wilde. Read for LibraVax.org by Squid Vashlakova. Hello, Aiden. Le Bello, by Oscar Wilde. Against these turbid turquoise skies, The light and luminous balloons dip and drift Like satin moons drift like silken butterflies. Real with every windy gust, Rise and reel like dancing girls, Float like strange transparent pearls, Fall and float like silver dust. Now to the low leaves they cling, Each with a coy fantastic pose, Each a petal of a rose, Straining at a gossamer's string. Then to the tall trees they climb, Like thin globes of amethyst, Wandering opals keeping trist, With the rubies of the lime. End of Le Bello, by Oscar Wilde. Sweet Dreams, Aiden. Recording by Squid Vashlakova. Found at Frisco-squid.blogspot.com. This recording is in the public domain. The Great Spirit by Essay Zitkala. Taken from American Indian Stories. Read for LibraVax.org by Robert Scott. Hello, Aiden. This is Uncle Bob. I'm going to read you The Great Spirit by Essay Zitkala. Settle in, buddy. The Great Spirit. When the spirit swells my breast, I love to roam leisurely among the green hills, Or sometimes sitting on the brink of the murmuring Missouri. I marvel at the great blue overhead. With half-closed eyes I watch the huge cloud shadows in their noiseless play, Upon the high bluffs opposite me. While into my ear ripple the sweet, soft cadences of the river's song. Folded hands lie in my lap, for the time forgot. My heart and I lie small upon the earth, Like a grain of throbbing sand, Sting clouds and tinkling waters, Together with the warmth of a genial summer day, Bespeak with eloquence the loving mystery round about us. During the idle, while I sat upon the sunny river brink, I grew somewhat, Though my response be not so clearly manifest As in the green grass fringing the edge Of the high bluff back of me. At length, retracing the uncertain footpath, Scaling the precipitous embankment, I seek the level lands where grow the wild prairie flowers, And they, the lovely little folk, Soothe my soul with their perfumed breath. Their quaint round faces of varied hue Convince the heart, which leaps with glad surprise, That they too are living symbols of omnipotent thought. With a child's eager eye I drink in the myriad star shapes, Wrought in luxuriant color upon the green. Beautiful is the spiritual essence they embody. I leave them nodding in the breeze, But take along with me their impress upon my heart. I pause to rest upon a rock Embedded on the side of a foothill facing the low river bottom. Here the stone-boy, of whom the American Aborigine tells, frolics about, Shooting his baby arrows, and shouting aloud with glee At the tiny shafts of lightning That flash from the flying arrow breaks. What an ideal warrior he became, Baffling the siege of the pests of all the land, Till he triumphed over their united attack, And here he lay, Inyan, our great-great-grandfather, Older than the hill he rested on, Older than the race of men who loved to tell of his wonderful career. Interwoven with the thread of this Indian legend of the rock, I feign would trace a subtle knowledge of the native folk which enabled them to recognize a kinship to any and all parts of this vast universe. By the leading of an ancient trail I move toward the Indian village, with the strong, happy sense that both great and small are so surely enfolded in his magnitude that without a miss each has his allotted individual ground of opportunities. I am buoyant with good nature. Yellow breast, swaying upon the slender stem of a wild sunflower, warbles a sweet assurance of this as I pass nearby. Breaking off the clear crystal song he turns as we head from side to side, eyeing me wisely and slowly as I plod by with moccasin feet. Then again he yields himself to his song of joy. Flit-flit hither and yon he fills the summer sky with his sweet, swift melody, and truly does it seem his vigorous freedom lies more in his little spirit than in his wing. With these thoughts I reach the log cabin whither I am strongly drawn by the tie of a child to an aged mother outbounds my four-footed friend to meet me, frisking about my path with unmistakable delight. Chan is a black shaggy dog, a thoroughbred mongrel of whom I am very fond. Chan seems to understand many words and sue, and will go to her mat even when I whisper the word, though generally I think she is guided by the tone of voice. Often she tries to imitate the sliding inflection and long drawn-out voice to the amusement of our guests, but her articulation is quite beyond my ear. In both my