 All About the Little Small Red Hen by an Anonymous Author Once upon a time, though I can't say exactly when, there lived away in the country a little small red hen. She wore a nice little apron and a little sunbunnet, too, and she walked pickety-peckety, as little hens always do. She had lived the whole of her little life in the same little house. It stood all by itself in a lonely spot just at the edge of the wood. It was very snug and cozy and warm, and the garden wasn't big, but just what a little small red hen could nicely manage to dig. And once upon a time, just the same time, of course, there also lived a wicked old fox among the heath and gorse. Silently, slyly, he crept round the fields, stealing geese and ducks and cocks, dressed in a hat and long great coat, this wicked, cunning old fox. His house was perched on top of the hill. It was made of rock and stone. He and his wife, old Mother Fox, they lived there all alone. It was large and damp and drafty, ugly and cold and bare. A tidy little small red hen would never be happy there. Now the wicked old fox had often tried over and over again to catch by some slide trick or other the little small red hen. But she was far too clever for him. She never let him find her, and whenever she left her little house, she would lock the door behind her. One morning, very early indeed, before the sun was hot, the wicked old fox said to Mother Fox, Put on the big black pot. I'm going to have another try. I shall soon be back, and then I promise you'll see at last I've caught the little small red hen. So he put on his cap and shouldered a sack and walked very sly and slow, and after a while he came in sight of the snug little house below, and he laid the sack very softly down on the ground behind a tree, and then lay down to wait and watch as quiet as quiet could be. He was getting tired of waiting there when the house door opened wide and the little small red hen came forth to gather sticks outside, walking pickety-pickety, exceedingly neat and prim, and the wicked old fox lay watching. She never once thought of him. While she was picking up the sticks, he slipped behind the door and laughed to himself very low as he put the sack on the floor. He stood there, hiding and chuckling and peeping through the crack and he saw the little small red hen in a minute or two come back. She stepped inside with her bundle of sticks as cheerful as one could be. When the wicked old fox sprang full at her throat, I've got you now, cried he. What good are bolts and bars, he said. How silly you must be to think that they could ever keep out a cunning old fox like me. Of course, the poor little small red hen was now in a terrible fright. She gave a scream and dropped her sticks. They tumbled left and right. But she just had time to fly on a beam that went across overhead, quite out of reach of the wicked old fox. But I'll have you yet, he said. Then he began to run round and round and round and round beneath, looking up every now and then, laughing and showing his teeth. It made her dreadfully dizzy and faint. She gave a clock and a lurch. She gave a flap and a flutter and flop and fell right off her perch. Then the wicked old fox threw open his sack and in less than half a minute he had picked her up with a cry of joy and hastily stuffed her in it. He swung it over her shoulder, smiled and started off for his den. How nice you'll be for supper, said he, my dear little small red hen. So there she was poor thing, you see, shut up quite tight in the sack. She found it most unpleasant there, close and stuffy and black. But she thought of her little scissors in her apron pocket hid. I will cut a hole and see where I am, she said, and so she did. Now the sun was hot and all the time it was getting hotter still, and the wicked old fox grew very tired as he climbed the heathy hill. He dropped on mossy bank and said, it may be lazy, but I think I'll just have forty winks. And his wicked eyes blinked and shut. The little small red hen, indeed, was also very glad to rest a bit from the jogs and jolts and the bangs and bumps she had. And she thought, if I cut a little hole, why not a big one too? And she cut a slit that was long enough to let her hole self through. Wasn't she pleased to be free again? She said, I must run double quick, but before I go, I'll manage to play the wicked old fox a trick. And she took a great big knobby stone as large as a lump of coal and heaved and pushed and pushed and heaved till she got it through the hole. And then she scuttled panting home as fast as her legs would go, not walking pickety-pickety, this time, oh dear no. She scuttered and fluttered down the hill and scampered through her door. Thank goodness, she said, all out of breath. I'm safe at home once more. But when the wicked old fox woke up, it was getting dark and late. He shouldered the sack and found it now a most remarkable weight. Dear me, he said, she weighs like a goose. I thought she'd be light as a wren. What a splendid supper we'll have tonight off the little small red hen. So heavily, wearily, trudged he home and kept shifting the sack about. And when at last he came to his door there was old mother fox looking out. She said to him, you look tired, my dear. And he answered, ah, she's caught. And he puffed and licked his lips and said, she's twice as fat as I thought. He asked, my love, is the pot on the boil? It's boiling fast, she replied. He said, then take the lid off, my dear, and we'll pop her plump inside. So old mother fox took off the lid, hot and steaming and black, while the wicked old fox with hurry and haste untied the mouth of the sack. And splash went in the great big stone. It was a splash, my word. I don't suppose a splash so loud as ever before been heard. The bees and birds and bunnies all who had gone to bed for the night for miles around woke up with a jump and in a most tremendous fright. And the boiling water in the pot splashed out on every side and terribly scalded the wicked old fox and old mother fox. And they died. There they lay all still and stark up in the house on the hill. There they lay and, for all I know, there they are lying still. But the hen lived happily just as before in her dear little house by the wood, walking, pickety-pickety, working as hard as she could. I've had a great many troubles. I hope they won't happen again. Anything for a quiet life, said the little small red hen. The end. End of All About the Little Small Red Hen. Read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California for Librebox. Yes, replied the mother, whenever a young man shall appear who is worthy of her. At last, a certain use, my name Hans, came from a distance to make a proposal of marriage, but he required one condition that the clever Alice should be very prudent. Oh, said her father, no fear of death, she has got a head full of brains. And the mother added, ah, she can see the wind blow up the street and hear the flies cough. Very well replied Hans, but remember, if she is not very prudent, I will not take her. Soon afterwards they sat down to dinner, and the mother said, Alice, go down into the cellar and draw some beer. So clever Alice took the chuck from the wall and went into the cellar, chucking the lid up and down on her way to pass away the time. As soon as she got downstairs, she threw a stool in place before the cask, in order that she might not have to stoop, for she thought stooping might in some way injure her back and give it an undesirable bend. Then she placed the cam before her and turned the tap, and while the beer was running, as she did not wish her eyes to be idle, she looked about upon the wall above and below. Presently she perceived, after much peeping into this corner and that corner, a head chat which the bricklayers had left behind, sticking out of the ceiling right above her head. At the sight of this, clever Alice began to cry, saying, oh, if I marry Hans, we have a child and he grows up, and we send him into the cellar to draw a beer, the head chat will fall upon his head and kill him. And so she said there weeping is all her might over the impending misfortune. Meanwhile the good folks upstairs were waiting for the beer, but as clever Alice did not come, her mother told the maid to go and see what she was stopping for. The maid went down into the cellar and found Alice sitting before the cask crying heartily, and she asked, Alice, what are you weeping about? Ah, she replied, have we not cause? If I marry Hans, and we have a child and he grows up, and we send him here to draw a beer, the head chat will fall upon his head and kill him. Oh, said the maid, for the clever Alice we have, and sitting down, she began to weep too, for the misfortune that was to happen. After a while when the servant did not return, the good folks above began to feel very thirsty, so the husband told the boy to go down into the cellar and see what had become of Alice and the maid. The boy went down, and there said clever Alice and the maid both crying, so he asked the reason, and Alice told him the same tale of the head chat that was to fall on her child, if she married Hans, and if they had a child. When she had finished the boy exclaimed, what the clever Alice we have, and fell weeping and howling with the others. Upstairs they were still waiting, and the husband said when the boy did not return, do you go down, wife, into the cellar and see what Alice stays so long? So she went down, and finally all three sitting there crying asked the reason, and Alice told him about the head chat which must inevitable fall upon the head of her son. Then the mother likewise exclaimed, oh, what clever Alice we have, and sitting down began to weep as much as any of the rest. Meanwhile the husband waited for his wife's return, but at last he felt so very thirsty that he said, I must go myself down into the cellar and see what is keeping our Alice. As soon as he entered the cellar there he found the four sitting and crying together, and when he heard the reason he also exclaimed, oh, what the clever Alice we have, and sat down to cry with the whole strength of his lungs. At this time the bridegroom above said waiting, but when nobody returned he thought they must be waiting for him, and so he went down to see what was the matter. When he entered there said the five crying and groaning, each one a key louder than his neighbor. What misfortune has happened, he asked. Ah, dear Hans, cried Alice, if you and I marry one another and have a child, do you grow up and we perhaps send him down to this cellar to tap the beer, the head chat, which has been left sticking up there may fall on his head and so kill him, and do you not think this is enough to weep about? No, said Hans, more prudence than this is not necessary for my housekeeping, because you are such a clever Alice I will have you for my wife. And taking her hand he led her home and