hands I hold her shaggy head and gaze into her large brown eyes. At once the dilated pupil's contract into tiny black dots, as if the roguish spirit within, would evade my questioning. Finally, resuming the chair at my desk, I feel in keen sympathy with my fellow creatures, for I seem to see clearly again that all are akin. The racial lines, which were once bitterly real, now serve nothing more than marking out a living mosaic of human beings. And even here men of same color are like the ivory keys of one instrument, where each resembles all the rest, yet varies from them in pitch and quality of voice. And those creatures who are for a time mere echoes of another's note are not unlike the fable of the thin, sick man whose distorted shadow, dressed like a real creature, came to the old master to make him follow as a shadow. Thus, with a compassion for all echoes and human guise, I greet the solemn-faced native preacher whom I find awaiting me. I listen with respect for God's creature, though he mouth most strangely the jangling phrases of a bigoted creed. As our tribe is one large family, where every person is related to all the others, he addressed me. Cousin, I came from the morning church service to talk with you. Yes, I said interrogatively, as he paused for some word from me. Shifting uneasily about in the straight-back chair he sat upon, he began. Every holy Sunday I look about our little God's house, and not seeing you there I am disappointed. This is why I came today. Cousin, as I watch you from afar, I see no unbecoming behavior and hear only good reports of you, which all the more burns me with the wish that you were a church member. Cousin, I was taught long years ago by kind missionaries to read the holy book. These godly men taught me also the folly of our old beliefs. There is one God who gives reward or punishment to the race of dead men. In the upper region the Christian dead are gathered in unceasing song and prayer. In the deep pit below the sinful one stands in torturing flames. Think upon these things, my cousin, and choose now to avoid the after-doom of Hellfire. Then followed a long silence in which he clasped tighter and unclasped again his interlocked fingers. Like instantaneous lightning flashes came pictures of my own mother's making, for she, too, is now a follower of the new superstition. Knocking out the chinking of our log cabin some evil hand thrust in a burning taper of braided dry grass, but failed of his intent, for the fire died out, and the half-burned brand fell inward to the floor. Directly above it, on a shelf lay the holy book. This is what we found after our return from a several days visit. Surely, some great power is hid in the sacred book. Brushing away from my eyes many like pictures I offered midday meal to the converted Indians sitting wordless with downcast face. No sooner had he risen from the table with cousin I have relished it than the church bell rang. Thither he hurried forth with his afternoon sermon I watched him as he hastened along, his eyes bent fast upon the dusty road till he disappeared at the end of a quarter-mile. The little incident recalled to mind the copy of a missionary paper brought to my notice a few days ago, in which a Christian pugilist commented upon a recent article of mine grossly pervading the spirit of my pen. Still, I would not forget that the pale-faced missionary and the hoodooed Aborigine are both God's creatures, though small indeed their own conceptions of infinite love. A wee child, toddling in a wonder world, I prefer to their dogma my excursions into the natural gardens, where the voice of the great spirit is heard in the twittering of birds, the rippling of mighty waters, and the sweet breathing of flowers. Here in a fleeting quiet I am awakened by the fluttering robe of the great spirit. To my innermost consciousness the phenomenal universe is a royal mantle vibrating with his divine breath, caught in its flowing fringes are the spangles and oscillating brilliance of sun, moon, and stars. End of story Good night, Aidan, sleep tight. The Great Spirit by S. A. Zitkala, recorded by Robert Scott for LibriVox.org, Winder, Georgia, June 15, 2007. The Owl in the Pussycat by Edward Lear, read for LibriVox.org by Jumbly. Hello, Aidan. The Owl in the Pussycat by Edward Lear. The Owl in the Pussycat went to sea in a beautiful pea-green boat. They took some honey and plenty of money, wrapped up in a five-pound note. The Owl looked up to the stars above, and sang to a small guitar, Oh lovely pussy, oh pussy, my love, what a beautiful pussy you are, you are, what a beautiful pussy you are. Pussy said to the Owl, you elegant fowl, how charmingly sweet you sing. Oh, let us be married too long we have tarried, but what shall we do for a ring? They sailed away for a year and a day to the land where the bong tree grows, and there in a wood a piggy-wig stood, with a ring at the end of his nose, his nose, his nose, with a ring at the end of his nose. You pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling? Your ring, said the piggy, I will. So they took it away, and were married next day, by the turkey who lives on the hill. They dined on mints and slices of quints, which they ate with a runtseable spoon, and hand in hand on the edge of the sand. They danced by the light of the moon, the moon, the moon. They danced by the light of the moon. End of Owl and the Pussycat by Edward Lear. Good night, Aiden. This recording is in the public domain. Frère Jacques, are you sleeping by a known author? Thankful, LibreVox.org by Ezois. Bonsoir, Aiden. Frère Jacques, are you sleeping by a known author? This recording is in the public domain. Fedeboref, Aiden. Recording by Ezois in Belgium on the 20th June 2007. The Wind and the Sun and Isop Fable. This is a LibreVox recording. All LibreVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibreVox.org. Good evening, Aiden. This is The Wind and the Sun, a fable by Isop. The Wind and the Sun were disputing which was the stronger. Suddenly they saw a traveller coming down the road and the Sun said, I see a way to decide our dispute. Whichever of us can cause that traveller to take off his cloak shall be regarded as the stronger. You begin. So the Sun retired behind a cloud and the wind began to blow as hard as it could upon the traveller. But the harder he blew, the more closely did the traveller wrap his cloak around him, till at last the wind had to give up in despair. Then the Sun came out and shone in all his glory upon the traveller, who soon found it too hot to walk with his cloak on. Kindness affects more than severity. Wind of the Wind and the Sun, an Isop fable. Good night, Aiden. Read by Geofred from the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, USA. Wink and Blink and a Nod by Eugene Field. Read for LibreVox.org by Squid Vash Lakova. Good evening, Aiden. Wink and Blink and a Nod by Eugene Field. Wink and Blink and a Nod one night sailed off in a wooden shoe, sailed on a river of crystal light into a sea of dew. Where are you going, and what do you wish? The old moon asked the three. We have come to fish for the herring fish that live in this beautiful sea. Nets of silver and gold have we, said Wink and Blink and a Nod. The old moon laughed and sang a song as they rocked in the wooden shoe, and the wind that sped them all night long ruffled the waves of dew. The little stars were the herring fish that lived in the beautiful sea. Now, castranets, wherever you wish, never feared are we. So cried the stars to the fishermen three, Wink and Blink and a Nod. All night long their nets they threw to the stars in the twinkling foam. Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe, bringing the fisherman home. It was also pretty a sail it seemed, as if it could not be. And some folks thought it was a dream they dreamed of sailing that beautiful sea. But I shall name you the fisherman three, Wink and Blink and a Nod. Wink and Blink and are two little eyes, and Nod is a little head. And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies is a wee one's trundle bed. So shut your eyes while mother sings of beautiful sites that be, and you shall see the beautiful things as you rock in the misty sea, where the old shoe rocked the fisherman three, Wink and Blink and a Nod. End of Wink and Blink and a Nod by Eugene Field. Good night, Aiden. Recording by Squid Vajlakova, found at frisco-squid.blogspot.com. This recording is in the public domain. Two Poems by Robert Louis Stevenson. Read for Libervox.org by Joe. For Aiden. Block City by Robert Louis Stevenson. What are you able to build with your blocks? Castles and palaces, temples and docks. Rain may keep raining and others go roam, but I can be happy in building at home. Let the sofa be mountains, the carpet be sea. There I'll establish a city for me, a Kirk and a mall and a palace beside, and a harbor as well where my vessels may ride. Great is the palace with pillar and wall, a sort of a tower on the top of it all, and steps going down in an orderly way to