celebrated the wedding directly. After they had been married a little while, Hans said one morning, Wife, I will go out to work and earn some money, do you go into the field and gather some corn we wish to make bread? Yes, she answered, I will do so, dear Hans, and when he was gone she cooked herself a nice mess of potage to take with her, and she came to the field she said to herself, what shall I do? Shall I cut first or eat first? A. I will eat first, then she ate up the contents of her pot, and when it was finished she saw to herself, now shall I reap first or sleep first? Well, I think I will have a nap, so she laid herself down amongst the corn and went to sleep. Meanwhile Hans returned home, but Alice did not come and so he said, oh what a prudent Alice I have, she is so industrious that she does not even come home to eat anything, by and by however evening came on and she still did not return, so Hans went out to see how much he had reaped, but behold, nothing at all, dearly Alice fasted sleep among the corn, so home he ran very fast and brought the net with little bells hanging on it, which he threw over her head, where she still slept on. When he had done this he went back again and shut the house door, and sitting himself on his stool began working very industriously. At last when it was nearly dark, the clever Alice awoke, and as soon as she stood up the net fell all over her hair, and the bells jingled at every step she took. This quite frightened her, and she began to doubt whether she really were clever Alice and said to herself, am I she or am I not? This was a question she could not answer, and she stood still a long while considering about it. At last she thought she would go home and ask whether she were really herself, supposing somebody would be able to tell her. When she came to the house door it was shut, so she tapped at the window and asked, Hans, is Alice within? Yes, she replied, she is. At which answer she became really terrified and exclaiming, Ah, Heaven, then I am not Alice. She ran up to another house intending to ask the same question, but as soon as the folks within heard the jingling of the bells in her net, they refused to open their doors, nobody would receive her, so she ran straight away from the village, and no one has ever seen her since. End of Clever Alice, recording by Ellie, September 2009. An old tale retold by Felicite Lefevre, illustrations by Tony Sarge. Once upon a time there was a hill, and on the hill there was a pretty little house. It had one little green door and four little windows with green shutters, and in it there lived a cock and a mouse and a little red hen. On another hill, close by, there was another little house. It was very ugly. It had a door that wouldn't shut, and two broken windows, and all the paint was off the shutters, and in this house there lived a bold, bad fox and four bad little foxes. One morning these four bad little foxes came to the big bad fox and said, Oh, Father, we're so hungry. We had nothing to eat yesterday, said one, and scarcely anything the day before, said another, and only half a chicken the day before that, said the third, and only two little ducks the day before that, said the fourth. The big bad fox shook his head for a long time, for he was thinking. At last he said in a big, rough voice, On that hill over there I see a house, and in that house there lives a cock and a mouse, screamed two of the little foxes, and a little red hen screamed the other two, and they are nice and fat went on the big bad fox. This very day I'll take my great sack and I will go up that hill and in that door and into my sack I will put the cock and the mouse and the little red hen. I'll make a fire to roast the cock, said one little fox. I'll put on the saucepan to boil the hen, said the second, and I'll get the frying pan to fry the mouse, said the third, and I'll have the biggest helping when they are all cooked, said the fourth, who was the greediest of all. So the four little foxes jumped for joy, and the big bad fox went to get his sack ready to start upon his journey. But what was happening to the cock and the mouse and the little red hen all this time? Well, said to say, the cock and the mouse had both got out of bed on the wrong side that morning. The cock, said the day, was too hot, and the mouse grumbled because it was too cold. They came grumbling down to the kitchen, where the good little red hen, looking as bright as a sunbeam, was bustling about. Who'll get some sticks to light the fire with, she asked. I shan't, said the cock. I shan't, said the mouse. Then I'll do it myself, said the little red hen, so off she ran to get the sticks. And now who'll fill the kettle from the spring? I shan't, said the cock. I shan't, said the mouse. Then I'll do it myself, said the little red hen, and off she ran to fill the kettle. And who'll get the breakfast ready, she asked as she put the kettle on to boil. I shan't, said the cock. I shan't, said the mouse. I'll do it myself, said the little red hen. All breakfast time, the cock and the mouse quarreled and grumbled. The cock upset the milk jug, and the mouse scattered crumbs upon the floor. Who'll clear away the breakfast, asked the poor little red hen, hoping they would soon leave off being cross. I shan't, said the cock. I shan't, said the mouse. Then I'll do it myself, said the little red hen. So she cleared everything away, swept up the crumbs, and brushed up the fireplace. Now, who will help me to make the beds? I shan't, said the cock. I shan't, said the mouse. Then I'll do it myself, said the little red hen, and she tripped away upstairs. But the lazy cock and mouse each sat down in a comfortable arm chair by the fire, and soon fell fast asleep. Now, the bad fox had crept up the hill and into the garden, and if the cock and mouse hadn't been asleep, they would have seen his sharp eyes peeping in at the window. Rattatat, rattatat, the fox knocked at the door. Who can that be? said the mouse, half opening his eyes. Go and look for yourself, if you want to know, said the rude cock. It's the postman, perhaps, thought the mouse to himself, and he may have a letter for me. So, without waiting to see who it was, he lifted the latch and opened the door. As soon as he opened it, in jumped the big fox with a cruel smile in his face. Oh, oh, oh! squeaked the mouse as he tried to run up the chimney. Doodle-doodle-do! screamed the cock as he jumped on the back of the biggest arm chair. But the fox only laughed, and without more ado, he took the little mouse by the tail and popped him into the sack, and seized the cock by the neck and popped him in too. Then the poor little red hen came running downstairs to see what all the noise was about, and the fox caught her and put her into the sack with the others. Then he took a long piece of string out of his pocket, wound it round and round and round the mouth of the sack, and tied it very tight indeed. After that he threw the sack over his back and set off down the hill. Oh, I wish I hadn't been so cross, said the cock as they went bumping about. Oh, I wish I hadn't been so lazy, said the mouse, wiping his eyes with the tip of his tail. It's never too late to mend, said the little red hen, and don't be too sad. See, here I have my little work bag, and in it there is a pair of scissors and a little thimble and a needle and thread. Very soon you will see what I am going to do. Now, the sun was very hot, and soon Mr. Fox began to feel his sack was heavy, and at last he thought he would lie down under a tree and go to sleep for a little while. So he threw the sack down with a big bump, and very soon fell fast asleep. Snore, snore, snore went the fox. As soon as the little red hen heard this, she took out her scissors and began to snip a hole in the sack, just large enough for the mouse to creep through. Quick, she whispered to the mouse, run as fast as you can, and bring a stone, just as large as yourself. Out scampered the mouse, and soon came back, dragging the stone after him. Push it in here, said the little red hen, and he pushed it in in a twinkling. Then the little red hen snipped away the hole till it was large enough for the cock to get through. Quick, she said, run and get a stone as big as yourself. Out flew the cock, and soon came back quite out of breath with a big stone, which he pushed into the sack too. Then the little red hen popped out, and got a stone as big as herself, and pushed it in. Next she put on her thimble, took out her needle and thread, and sewed up the hole as quickly as ever she could. When it was done, the cock and the mouse and the little red hen ran home very fast, shut the door after them, drew the bolts, shut the shutters, and drew down the blinds, and felt quite safe. The bad fox lay asleep under the tree for some time, but at last he woke up. Dear, dear, he said, rubbing his eyes, and then looking at the long shadows on the grass. How late it is getting! I must hurry home. So the bad fox went grumbling and groaning down the hill till he came to the stream. Splash! In went one foot. Splash! In went the other. But the stones and the sack were so heavy that at the very next step down tumbled Mr. Fox into a deep pool. And then the fishes carried him off to their fairy caves, and kept him a prisoner there, so he was never seen again. And the four greedy little foxes had to go to bed without any supper. But the cock and the mouse never grumbled again. They lit the fire, filled the kettle, laid the breakfast, and did all the work while the good little red hen had a holiday, and sat resting in the big armchair. No foxes ever troubled them again, and for all I know they are still living happily in the little house with the green door and green shutters, which stands on the hill the end. End of the cock, the mouse, and the little red hen, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California for LibriVox. The devoted friend. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Meg Triton. The devoted friend by Oscar Wilde. One morning the old water rat put his head out of his hole. He had bright beady eyes and stiff gray whiskers, and his tail was like a long bit of black India rubber. The little ducks were swimming about in the pond, looking just like a lot of yellow canaries, and their mother, who was pure white, with the real red legs, was trying to teach them how to stand on their heads in the water. You will never be in the best society unless you can stand on your heads, she kept saying to them, and every now and then she showed them how it was done. But the little ducks paid no attention to her. They were so young that they did not know what an advantage it is to be in society at all. What disobedient children! cried the water rat. They really deserve to be drowned. Nothing of the kind, answered the duck. Everyone must make a beginning, and parents cannot be too patient. Ah, I know nothing about the feelings of parents, said the water rat. I am not a family man. In fact, I have never been married and I never intend to be. Love is all very well in its way, but friendship is much higher. Indeed, I know of nothing in the world that is either nobler or rarer than a devoted friendship. And what prey is your idea of the duties of a devoted friend? asked a green linen, who was sitting in a willow tree hard by, and had overheard the conversation. Yes, that is just what I want to know, said the duck, and she swam away to the end of the pond and stood upon her head in order to give her children a good example. What a silly question, cried the water rat. I should expect my devoted friend to be devoted to me, of course. And what would you do in return? said the little bird, swinging upon a silver spray and flapping his tiny wings. I don't understand you, answered the water rat. Let me tell you a story on the subject, said the linen. Is the story about me? asked the water rat. If so, I will listen to it, for I am extremely fond of fiction. It is applicable to you, answered the linen. And he flew down, and aliving upon the bank, he told the story of the devoted friend. Once upon a time, said the linen, there was an honest little fellow named Hans. Was he very distinguished? asked the water rat. No, answered the linen. I don't think he was distinguished at all, except for his kind heart and his funny round good-humored face. He lived in a tiny cottage all by himself, and every day he worked in his garden. In all the countryside there was no garden so lovely as his. Sweet William grew there, and ghillie flowers, and shepherd's purses, and fair maids of France. There were damask roses, and yellow roses, lilac crocuses, and gold, purple violets, and white. Columbine, and ladies' smock, Mar German wild basil, the cow slip, and the flower to lose. The daffodil, and the clove pink, bloomed or blossomed in their proper order as the months went by, one flower taking another flower's place, so that there were always beautiful things to look at, and pleasant odors to smell. Little Hans had a great many friends, but the most devoted friend of all was Big Hugh, the miller. Indeed so devoted was the rich miller to Little Hans, that he would never go by his garden without leaning over the wall and plucking a large nose-gay, or a handful of sweet herbs, or filling his pockets with plums and cherries if it was the fruit season. Real friends should have everything in common, the miller used to say, and Little Hans nodded and smiled, and felt very proud of having a friend with such noble ideas. Sometimes, indeed, the neighbors thought it strange that the rich miller never gave Little Hans anything in return, though he had a hundred sacks of flower stored away in his mill, and six milch-cows, and a large flock of woolly sheep. But Hans never troubled his head about these things, and nothing gave him greater pleasure than to listen to all the wonderful things the miller used to say about the unselfishness of true friendship. So Little Hans worked away in his garden. During the spring, the summer, and the autumn, he was very happy. But when the winter came, he had no fruit or flowers to bring to the market. He suffered a good deal from cold and hunger, and often had to go to bed without any supper, but a few dried pears or some hard nuts. In the winter also, he was extremely lonely, as the miller never came to see him then. There is no good in my going to see Little Hans as long as the snow lasts, the miller used to say to his wife, for when people are in trouble, they should be left alone and not be bothered by visitors. That at least is my idea about friendship, and I am sure I am right. So I shall wait until the spring comes, and then I shall pay him a visit, and he will be able to give me a large basket of primroses, and that will make him so happy. You are certainly very thoughtful about others, answered the wife, as she sat in her comfortable armchair by the big pine wood fire. Very thoughtful indeed! It is quite a treat to hear you talk about friendship. I am sure the clergyman himself could not say such beautiful things as you do, though he does live in a three-storied house and wear a gold ring on his little finger. But could we not ask Little Hans up here? said the miller's youngest son. If poor Hans is in trouble, I will give him half my porridge and show him my white rabbits. What a silly boy you are! cried the miller. I really don't know what is the use of sending you to school. You seem not to learn anything. Why if Little Hans came up here and saw our warm fire and our good supper and our great cask of red wine, he might get envious, and envy is a terrible thing and would spoil anybody's nature. I certainly will not allow Hans's nature to be spoiled. I am his best friend, and I will always watch over him and see that he has not led into any temptations. Besides, if Hans came here, he might ask me to let him have some flour on credit, and that I could not do. Flour is one thing, and friendship is another, and they should not be confused. Why, the words are spelled differently and mean quite different things. Everybody can see that. How will you talk? said the miller's wife, pouring herself out a large glass of warm ale. Really, I feel quite drowsy. It is just like being in church. Lots of people act well, answered the miller, but very few people talk well, which shows the talking is much the more difficult thing of the two, and much the finer also. And he looked sternly across the table at his little son, who felt so ashamed of himself that he hung his head down and grew quite scarlet, and began to cry into his tea. However, he was so young that you must excuse him. Is that the end of the story? asked the water-rat. Certainly not, answered the linen. That is the beginning. Then you are quite behind the age, said the water-rat. Every good storyteller nowadays starts with the end and then goes on to the beginning and concludes with the middle. That is the new method. I heard all about it the other day from a critic who was walking round the pond with a young man. He spoke of the matter at great length, and I am sure he must have been right, for he had blue spectacles and a bald head, and whenever the young man made any remark, he always answered, POOP! But pray, go on with your story. I like the miller immensely. I have all kinds of beautiful sentiments myself, so there is a great sympathy between us. Well, said the linen, hopping now on one leg and now on the other. As soon as the winter was over and the prim roses began to open their pale yellow stars, the miller said to his wife that he would go down and see little haunts. Why, what a good heart you have! cried his wife. You are always thinking of others, and mind you take the big basket with you for the flowers. So the miller tied the sails of the windmill together with the strong iron chain and went down the hill with the basket on his arm. Good morning, little haunts, said the miller. Good morning, said Hans, leaning on his spade and smiling from ear to ear. And how have you been all the winter? said the miller. Well, really, cried Hans, it is very good of you to ask, very good indeed. I am afraid I had a rather hard time of it, but now the spring has come and I am quite happy, and all my flowers are doing well. We often talked of you during the winter, Hans, said the miller, and wondered how you were getting on. That was kind of you, said Hans. I was half afraid you had forgotten me. Hans, I am surprised at you, said the miller. Friendship never forgets. That is the wonderful thing about it, but I am afraid you don't understand the poetry of life. How lovely your primroses are looking by the by. They are certainly very lovely, said Hans, and it is the most lucky thing for me that I have so many. I am going to bring them into the market and sell them to the burgrimaster's daughter and buy back my wheelbarrow with the money. Buy back your wheelbarrow! You don't mean to say you have sold it! What a very stupid thing to do! Well, the fact is, said Hans, that I was obliged to. You see, the winter was a very bad time for me, and I really had no money at all to buy bread with. So I first sold the silver buttons off my Sunday coat, and then I sold my silver chain, and then I sold my big pipe, and at last I sold my wheelbarrow, but I am going to buy them all back again now. Hans, said the miller, I will give you my wheelbarrow. It is not a very good repair, indeed one side is gone, and there is something wrong with the wheel spokes, but in spite of that I will give it to you. I know it is very generous of me, and a great many people would think me extremely foolish for parting with it, but I am not like the rest of the world. I think that generosity is the essence of friendship. And besides, I've got a new wheelbarrow for myself. Yes, you may set your mind at ease, I will give you my wheelbarrow. Well really, that is very generous of you, said little Hans, and his funny round face glowed all over with pleasure. I can easily put it in repair as I have a plank of wood in the house. A plank of wood, said the miller, why that is just what I want for the roof of my barn. There is a very large hole in it, and the corn will all get damp if I don't stop it up. How lucky you mentioned it. It is quite remarkable how one good action always breeds another. I have given you my wheelbarrow, and now you are going to give me your plank. Of course, the wheelbarrow is worth far more than the plank, but true friendship never notices things like that. Pray get it at once, and I will set to work at my barn this very day. Certainly, cried little Hans, and he ran into the shed and dragged the plank out. It is not a very big plank, said the miller, looking at it, and I am afraid that after I have mended my barn roof there won't be any left for you to mend the wheelbarrow with. But, of course, that is not my fault. And now, as I have given you my wheelbarrow, I am sure you would like to give me some flowers in return. Here is the basket, and mind you, fill it quite full. Quite full, said little Hans, rather sorrowfully, for it was really a very big basket, and he knew that if he filled it he would have no flowers left for the market, and he was very anxious to get his silver buttons back. Well, really, answered the miller, as I have given you my wheelbarrow, I don't think that it is much to ask you for a few flowers. I may be wrong, but I should have thought that friendship, true friendship, was quite free from selfishness of any kind. My dear friend, my best friend, cried little Hans, you are welcome to all the flowers in my garden. I would much sooner have your good opinion than my silver buttons any day. And he ran and plucked all his pretty primroses and filled the miller's basket. Good-bye, little Hans, said the miller, as