where my toy vessels lie safe in the bay. This one is sailing, and that one is moored, hark to the song of the sailors aboard, and see on the steps of my palace the kings, coming and going with presents and things. Now I have done with it, down let it go. All in a moment the town is laid low, block upon block, blank, scattered and free. What is there left of my town by the sea? Yet as I saw it, I see it again, the Kirk and the palace, the ships and the men, and as long as I live and where ere I may be, I'll always remember my town by the sea. The Land of Storybooks by Robert Louis Stevenson. At evening when the lamp is lit, around the fire my parents sit. They sit at home and talk and sing, and do not play at anything. Now with my little gun I crawl all in the dark along the wall, and follow round the forest track, away behind the sofa-back. There in the night where none can spy, all in my hunter's camp I lie, and play at books that I have read till it is time to go to bed. These are the hills, these are the woods, these are my starry solitudes, and there the river by whose brink the roaring lions come to drink. I see the others far away, as if in firelit camp they lay, and I, like to an Indian scout, around their party prowled about. So when my nurse comes in for me, haul my return across the sea, and go to bed with backward looks at my dear Land of Storybooks. Good night, Aiden. Sleep tight. This recording is in the public domain. The Badger and the Bear by S.A. Zitkala. Taken from Old Indian Legends. Read for LibriVox.org by Robert Scott. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Hello, Aiden. Have mom and dad tucked in? If they have, I'll read you a story called The Badger and the Bear by S.A. Zitkala. On the edge of a forest, there lived a large family of badgers. In the ground, their dwelling was made. Its walls and roof were covered with rocks and straw. Old Father Badger was a great hunter. He knew well how to track the deer and the buffalo. Every day, he came home carrying on his back some wild game. This kept Mother Badger very busy, and the baby badgers very chubby. While the well-fed children played about, digging little make-believe dwellings, their mother hung thin-sliced meats upon the long willow racks. As fast as the meats were dried and seasoned by sun and wind, she packed them carefully away in a large thick bag. This bag was like a huge stiff envelope, but far more beautiful to see, for it was painted all over with many bright colors. These firmly tied bags of dried meat were laid upon the rocks in the walls of the dwelling. In this way, they were both useful and decorative. One day, Father Badger did not go off for a hunt. He stayed at home, making new arrows. His children sat about him on the ground floor. Their small black eyes danced with delight as they watched the gay colors painted upon the arrows. All of a sudden, there was heard a heavy footfall near the entranceway. The oval-shaped door frame was pushed aside. In stepped a large black foot with great big claws. The other clumsy foot came next. All the while, the baby Badger stared hard at the unexpected comer. After the second foot, in peeped ahead of a black bear, his black nose was dry and parched. Silently he entered the dwelling and sat down on the ground by the doorway. His black eyes never left the painted bags on the rocky walls. He guessed what was in them. He was a very hungry bear. Seeing the racks of red meat hanging in the yard, he had come to visit the Badger family. Though he was a stranger, and his strong paws and jaws frightened the small Badgers, the father said, How, how, friend? Your lips and nose looked feverish and hungry. Will you eat with us? Yes, my friend, said the bear. I am starved. I saw your racks of red fresh meat, and knowing your heart is kind, I came hither. Give me meat to eat, my friend. Hereupon the mother Badger took long strides across the room, and as she had to pass in front of the strange visitor, she said, Ah-han, allow me to pass, which is an apology. How, how, replied the bear, drawing himself closer to the wall and crossing his shins together. Mother Badger chose the most tender red meat and soon over a bed of coals she broiled the venison. That day the bear had all he could eat. At nightfall he rose and smacking his lips together. That is the noisy way of saying the food was very good. He left the Badger dwelling, the baby Badgers, peeping through the door flap after the shaggy bear saw him disappear into the woods nearby. Day after day the crackling of twigs in the forest told of heavy footsteps. Out would come the same black bear. He never lifted the door flap, but thrusting it aside entered slowly in, always in the same place. By the entranceway he sat down with crossed shins. His daily visits were so regular that Mother Badger placed a fur rug in his place. She did not wish a guest in her dwelling to sit upon the hard bear ground. At last, one time, when the bear returned, his nose was brightened black, his coat was glossy, he had grown fat upon the Badger's hospitality. As he entered the dwelling, a pair of wicked gleams shot out of his shaggy head, surprised by the strange behavior of the guest who remained standing upon the rug, leaning his round back against the wall. Father Badger queried, how, my friend, what? The bear took one stride forward and shook his paw in the Badger's face. He said, I am very strong, very strong. Yes, so you are, replied the Badger. From the farther end of the room Mother Badger muttered over her beadwork, yes, you grew strong from our well-filled bowls. The bear smiled, showing a row of large, sharp teeth. I have no dwelling, I have no bags of dried meat, I have no arrows, all these I have found here on this spot, said he, stamping his heavy foot. I want them, see, I am strong, repeated he, lifting both his terrible paws. Quietly the Father Badger spoke, I fed you, I called you friend, though you came here a stranger and a beggar for the sake of my little ones, leave us in peace. Mother Badger, in her excited way, had pierced hard through the buckskin and stuck her fingers repeatedly with her sharp awl. Until she had laid aside her work, now, while her husband was talking to the bear, she motioned with her hands to the children on tiptoe, they hastened to her side. For reply came a low growl, it grew louder and more fierce, whoa, he roared. And by force hurled the Badgers out, first the Father Badger, then the Mother, the little Badgers he tossed by pairs, he threw them hard upon the ground. Standing in the entrance way and showing his ugly teeth, he snarled, begone. The Father and Mother Badger, having gained their feet, picked up their kicking little babies and, welling aloud, drew the air into their flattened lungs till they could stand alone upon their feet. No sooner had the baby Badgers caught their breath than they howled and shrieked with pain and fright. Ah, what a dismal cry was theirs as the whole Badger family went forth wailing from out their own dwelling. A little distance away from their stolen house, the Father Badger built a small round hug. He made it of bent willows and covered it with dry grass and twigs. This was shelter for the night, but alas, it was empty of food and arrows. All day Father Badger prowled through the forest, but without his arrows he could not get food for his children. Upon his return, the cry of the little ones for meat, the sad quiet of the Mother with bowed head, hurt him like a poisoned arrow wound. I'll beg for you, said he, in an unsteady voice. Covering his head, an entire body, in a long loose robe, he halted beside the big black bear. The bear was slicing red meat to hang upon the rack. He did not pause for a look at the comer. As the Badger stood there, unrecognized, he saw that the bear had brought with him his whole family. Little cubs played under the high hanging new meats. They laughed and pointed with their wee noses upward at the thin sliced meats upon the poles. Have you no heart, black bear? My children are starving. Give me a small piece of meat for them, begged the Badger. Wah-oh, growled the angry bear, and pounced upon the Badger. Be gone, said he, and with his big hind foot he sent Father Badger sprawling on the ground. All the little ruffian bears hooted and shouted, ha-ha, to see the Badger fall upon his face. There was one, however, who did not even smile. He was the youngest cub. His fur coat was not as black and glossy as those his elders wore. The hair was dry and dingy. It looked more like kinky wool. He was the ugly cub, poor little baby bear. He had always been laughed at by his older brothers. He could not help being himself. He could not change the differences between himself and his brothers. Thus again, though the rest laughed aloud at the Badger's fall, he did not see the joke. His face was long and earnest. In his heart he was sad to see the Badger's crying and starving. In his breast spread a burning desire to share his food with them. I shall not ask my father for meat to give