he went up the hill with the plank on his shoulder and the big basket in his hand. Good-bye, said little Hans, and he began to dig away quite merrily. He was so pleased about the wheelbarrow. The next day he was nailing up some honeysuckle against the porch when he heard the miller's voice calling to him from the road. So he jumped off the ladder and ran down the garden and looked over the wall. There was the miller with a large sack of flour on his back. Dear little Hans, said the miller, would you mind carrying this sack of flour for me to market? Oh, I am so sorry, said Hans, but I am really very busy today. I have got all my creepers to nail up and all my flowers to water and all my grass to roll. Well, really, said the miller, I think that considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, it is rather unfriendly of you to refuse. Oh, don't say that, cried little Hans. I wouldn't be unfriendly for the whole world. And he ran in for his cap and trudged off with the big sack on his shoulders. It was a very hot day and the road was terribly dusty. And before Hans had reached the sixth milestone he was so tired that he had to sit down and rest. However, he went on bravely and at last he reached the market. After he had waited there some time he sold the sack of flour for a very good price and then he returned home at once for he was afraid that if he stopped too late he might meet some robbers on the way. It has certainly been a hard day, said little Hans to himself as he was going to bed. But I am glad I did not refuse the miller for he is my best friend and besides he is going to give me his wheelbarrow. Early the next morning the miller came down to get the money for his sack of flour but little Hans was so tired that he was still in bed. Upon my word, said the miller, you are very lazy. Really, considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow I think you might work harder. Idleness is a great sin and I certainly don't like any of my friends to be idle or sluggish. You must not mind my speaking quite plainly to you. Of course I should not dream of doing so if I were not your friend. But what is the good of friendship if one cannot say exactly what one means? Anybody can say charming things and try to please into flatter. But a true friend always says unpleasant things and does not mind giving pain. Indeed, if he is a really true friend he prefers it for he knows that then he is doing good. I am very sorry, said little Hans, rubbing his eyes and pulling off his nightcap. But I was so tired that I thought I would lie in bed for a little time and listen to the birds singing. Do you know that I always work better after hearing the birds sing? Well, I am glad of that, said the miller, clapping little Hans on the back. For I want you to come up to the mill as soon as you are dressed and mend my barn roof for me. Poor little Hans was very anxious to go and work in his garden, for his flowers had not been watered for two days. But he did not like to refuse the miller as he was such a good friend to him. Do you think it would be unfriendly of me if I said I was busy? He inquired in a shy and timid voice. Well really, answered the miller, I do not think it is much to ask of you, considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, but of course if you refuse, I will go and do it myself. Oh, on no account, cried little Hans, and he jumped out of bed and dressed himself and went up to the barn. He worked there all day long till sunset, and at sunset the miller came to see how he was getting on. Have you mended the hole in the roof yet, little Hans? cried the miller in a cheery voice. It is quite mended, answered little Hans, coming down the ladder. Ah, said the miller, there is no work so delightful as the work one does for others. It is certainly a great privilege to hear you talk, answered little Hans, sitting down and wiping his forehead. A very great privilege. But I am afraid I shall never have such beautiful ideas as you have. Oh, they will come to you, said the miller, but you must take more pains. At present you have only the practice of friendship. Someday you will have the theory also. Do you really think I shall? asked little Hans. I have no doubt of it, answered the miller. But now that you have mended the roof, you had better go home and rest, for I want you to drive my sheep to the mountain tomorrow. Poor little Hans was afraid to say anything to this, and early the next morning the miller brought his sheep round to the cottage, and Hans started off with them to the mountain. It took him the whole day to get there and back, and when he returned he was so tired that he went off to sleep in his chair, and did not wake up till it was broad daylight. What a delightful time I shall have in my garden, he said, and he went to work at once. But somehow he was never able to look after his flowers at all, for his friend the miller was always coming round and sending him off on long errands or getting him to help at the mill. Little Hans was very much distressed at times, and he was afraid his flowers would think he had forgotten them, but he consoled himself by the reflection that the miller was his best friend. Besides, he used to say, he is going to give me his wheelbarrow, and that is an act of pure generosity. So little Hans worked away for the miller, and the miller said all kinds of beautiful things about friendship, which Hans took down in a notebook and used to read over at night, for he was a very good scholar. Now it happened that one evening little Hans was sitting by his fireside when a loud rap came at the door. It was a very wild night, and the wind was blowing and roaring round the house so terribly that at first he thought it was merely the storm. But a second rap came, and then a third, louder than any of the others. It is some poor traveler, said little Hans to himself, and he ran to the door. There stood the miller with a lantern in one hand and a big stick in the other. Dear little Hans, cried the miller, I am in great trouble. My little boy has fallen off a ladder and hurt himself, and I am going for the doctor. But he lives so far away, and it is such a bad night that it has just occurred to me that it would be much better if you went instead of me. You know I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, and so it is only fair that you should do something for me in return. Certainly, cried little Hans, I take it quite as a compliment. You are coming to me, and I will start off at once. But you must lend me your lantern, as the night is so dark that I am afraid I might fall into the ditch. I am very sorry, answered the miller, but it is my new lantern, and it would be a great loss to me if anything happened to it. Well, never mind, I will do without it, cried little Hans, and he took down his great fur coat and his warm scarlet cap and tied a muffler around his throat and started off. What a dreadful storm it was. The night was so black that little Hans could hardly see, and the wind was so strong that he could scarcely stand. However, he was very courageous, and after he had been walking about three hours, he arrived at the doctor's house and knocked on the door. Who is there? cried the doctor, putting his head out of his bedroom window. Little Hans, doctor. What do you want, little Hans? The miller's son has fallen from a ladder and has hurt himself, and the miller wants you to come at once. All right, said the doctor, and he ordered his horse and his big boots and his lantern and came downstairs and rode off in the direction of the miller's house, little Hans treaching behind him. But the storm grew worse and worse, and the rain fell in torrents, and little Hans could not see where he was going or keep up with the horse. At last he lost his way and wandered off on the moor, which was a very dangerous place as it was full of deep holes, and there poor little Hans was drowned. His body was found the next day by some goat herds, floating in a great pool of water, and was brought back by them to the cottage. Everybody went to little Hans' funeral as he was so popular, and the miller was the chief mourner. As I was his best friend, said the miller, it is only fair that I should have the best place. So he walked at the head of the procession in a long black cloak, and every now and then he wiped his eyes with a big pocket handkerchief. Little Hans is certainly a great loss to everyone, said the blacksmith, when the funeral was over and they were all seated comfortably in the inn, drinking spiced wine and eating sweet cakes. A great loss to me at any rate, answered the miller. Why, I had as good as given him my wheelbarrow, and now I really don't know what to do with it. It is very much in my way at home, and it is in such bad repair that I could not get anything for it if I sold it. I will certainly take care not to give away anything again. One always suffers for being generous. Well, said the water rat after a long pause. Well, that is the end, said the linnet. But what became of the miller? asked the water rat. Oh, I really don't know, replied the linnet, and I'm sure that I don't care. It is quite evident then that you have no sympathy in your nature, said the water rat. I'm afraid you don't quite see the moral of the story, remarked the linnet. The what? screamed the water rat. The moral. Do you mean to say that the story has a moral? Certainly, said the linnet. Well, really, said the water rat in a very angry manner. I think you should have told me that before you began. If you had done so, I certainly would not have listened to you. In fact, I should have said poo, like the critic. However, I can say it now. So he shouted out, poo at the top of his voice, gave a whisk with his tail, and went back into his hole. And how do you like the water rat? asked the duck, who came paddling up some minutes afterwards. He has a great many good points, but for my own part, I have a mother's feelings, and I can never look at a confirmed bachelor without the tears coming into my eyes. I am rather afraid that I have annoyed him, answered the linnet. The fact is, that I told him a story with the moral. Ah, that is always a very dangerous thing to do, said the duck. And I quite agree with her. End of The Devoted Friend by Oscar Wilde. Read by Meg Triton. The Holy Night by Selma Lagerloff. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Catherine Laser. The Holy Night by Selma Lagerloff. When I was five years old, I had such a great sorrow. I hardly know if I've had a greater since then. It was then that my grandmother died. Up to that time, she used to sit every day on the corner sofa in her room and tell stories. I remember grandmother told story after story from morning till night, and we children sat beside her quite still and listened. It was a glorious life. No other children had such happy times as we did. It isn't much that I recollect about my grandmother. I remember she had very beautiful snow-white hair and stooped when she walked, and that she always sat and knitted as stocking. And I even remember that when she'd finished a story, she used to lay her hand on my head and say, All this is as true as true as that I see you and you see me. I also remember that she could sing songs, but this she didn't do every day. One of the songs was about a night and a sea troll and had this refrain. It blows cold, cold weather at sea. Then I remember a little prayer she taught me and a verse of a hymn. Of all the stories she told me, I have but a dim and imperfect recollection. Only one of them do I remember so well that I would be able to repeat it. It's a little story about Jesus' birth. Well, this is nearly all that I can recall about my grandmother, except the thing which I remember best, and that is the great loneliness when she was gone. I remember the morning when the corner sofa stood empty and when it was impossible to understand how the days would ever come to an end. That I remember. That I shall never forget. And I recollect that we children were brought forward to kiss the hand of the dead and that we were so afraid to do it. But then someone said to us that it would be the last time we could thank grandmother for all the pleasure she'd given us. And I remember how the stories and songs were driven from the homestead, shut up in a long black casket and how they never came back again. I remember that something was gone from our lives. It seemed as if the door to a whole beautiful enchanted world where before we'd been freed to go in and out had been closed. And now there was no one who knew how to open that door. And I remember that little by little we children learned to play with dolls and toys and to live like other children. And then it seemed as though we no longer missed our grandmother or remembered her. But even today after forty years as I sit here and gather together the legends about Christ which I heard about there in the Orient there awakes within me the little legend of Jesus' birth that my grandmother used to tell. And I feel impelled to tell it once again and to let it also be included in my collection. It was a Christmas day and all the folks had driven to church except grandmother and I. I believe we were all alone in the house. We had not been permitted to go along because one of us was too old and the other was too young. And we were sad, both of us, because we had not been taken to early mass to hear the singing and to see the Christmas candles. But as we sat there in our loneliness grandmother began to tell a story. There was a man, she said, who went out in the dark night to borrow live coals to kindle a fire. He went from hut to hut and knocked. Dear friends, help me, he said. My wife has just given birth to a child and I must make a fire to warm her and the little one. But it was way in the night and all the people were asleep. No one replied. The man walked and walked. At last he saw the gleam of a fire a long way off. Then he went in that direction and saw that the fire was burning in the open. A lot of sheep were sleeping around the fire and an old shepherd sat and watched over the flock. When the man who wanted to borrow fire came up to the sheep, he saw that three big dogs lay asleep at the shepherd's feet. All three awoke when the man approached and opened their great jaws as though they wanted to bark, but not a sound was heard. The man noticed that the hair on their back stood up and that their sharp white teeth glistened in the firelight. They dashed towards him. He felt that one of them bit at his leg and one at his hand and that one clung to his throat. But their jaws and teeth wouldn't obey them and the man didn't suffer the least harm. Now the man wished to go farther to get what he needed. But the sheep lay back to back and so close to one another that he couldn't pass them. Then the man stepped upon their backs and walked over them and up to the fire and not one of the animals awoke or moved. Thus far grandmother had been allowed to narrate without interruption, but at this point I couldn't help breaking in. Why didn't they do it, Grandma? I asked. That usual hair in a moment, said grandmother, and went on with her story. When the man had almost reached the fire, the shepherd looked up. He was a surly old man who was unfriendly and harsh toward human beings. And when he saw the strange man coming he seized the long spiked staff which he always held in his hand when he tended his flock and threw it at him. The staff came right towards the man, but before it reached him it turned off to one side and whizzed past him far out in the meadow. When grandmother had got this far I interrupted her again. Grandma, why wouldn't the stick hurt the man? Grandmother did not bother about answering me, but continued her story. Now the man came up to the shepherd and said to him, Good man, help me and lend me a little fire. My wife has just given birth to a child and I must make a fire to warm her and the little one. The shepherd would rather have said no, but when he pondered that the dogs couldn't hurt the man and the sheep had not run from him and that the staff had not wished to strike him he was a little afraid and dared not deny the man that which he asked. Take as much as you need, he said to the man. But then the fire was nearly burned out. There were no logs or branches left, only a big heap of live coals, and the stranger had neither spade nor shovel wherein he could carry the red-hot coals. When the shepherd saw this he said again, Take as much as you need, and he was glad that the man wouldn't be able to take away any coals. But the man stooped and picked coals from the ashes with his bare hands and laid them in his mantle. And he didn't burn his hands when he touched them, nor did the coals scorch his mantle, but he carried them away as if they'd been nuts or apples. But here the storyteller was interrupted for the third time. Grandma, why wouldn't the coals burn the man? You shall hear, said grandmother, and went on. And when the shepherd, who was such a cruel and hard-hearted man, saw all this, he began to wonder to himself, What kind of a night is this when the dogs do not bite, the sheep are not scared, the staff does not kill, or the fire scorch? He called the stranger back and said to him, What kind of a night is this, and how does it happen that all things show you compassion? Then said the man, I cannot tell you if you yourself do not see it. And he wished to go his way, and that he might soon make a fire and warm his wife and child. But the shepherd did not wish to lose sight of the man before he had found out what all this might portend. He got up and followed the man till they came to the place where he lived. Then the shepherd saw that the man didn't have so much as a hut to dwell in, but that his wife and babe were lying in a mountain grotto, where there was nothing except the cold and naked stone walls. But the shepherd thought that perhaps the poor innocent child might freeze to death there in the grotto, and although he was a hard man, he was touched, and he thought he would like to help it. And he loosened his knapsack from his shoulder, took from it a soft white sheepskin, gave it to the strange man, and said that he could let the child sleep on it. But just as soon as he showed that he too could be merciful, his eyes were opened, and he saw what he had not been able to see before, and heard what he could not have heard before. He saw that all around him stood a ring of little silver-winged angels, and each held a stringed instrument, and all sang in loud tones that tonight the Saviour was born and should redeem the world from its sins. Then he understood how all things were so happy this night that they didn't want to do anything wrong. And it was not only around the shepherd that there were angels, but he saw them everywhere. They sat inside the grotto, they sat outside on the mountain, and they flew under the heavens. They came marching in great companies, and as they passed, they paused and cast a glance at the child. There was such jubilation and such gladness and songs and play, and all this he saw in the dark night, whereas before he could not have made out anything. He was so happy because his eyes had been opened that he fell upon his knees and thanked God. Here Grandmother sighed and said, What that shepherd saw we might also see, for the angels fly down from heaven every Christmas Eve, if we could only see them. Then Grandmother laid her hand on my head and said, You must remember this, for it is as true as true as that I see you, and you see me. It is not revealed by the light of lamps or candles, and it does not depend upon sun and moon, but that which is needful is, that which we have such eyes as can see God's glory. End of the Holy Night, read by Catherine Laser. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibreVox.org, recording by Ellie, Little One Eye, Little Two Eyes, and Little Three Eyes, by Diana Maria Mallock. There was a woman who had three daughters. The eldest of them was called Little One Eye, because she had only one eye in the middle of her forehead. The second, Little Two Eyes, because she had two eyes like other people, and the youngest, Little Three Eyes, because she had three eyes, one of them being also in the middle of her forehead. Because Little Two Eyes looked no different from other people, her sisters and mother could not bear her. They said, You with your two eyes are no better than anybody else. You do not belong to us. They knocked her about, and gave her shabby clothes and food, which was left over from their own meals. In short, they waxed her, and ever they could. It happened that Little Two Eyes had to go out into the fields to look after the goat. But she was still quite hungry, because her sisters had given her so little to eat. She sat down on the hillock and began to cry, and cried so much that two little streams ran down out of each eye. And as she looked up once in her sorrow, a woman stood near her and asked, Little Two Eyes, Why do you cry? Little Two Eyes answered, Have I not need to cry, because I have two eyes like other people? My sisters and my mother cannot bear me. They pushed me out of front corner into the other, give me shabby clothes and nothing to eat, but what they leave. Today they have given me so little that I am still quite hungry. The wise woman said, Little Two Eyes, Try your tears, and I will tell you something which will keep you from ever being hungry more. Only say to your goat, Little goat bleed, Little table rise, and a neatly laid table with them before you with the most delicious food on it, so that you can eat as much as you like. And when you are satisfied and do not want the table anymore, only say, Little goat bleed, Little table, away, and