away. He would say no. Then my brothers would laugh at me, said the ugly baby bear to himself. In an instant, as if good and tension had passed from him, he was singing happily and skipping around his father at work. Singing in his small high voice and dragging his feet in long strides after him, as if a prankish spirit oozed out from his heels. He strayed off through the tall grass. He was ambling toward the small round hut when directly in front of the entranceway he made a quick sidekick with his left-hined leg. Low there fell into the Badger's hut a piece of fresh meat. It was tough meat, full of sinews, yet it was the only piece he could take without his father's notice. Thus having given meat to the hungry Badgers, the ugly baby bear ran quickly away to his father again. On the following day the father Badger came back once more. He stood watching the big bear cutting thin slices of meat. Give, he began, when the bear turning upon him with a growl thrust him cruelly aside, the Badger fell on his hands. He fell where the grass was wet with the blood of the newly carved buffalo. His keen, starving eyes caught sight of a little red clot lying bright upon the green. Looking fearfully toward the bear and seeing his head was turned away, he snatched up the small thick blood. Underneath his girdle blanket he hid it in his hand. On his return to his family, he said within himself, I'll pray the great spirit to bless it. Thus he began a small round lodge, sprinkling water upon the heated heap of sacred stones within. He made ready to purge his body. The buffalo blood too must be purified before I ask a blessing upon it, thought the Badger. He carried it into the sacred vapor lodge. After placing it near the sacred stones, he sat down beside it. After a long silence, he muttered, great spirit, bless this little buffalo blood. Then he arose and with a quiet dignity stepped out of the lodge. Close behind him, someone followed. The Badger turned to look over his shoulder and to his great joy he beheld a Dakota brave in handsome buckskins. In his hand he carried a magic arrow. Across his back dangled a long, fringed quiver. In answer to the Badger's prayer, the Avenger had sprung from out of the red globules. My son exclaimed the Badger with extended right hand. How, father, replied the brave, I am your Avenger. Immediately the Badger told the sad story of his hungry little ones and the stingy bear, running closely, the young man stood looking steadily upon the ground. At length the father Badger moved away. Where, queried the Avenger? My son, we have no food. I am going again to beg for meat, answered the Badger. Then I will go with you, replied the young brave. This made the old Badger happy. He was proud of his son. He was delighted to be called father by the first human creature. The bear saw the Badger coming in the distance. He narrowed his eyes at the tall stranger walking beside him. He spied the arrow. At once he guessed it was the Avenger of whom he had heard long, long ago. As they approached the bear stood erect with hand on his thigh. He smiled upon them. How, Badger, my friend? Here's my knife. Cut your favorite piece of deer. Holding out the long, thin blade. How, said the Badger eagerly, he wondered what had inspired the big bear to such a generous deed. The young Avenger waited till the Badger took his long knife in his hand. Gazing full into the black bear's face, he said, I come to do justice. You have returned only a knife to my poor father. Now returned to him his dwelling. His voice was deep and powerful. In his black eyes burned a steady fire. The long, strong teeth of the bear rattled against each other, and his shaggy body shook with fear. A how, cried he, as if he had been shot. Running into the dwelling, he gasped, breathless and trembling. Come out, all of you. This is the Badger's dwelling. You must flee to the forest for fear of the Avenger who carries the magic arrow. Out they hurried, all the bears, and disappeared into the woods. Singing and laughing, the Badger's returned to their own dwelling. Then the Avenger left them. I go, said he, imparting, over the earth. End of The Badger and the Bear by Essay Sittkala Sweet dreams, Aiden, sleep tight. Recording by Robert Scott on June 15, 2007 Pussycat Mew from Mother Goose in Pros by L. Frank Baum This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Pussycat Mew from Mother Goose in Pros by L. Frank Baum Hello, Aiden. Pussycat Pussycat, where do you go? To London, to visit the palace, you know. Pussycat