it will all disappear before your eyes. Then the wise woman went out of sight. Little Two Eyes thought, I must try directly if it's true what she has said, for I am much too hungry to wait. So she said, Little goat bleed, Little table rise, and scarcely had she uttered the word when they stood before her a little table covered with the white cloth on which was laid the plate knife and fork and the silver spoon. The most delicious food was there also and smoking hot, as if just come from the kitchen. Then Little Two Eyes said the shortest grace that she knew, Lord God, be our guest at all times, amen. Began to eat and found it very good. And when she had had enough, she said, as the wise woman had taught her, Little goat bleed, Little table, away, in an instant the Little table and all that stood on it had disappeared again. That is a beautiful easy way of housekeeping, so Little Two Eyes, and was quite happy and merry. In the evening when she came home with her goat, she found a little earthen dish with food, which her sisters had put aside for her, but she did not touch anything. She had no need. On the next day she went out again with her goat and let the few crafts that were given her remain uneaten. The first time and the second time the sisters took no notice, but when the same thing happened every day they remarked it and said, All is not right with Little Two Eyes, she always leaves her food, she used formally to eat up everything that was given her. She must have found other ways of dining. In order to discover the truth, they resolved that Little One Eye should go with Little Two Eyes when she drove the goat into the meadow and see what she did there, and whether anybody brought her anything to eat and drink. So when Little Two Eyes set out again, Little One Eye came to her and said, I will go with you into the field and see that the goat is taking proper care of and driven to good pasture. But Little Two Eyes saw what Little One Eye had in her mind and drove the goat into long grass saying, Come Little One Eye, we will sit down, I will send you something. Little One Eyes sat down, being tired from their unusual walk and from the heat of the sun, and Little Two Eyes kept on singing. Are you awake, Little One Eye? Are you asleep, Little One Eye? Then Little One Eye shut her One Eye and fell asleep. And when Little Two Eyes saw that Little One Eye was fast asleep and could not betray anything she said, Little Goat Bleed, Little Table Eyes, and set herself at her table and ate and drank till she was satisfied. Then she called out again, Little Goat Bleed, Little Table Away, and instantly everything disappeared. Little Two Eyes now woke Little One Eye and said, Little One Eye, you pretend to watch and fall asleep over it, and in the meantime the goat could have run all over the world. Come, we will go home. Then they went home, and Little Two Eyes let her Little Dish again stand untouched. And Little One Eye, who could not tell her mother why his sister would not eat, said as an excuse, Oh, I fell asleep out there. The next day, her mother said to Little Three Eyes, This time you shall go and see if Little Two Eyes eats out of doors, and if anyone brings her food and drink, for she must eat and drink secretly. Then Little Three Eyes went to Little Two Eyes and said, I will go with you and see whether the goat is taken proper care of and driven to go pasture. But Little Two Eyes saw what Little Three Eyes had in her mind and drove the goat into long cars and sad as before. We will sit down here, Little Three Eyes, I will sing you something. Little Three Eyes seated herself, being tired from the walk and the heat of the sun, and Little Two Eyes began the same song again and sang, Are you awake, Little Three Eyes? But instead of singing then as she showed, Are you asleep, Little Three Eyes? She sang through carelessness, Are you asleep, Little Two Eyes? and went on singing. Are you awake, Little Three Eyes? Are you asleep, Little Two Eyes? So the two eyes of Little Three Eyes fell asleep, but the third did not go to sleep because it was not spoken to by the verse. Little Three Eyes, to be sure, shut it and made believe to go to sleep, but only through slainess, for she winked with it and could see everything quite well. And when Little Two Eyes thought that Little Three Eyes was fast asleep, she said her little sentence, Little goat bleat, Little Table rise, ate and drank heartily, and then told the Little Table to go away again. Little goat bleat, Little Table away, but Little Three Eyes had seen everything. Then Little Two Eyes came to her and woke her and said, Ah, Little Three Eyes, have you been asleep? You keep watch well. Come, we will go home. And when they got home, Little Two Eyes again did not eat, and Little Three Eyes said to the mother, I know why the proud thing does not eat. When she says to the goat, Little goat bleat, Little Table rise, there stands a table before her, which is covered with the very best food, much better than we have here. And when she is satisfied, she says, Little goat bleat, Little Table away, and everything is gone again. I have seen it exactly. She put two of my eyes to sleep, with a little verse, but the one on my forehead luckily remained awake. Then the envious mother cried out, She should be better off than we are, fetched the butcher's knife and stuck it into the goat's heart, so that it fell down dead. When Little Two Eyes saw that, she went out full of grief, seated herself on a hillock and webbed the tears. All at once the wise woman stood near her again and said, Little Two Eyes, why do you cry? Shelly not cry, answered she. The goat who every day, when I said your little verse, lay the table so beautifully, has been killed by my mother. Now I must suffer hunger and thirst again. The wise woman said, Little Two Eyes, I will give you some good advice. Make your sisters to give you the heart of the murdered goat, and bury it in the ground before the house door, and it will turn out lucky for you. Then she disappeared, and Little Two Eyes went home and said to her sisters, Dear sisters, give me some part of my goat, I don't ask for anything good, only give me the heart. Then they laughed and said, You can have that, if you don't want anything else. Little Two Eyes took the heart and buried it quietly in the evening before the house door, after the advice of the wise woman. Next morning when the sisters woke and went to the house door together, they stood the most beautiful splendid tree, with leaves of silver and fruit of gold hanging between them. Nothing more beautiful or charming could be seen in the wide world. But they did not know how the tree had come there in the night. Little Two Eyes alone noticed that it had grown out of the heart of the goat, for it stood just where she had buried it in the ground. Then the mother said to Little One Eye, Climb up my child and gather some fruit from the tree. Little One Eye climbed up, but when she wanted to see golden apple, the branch sprang out of her hand. This happened every time so that she could not gather a single apple, though she tried as much as she could. Then the mother said, Little Three Eyes, do you climb up? You can see better about you with your Three Eyes than Little One Eye can. Little One Eyes scrambled down, and Little Three Eyes climbed up. But Little Three Eyes was no cleverer, and might look about her as much as she liked. The golden apples always sprang back from her grasp. At last her mother became impatient and climbed up herself, but could touch the fruit just as little as Little One Eye or Little Three Eyes, she always grasped the empty air. Then Little Two Eyes said, I will go up myself. Perhaps I shall prosper better. You cried the sisters with your Two Eyes, what can you do? But Little Two Eyes climbed up, and the golden apples did not spring away from her, but dropped of themselves into her hand, so that she could gather one after the other and brought down a whole apron full. Her mother took them from her, and instead of her sisters, Little One Eye and Little Three Eyes behaving better to pour Little Two Eyes for it, they were only envious because she alone could get the fruit and paved still more gruelly to her. It happened as they stood together by the tree one day, that the young Knight came by, quick Little Two Eyes cried the two sisters, creep under, so that we may not be ashamed of you, and threw over poor Little Two Eyes in a great hurry an empty cask that stood just by the tree and pushed also beside her the golden apples, which had broken off. Now as the Knight came nearer, he proved to be a handsome prince, who stood still, admired the beautiful tree of gold and silver and said to the two sisters, to whom does this beautiful tree belong? She who gives me a branch of it shall have whatever she wishes. Then Little One Eye and Little Three Eyes answered that the tree was theirs, and they would break off a branch for him. The both of them gave themselves a great deal of trouble, but it was no use, for the branches and fruit sprang back from them every time. Then the Knight said, It is very wonderful that the tree belongs to you, yet you have not the power of gathering anything from it. They insisted, however, that the tree was their own property. But as they spoke, Little Two Eyes rolled a few golden apples from under the cask, so that they ran to the feet of the Knight. For Little Two Eyes was angry that Little One Eye and Little Three Eyes did not tell the truth. When the Knight saw the apples, he was astonished and asked where they had come from. Little One Eye and Little Three Eyes answered that they had an other sister who might not, however, show herself, because she had only two eyes, like other common people. But the Knight desired to see her and called out, Little Two Eyes, come out. Then Little Two Eyes came out of the cask, quite comforted, and the Knight was astonished at the great beauty and said, You, Little Two Eyes, can certainly gather me a branch from the tree? Yes, answered Little Two Eyes, I can do that, for the tree belongs to me. When she climbed up and easily broke off a branch, visit silver leaves and golden fruit and handed it to the Knight. Then the Knight said, Little Two Eyes, what shall I give you for it? Oh, answered Little Two Eyes, I suffer hunger and thirst, sorrow and want, from early morning till late evening. If you would take me with you and free me, I should be happy. Then the Knight lifted Little Two Eyes onto his horse and took her home to his parental castle. There he gave her beautiful clothes for the drink as much as she wanted, and because he loved her so much he married her, and the marriage was celebrated with great joy. Now, when Little Two Eyes was taken away by the handsome Knight, the two sisters envied very much her happiness. The wonderful tree remains for us, though, such day, and even though we cannot gather any fruit of it, everyone will stand still before it to come to us and praise it. But the next morning the tree had disappeared and all the hopes visit. Little Two Eyes lived happily for a long time. Once two poor women came to her at the castle and begged alms. Then Little Two Eyes looked in their faces and recognized her sisters, Little One Eye and Little Three Eyes, who had fallen into such poverty that they had to wander about and seek their bread from door to door. Little Two Eyes, however, bade them welcome and was very good to them and took care of them, and they both repented from their hearts the evil they had done their sister in their use. End of Little One Eye, Little Two Eyes and Little Three Eyes, recording by Ellie, September 2009. The Little Red Hen, by Florence White Williams. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Dennis Sayers. The Little Red Hen. An old English folktale retold and illustrated by Florence White Williams. A Little Red Hen lived in a barnyard. She spent almost all of her time walking about the barnyard in her pickety-pickety fashion, scratching everywhere for worms. She dearly loved fat, delicious worms, and felt they were absolutely necessary to the health of her children. As often as she found a worm, she would call to her chickies. When they were gathered about her, she would distribute choice morsels of her tidbit. A busy little body was she. A cat, usually not lazily in the barn door, not even bothering herself to scare the rat who ran here and there as he pleased. And as for the pig who lived in the sty, he did not care what happened so long as he could eat and grow fat. One day the Little Red Hen found a seed. It was a wheat seed, but the Little Red Hen was so accustomed to bugs and worms that she supposed this to be some new and perhaps very delicious kind of meat. She bit it gently and found that it resembled a worm in no way whatsoever as to taste. Although because it was long and slender, a Little Red Hen might easily be fooled by its appearance. Carrie knit about. She made inquiries as to what it might be. She found it was a wheat seed and that if planted, it would grow up and when ripe, it could be made into flour and then into bread. When she discovered that, she knew it ought to be planted. She was so busy hunting food for herself and her family that naturally she thought she ought not to take time to plant it. So she thought of the pig upon whom time must hang heavily and of the cat who had nothing to do and of the great fat rat with his idle hours and she called loudly who will plant the seed. But the pig said, not I and the cat said, not I and the rat said, not I. Well then, said the Little Red Hen, I will and she did. Then she went on with her daily duties through the long summer days scratching for worms and feeding her chicks while the pig grew fat and the cat grew fat and the rat grew fat and the wheat grew tall and ready for harvest. So one day the Little Red Hen chanced to notice how large the wheat was and that the grain was ripe. So she ran about calling briskly, who will cut the wheat? The pig said, not I. The cat said, not I and the rat said, not I. Well then, said the Little Red Hen, I will and she did. She got the sickle from among the farmer's tools in the barn and proceeded to cut off all of the big plant of wheat. On the ground lay the nicely cut wheat ready to be gathered and thrushed but the newest and yellowest and downiest of Mrs. Hen's chicks set up a peep peep peeping in their most vigorous fashion, proclaiming to the world, at large, but most particularly to their mother, that she was neglecting them. Poor Little Red Hen, she felt quite bewildered and hardly knew where to turn. Her attention was sorely divided between her duty to her children and her duty to the wheat, for which she felt responsible. So again, in a very hopeful tone, she called out, who will thrush the wheat? But the pig with the grunt said, not I and the cat with the meow said, meow, not I and the rat with the squeak said, meow, not I. So the Little Red Hen, looking, it must be admitted, rather discouraged, said, well, I will then and she did. Of course, she had to feed her babies first, though, and when she had gotten them all to sleep for their afternoon nap, she went out and thrashed the wheat. Then she called out, who will carry the wheat to the mill to be ground? Turning their backs with snippy glee, the pig said, not I and the cat said, not I and that rat said, not I. So the good Little Red Hen could do nothing but say, I will then and she did. Carrying the sack of wheat, she trudged off to the distant mill. There she ordered the wheat ground into beautiful white flour. When the miller brought her the flour, she walked slowly back all the way to her own barnyard in her own pickety-peckety fashion. She even managed, in spite of her load, to catch a nice juicy worm now and then and had one left for the babies when she reached them. Those cunning little fluffballs were so glad to see their mother. For the first time, they really appreciated her. After this really strenuous day, Mrs. Hen retired to her slumbers earlier than usual. Indeed, before the colors came into the sky to herald the setting of the sun, her usual bedtime hour. She would have liked to sleep late in the morning, but her chicks joining in the morning chorus of the henyard drove away all hopes of such a luxury. Even as she sleepily half opened one eye, the thought came to her that today that wheat must somehow be made into bread. She was not in the habit of making bread, although, of course, anyone can make it if here she follows the recipe with care, and she knew perfectly well that she could do it if necessary. So after her children were fed and made sweet and fresh for the day, she hunted up the pig, the cat, and the rat. Still confident that they would surely help her someday, she sang out, Who will make the bread? Alas for the little red hen. Once more her hopes were dashed. For the pig said, Not I. The cat said, Not I. And the rat said, Not I. So the little red hen said once more, I will then. And she did. Feeling that she might have known all the time that she would have to do it all herself, she went and put on a fresh apron and spotless cook's cap. First of all, she set the dough as was proper. When it was time, she brought out the molding board and the baking tins, molded the bread, divided it into loaves, and put them into the oven to bake. All the while, the cat sat lazily by, giggling and chuckling. And close at hand, the vain rat powdered his nose, and admired himself in a mirror. In the distance could be heard the long, drawn snores of the dozing pig. At last, the great moment arrived. A delicious odor was wafted upon the autumn breeze. Everywhere, the barnyard citizens sniffed the air with delight. The red hen ambled in her pickety-pickety way toward the source of all this excitement. Although she appeared to be perfectly calm, in reality she could only, with difficulty, restrain and impulse to dance and sing. For had she not done all the work on this wonderful bread, small wonder that she was the most excited person in the barnyard. She did not know whether the bread would be fit to eat, but joy of joys. When the lovely brown loaves came out of the oven, they were done to perfection. Then, probably because she had acquired the habit, the red hen called, who will eat the bread? All the animals in the barnyard were watching hungrily and smacking their lips in anticipation. And the pig said, I will. The cat said, I will. And the rat said, I will. But the little red hen said, no, you won't. I will. And she did. And of the little red hen, by Florence White Williams, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox. The Story of the Three Bears, by Anonymous There were once three bears who lived in a wood, their porridge was thick and their chairs and beds good. The biggest bear Bruin was surly and rough. His wife, Mrs Bruin, was called Mammy Muff. Their son, Tiny Cub, was like Dame Goose's lad. He was not very good, nor yet very bad. Now Bruin, the biggest, the surly old bear, had a great granite bowl and a cast-iron chair. Mammy Muff's bowl and chair you would no doubt prefer. They were both made of brickbats, but both suited her. Young Tiny Cub's bowl, chair and bed were the best. This, big bears and baby bears freely confessed. Mr B with his wife and his son went one day to take a short stroll and a visit to pay. He left the door open. Four, said he, no doubt, if our friend should call in he will find us all out. It was only two miles from Dark Hazelnut Wood, in which the great house of the three Bruins stood. That there lived a young miss daring, funny and fair, and from having bright curls she was called Golden Hare. She had roamed through the wood to see what she could see, and she saw going walking the Bruins all three. Said she to herself, to rob bears is no sin. The three bears have gone out, so I think I'll go in. She entered their parlour, and she saw a great bowl, and in it a spoon like a hair-cutter's pole. That porridge, said she, may stay long enough there. It tastes like the food of the surly old bear. She tried Mammy Muff's and she said, Mrs B, I think your taste and my taste will never agree. Then she tried Tiny Cub's bowl and said, this is nice. I will put in some salt and off bread a thick slice. The porridge she eats soon made her so great, the chair that she sat on broke down with her weight. The bottom fell out and she cried in dismay. This is Tiny Cub's chair, and oh, what will he say? His papa is, I know, the most savage of bears. His mamma is a fury, but for her who cares. I'm sure I do not, and then as for her son. That young bear Tiny Cub, from him shall I run. No, not I indeed, but I will not sit here. I shall next break the floor through. That's what I most fear. So upstairs she ran, and there three beds she found. She looked under each one, and she looked all around. But no one she saw, so she got into bed. It was surly old Bruins, and well stuffed with lead. Mammy Muff's next she tried, it was stuffed with round stones. So she got into Tiny Cub's and rested her bones. Golden hair was asleep when the three bears came in. Said Big Bruin, I am hungry. Tweet, let's begin. Who has been to my porridge? He roared with such might. His voice was like wind down the chimney at night. Who has been at my porridge? growled out, Mrs. B. Her voice was like cats fighting up in a tree. Who has been at my porridge and eaten at all? Young Tiny Cub said in a voice very small. Who has been sitting in my great armchair? In a voice like a thunderstorm roared the big bear. Who has been sitting in my good armchair? Growled out, Mammy Muff, like a sowing despair. Who has sat in my nice chair and broken it down? Young Tiny Cub said, and so fierce was his frown, that his mother with pride to