Mew, will you come back again? Oh yes, I'll scamper with my Aiden with Maine. Pussycat Mew set off on her way, Sipping quite softly, and feeling quite gay. Smooth was the road, so she travelled at ease, Warmed by the sunshine, and fanned by the breeze. Over the hills, to the valleys below, Through the deep woods, where the soft mosses grow, Skirting the fields, with butter-cups dotted, Swiftly our venturesome Pussycat trotted. Sharp watch she kept, when a village she neared, For boys and their mischief, our Pussycat feared. Often she crept, through the grasses so deep, To pass by a dog that was lying asleep. Once as she walked, through a sweet clover field, Something beside her, a frightedly squilled, And swift from her path, there darted away, A tiny field-mouse, with a coat of soft grey. Nowhere, thought our Pussy, is chance for a dinner, The one that runs fastest, must surely be winner. So quickly she started the mouse-to-give chase, And over the clover they ran a great race. But just when it seemed that Pussy would win, The mouse bite a hole, and quickly popped in, And so he escaped, for the hole was so small, That Pussycat couldn't squeeze in at all. So softly she crouched, and with eyes big and round, Quite steadily watched, that small hole in the ground. This mouse really thinks he's escaped me, she said, But I'll catch him sure, if he sticks out his head. But while she was watching, the poor mouse's plate, A deep growl behind her, made her jump with a fright. She gave a great cry, and then started to run, As swift as a bullet, that shot from a gun. M'ya, o' m'ya, our poor puss did say, Bah, wow, cried the dog, who was not far away. Or meadows and ditches they scampered apace, Or fences and hedges they kept up the race. Then Pussycat Mew saw before her a tree, And knew that a safe place of refuge twid be. So far up the tree with a bound she did go, And left the big dog to growl down below. But now by good fortune, a man came that way, And called to the dog, who was forced to obey. But Puss did not come down, the tree till she knew, That the man and the dog were far out of view. Pursuing her way at nightfall she came, To London a town you know well by name. And wandering round, in Byway and Street, A strange Pussycat she happened to meet. Good evening, said Pussycat Mew, can you tell, In which of these houses the queen may now dwell? I'm a stranger in town, and I'm anxious to see, What sort of person a real queen may be. My friend said the other, you really must know, It isn't permitted that strangers should go, Inside of the palace unless they're invited, And stray Pussycats are apt to be slighted. By good luck, however, I'm quite well aware Of a good way to the palace by means of a stair That never is guarded, so just come with me, In a glimpse of the queen you shall certainly see. Puss thanked her new friend, and together they stole, To the back of the palace and crept through a hole, In the fence and quietly came to this stair, Which the stranger Pussycat promised was there. Now here I must leave you, the strange Pussy said. So do not be afraid, cat, but go straight ahead, And do not be alarmed if by chance you are seen, For people will think you belong to the queen. So Pussycat Mew did as she had been told, And walked through the palace with a manner so bold. She soon reached the room where the queen sat in state, Surrounded by lords and by ladies so great, And there in the corner our Pussy sat down, And gazed at the scepter and blinked at the crown, And eyed the queen's dress all purple and gold, Which was surely a beautiful sight to behold. But all of a sudden she started for there, Was a little gray mouse right under the chair, Where her majesty sat, and Pussy well knew, She'd scream with alarm if the mouse met her view. So up towards the chair our Pussycat stole, But the mouse saw her coming and ran for its whole. But Pussy ran after, and during the race A wonderful terrible panic took place. The ladies all jumped on their chairs in alarm, Through lords drew their swords to protect them from harm, And the queen gave a scream, and fainted away, A very undignified act, I must say. And some one cried burglars, and some one cried treason, And some one cried murder, but none knew the reason, And some one cried fire, they are burning the house, And some one cried silence, it's only a mouse. But Pussycat Mew was so awfully scared By the shouting and screaming, no longer she dared To stay in the room, so without more delay She rushed from the palace and scampered away. So bristling her fur, and with heart beating fast, She came to the road leading homeward at last. What business she thought has a poor country cat To visit a city of madmen like that? Straight homeward I'll go, where I'm well fed, Whose mistress is kind, and soft is my bed, Let other cats travel if they wish to roam, But as for me I shall now stay at home. And now over the hills and valleys she ran, And journeyed as fast as a Pussycat can, So just as the dawn of the daylight did begin, She safely at home, stole quietly in. And there was the fire with the pot boiling on it, And there was the maid in the blue-checkered bonnet, And there was the corner where Pussycat off-basked, And there was the mistress who eagerly asked, Pussycat, Pussycat, where have you been? I've been to London to visit the Queen. Pussycat, Pussycat, what did you do there? I frightened a little mouse under her chair. End of Pussycat Mew. Sleep well, Aiden. This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Good evening, Aiden. Tonight I'd like to read you a true story that comes from a history book called Northumberland Yesterday and Today by Jean F. Terry. This story takes place a long, long time ago, in the northern lands of what we now call England, and tells the story of a humble and holy man, whose name you will come to recognize. In the days of King Edwin, who succeeded Ethelfrith, Bamberg was the center of a kingdom which extended from the Humber to the Fourth, and as Northumber was at that time the most important division of England, the royal city of Pernicia, was practically the capital of the country. The reign of King Oswald, though shorter than that of Edwin, was equally noteworthy from the fact that in his days the gentle Aiden settled in Northumbria, and King and Monk worked together for the good of their people, and Bamberg became not only the seat of temporal power, but the safeguard and bulwark of the spiritual movement centered on the little isle of Lindisfarne. On the accession of Edwin, Oswald, son of Ethelfrith, had fled from Pernicia and taken refuge with the monks of Iona, living with them till the time came for him to rule Northumbria in his turn. As soon as possible, after the inevitable fighting for his political existence was over, he sent to Iona for a teacher to come and instruct his people in the truths that he had learned, and a monk named Corman was sent. He, however, was unable to make any impression on the wild and warlike Saxons of the Northern Kingdom, and he soon returned to Iona with the report that it was useless to try to teach such obstinate and barbarous people. One of the brethren, listening to his account, ventured to ask him if he were sure that all the fault lay with the people. Did you remember, said he, that we are commanded to give them milk first? Did you not rather try them with the strong meat? With one accord the brethren declared that he who had spoken such wise words was the man best fitted for the task, and the gentle Aden was sent to Oswald's help. In such a fashion came the gospel to Northumbria, and Aden became the first of the long roll of saints whose deeds and lives had such incalculable influence on the Northumbrian history. From Aden's arrival in 635 until the death of Oswald, the relations between the King and the Monk who had settled on Medcaud or Medcaut, soon to be known as Lindisfarne, and later as Holy Island, were those of friend to friend and fellow-worker rather than those of King and Subject. After the death of Oswald, his conqueror, Penda, the fierce King of the Merceons, harried Northumbria, and appearing before the walls of Bamberg prepared to burn it down. Piles of logs and brushwood were laid against the city, and the fire was applied. Aden, in his little cell on Farne Island to which he had retired, saw the clouds of flame and smoke rolling over the home of his beloved patron. Raising his hands to heaven, he exclaimed, See, Lord, what ill Penda is doing! Scarcely had he uttered the words when the wind changed and drove the flames away from Bamberg, blowing them against Penda's host who thereupon ceased all further attempts against the city. Not long after this, Aden was at Bamberg when he was seized with a sudden illness and died with his head resting against one of the wooden staves of the little church. Penda came again the next year, and this time both village and church were burnt. All except, says tradition, the beam of wood against which Aden had rested in his last moments. Good night, Aden.