his father said, There! she I pet Tiny Cub can look just like a bear. So roaring and growling and frowning the bears, one after another came running upstairs. Who has been in my bed? Old Bruin roared out, in a voice just like rain down a large water spout. Who has been upon my bed? growled out, Mammy Muff, in a voice like her husband's, but not quite so rough. Who is lying on my bed? said Young Tiny Cub, in a voice like hot water poured into a tub. And Tiny Cub's breath was so hot as he spoke, that golden hair dreamt of hot water and woke. She opened her eyes and saw the three bears, and said, Let me go, please. I'll soon run downstairs. But Big Bruin was angry and shouted out, No! You had no right to come hither, and now you shan't go. What we mean to do with you here long, you shall find. You can lie there and cry till I make up my mind. To Mammy and Tiny then did Big Bruin roar. Go and block up the chimney and nail up the door. This golden hair now has got into a scrape, and if I can help it she shall not escape. But golden hair saw that a window was there. It was always kept open to let in fresh air. So she jumped out of bed to the window she ran, saying, Three bears, goodbye, catch me now if you can. To the window the bears flew as fast as they could, but golden hair flew like the wind through the wood. She said the bear's breath had filled her with steam. But when she grew older she said it was a dream, and no doubt she was right to take such a view. Still some part of the story is certainly true. For unto this day there is no one who dares to say that there never existed three bears. End of the Story of the Three Bears Recording by Lucy Perry in Bath on September 13, 2009 Why the Sea is Salt A Norwegian fairy tale translated by George Webby Descent This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. Or more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Patty Cunningham Why the Sea is Salt A Norwegian fairy tale Once on a time, but it was a long, long time ago, there were two brothers, one rich and one poor. Now one Christmas Eve, the poor one, hadn't so much as a crumb in the house, either of meat or bread. So he went to his brother to ask him for something to keep Christmas with, in God's name. It was not the first time his brother had been forced to help him, and you may fancy he wasn't very glad to see his face, but he said, If you will do what I ask you to do, I'll give you a whole flitch of bacon. So the poor brother said he would do anything, and was full of thanks. Well, here is the flitch, said the rich brother, and now goes straight to hell. What I have given my word to do I must stick to, said the other. So he took the flitch and set off. He walked the whole day, and at dusk he came to a place where he saw a very bright light. Maybe this is the place, the man said to himself. So he turned aside, and the first thing he saw was an old, old man, with a long white beard, who stood in an outhouse hewing wood for the Christmas fire. Good even, said the man with the flitch. The same to you. Where are you going so late, said the man? Oh, I'm going to hell, if only I knew the right way, answered the poor man. Well, you're not far wrong, for this is hell, said the old man. When you get inside, they will be all for buying your flitch, for me to scarce in hell. But mind, you don't sell it unless you get the hand-quern, which stands behind the door for it. When you come out, I'll teach you how to handle the quern, for it's good to grind almost anything. So the man with the flitch thanked the other for his good advice, and gave a great knock at the devil's door. When he got in, everything went just as the old man had said. All the devils, great and small, came swarming up to him like ants round and anthill, and each tried to outbid the other for the flitch. Well, said the man, by rights my old dame and I ought to have this flitch for our Christmas dinner. But since you have all set your hearts on it, I suppose I must give it up to you. But if I sell it at all, I'll have it for that quern behind the door yonder. At first the devil wouldn't hear of such a bargain, and shuffled and haggled with the man, but he stuck to what he said, and at last the devil had to part with his quern. When the man got out into the yard, he asked the old woodcutter how he was to handle the quern. And after he had learned how to use it, he thanked the old man and went off home as fast as he could. But still the clock had struck twelve on Christmas Eve before he reached his own door. Wherever in the world have you been, said his old dame. Here have I sat, hour after hour, waiting and watching, without so much as two sticks to lay together under the Christmas bros. Oh! said the man, I couldn't get back before, for I had to go a long way first, for one thing and then for another. But now you shall see what you shall see. So he put the quern on the table, and bade at first of all grind lights, then a tablecloth, then meat, then ale, and so on till they had got everything that was nice for Christmas fair. He had only to speak the word, and the quern ground out what he wanted. The old dame stood by blessing her stars, and kept on asking where he had got this wonderful quern, but he wouldn't tell her. It's all one where I got it from, you see the quern is a good one, and the mill-stream never freezes, that's enough. So he ground meat and drink and dainties enough to last out till twelfth day. And on the third day he asked all his friends and kin to his house, and gave a great feast. Now when his rich brother saw all that was on the table, and all that was behind in the larder, he grew quite spiteful and wild, for he couldn't bear that his brother should have anything. It was only on Christmas Eve, he said to the rest. He was in such straits that he came and asked for a morsel of food in God's name, and now he gives a feast as if he were a count or a king. Then he turned to his brother and said, But wence, in hell's name, have you got all this wealth? From behind the door answered the owner of the quern, for he didn't care to let the cat out of the bag. But later on in the evening, when he had got a drop too much, he could keep his secret no longer, and brought out the quern and said, There you see what has gotten me all this wealth, and so he made the quern grind all kinds of things. When his brother saw it, he said as hard on having the quern, and after a deal of coaxing he got it. But he had to pay three hundred dollars for it, and his brother bargained to keep it till hay harvest, for he thought, if I keep it till then, I can make it grind meat and drink that will last for years. So you may fancy the quern didn't grow rusty for want of work. And when hay harvest came, the rich brother got it. But the other took care not to teach him how to handle it. It was evening when the rich brother got the quern home, and next morning he told his wife to go out into the hay field and toss while the mowers cut the grass, and he would stay home and get the dinner ready. So when dinner time drew near, he put the quern on the kitchen table and said, Grind herrings and broth, and grind them good and fast. So the quern began to grind herrings and broth. First of all, all the dishes full, then all the tubs full, and so on till the kitchen floor was quite covered. Then the man twisted and twirled at the quern to get it to stop, but for all his twisting and fingering, the quern went on grinding. And in a little while the broth rose so high, that the man was like to drown. So he threw open the kitchen door and ran into the parlor, but it wasn't long before the quern had ground the parlor full too. And it was only at the risk of his life that the man could get hold of the latch of the house door through the stream of broth. When he got the door open, he ran out and set off down the road with the stream of herrings and broth at his heels, roaring like a waterfall over the whole farm. Now his old dame, who was in the field tossing hay, thought it a long time to dinner. And at last she said, Well, though the master doesn't call us home, we may as well go. Maybe he finds it hard work to boil the broth, and we'll be glad of my help. The men were willing enough, so they sauntered homewards. But just as they had got a little way up the hill, what should they meet but herrings and broth and bread, all running and dashing and splashing together in a stream, and the master himself running before them for his life. And as he passed them, he bawled out, Would to heaven each of you had a hundred throats, But take care, you're not drowned in the broth. Away he went, as though the evil one were at his heels, to his brother's house, and begged him for God's sake to take back the corn that instant. For, said he, if it grinds only one hour more, the whole parish will be swallowed up by herrings and broth. But his brother wouldn't hear of taking it back till the other paid him down three hundred dollars more. So the poor brother got both the money and the corn, and it wasn't long before he set up a farmhouse far finer than the one in which his brother lived, and with the corn he ground so much gold that he covered it with plates of gold. And as the farm lay by the seaside, the golden house gleamed and glistened far away over the sea. All who sailed by put ashore to see the rich man in the golden house, and to see the wonderful corn, the fame of which spread far and wide, till there was nobody who hadn't heard tell of it. So one day there came a skipper who wanted to see the corn, and the first thing he asked was if it could grind salt. Grind salt, said the owner, I should just think it could, it can grind anything. When the skipper heard that, he said he must have the corn, cost what it would, for if he only had it, he thought he should be rid of his long voyages across stormy seas for a lading of salt. Well at first the man wouldn't hear of parting with the corn, but the skipper begged and prayed so hard, that at last he let him have it, but he had to pay many, many thousand dollars for it. Now when the skipper had got the corn on his back, he soon made off with it, for he was afraid lest the man should change his mind. So he had no time to ask how to handle the corn, but got on board his ship as fast as he could and set sail. When he had sailed a good way off, he brought the corn on deck and said, Grind salt, and grind both good and fast. Well, the corn began to grind salt, so that it poured out like water, and when the skipper had got the ship full, he wished to stop the corn, but whichever way he turned it, and however much he tried, it was no good. The corn kept grinding on, and the heap of salt grew higher and higher, and at last down sank the ship. There lies the corn at the bottom of the sea, and grinds away at this very day, and that's why the sea is salt. And of why the sea is salt. Recording by Patty Cunningham.