FLOWER FABLES by Louisa May Alcott

Flower Fables by Louisa May Alcott
“Pondering shadows, colors, clouds
Grass-buds, and caterpillar shrouds
Boughs on which the wild bees settle,
Tints that spot the violet’s petal.”



Boston, Dec. 9, 1854.


The Frost King: or, The Power of Love
Eva’s Visit to Fairy-Land
The Flower’s Lesson
Lily-Bell and Thistledown
Little Bud
Little Annie’s Dream: or, The Fairy Flower
Ripple, the Water-Spirit
Fairy Song

Canadian Wonder Tales, by Cyrus MacMillan

with illustrations in colour by George Sheringham
and Foreword by Sir William Peterson, K.C.M.G.

London: John Lane, The Bodley Head;
New York: John Lane Company;
Toronto: S. B. Gundy, 1920



This is the book of a soldier-student. Captain Macmillan interrupted his teaching work in Montreal to go overseas with one of our McGill Batteries, and from “Somewhere in France” he has asked me to stand sponsor for his volume.

The author’s method resembles that followed by the brothers Grimm a century ago. He has taken down from the lips of living people, pretty much as they were given to him, a series of stories which obviously contain many elements that have been handed down by oral tradition from some far-off past. They are mostly animal stories, with all the usual features of magic and transformation, articulate speech on the part of the animals, and interchange of more or less kindly offices between man and beast.

The result is a collection of fables which—especially as illustrated by an eminent artist—will prove a very acceptable Christmas book for children, and will give their elders also some food for reflection. Not that there is, so far as I have been able to discover, any moral about some at least of the tales. They are not “stories with a purpose.” But they suggest to the adult reader the essential identity of many of the methods by which in a more or less remote antiquity the human race expressed itself in various parts of the world.

That has now become a matter of scientific study. The floating material of popular tradition at different times and in different places has been spread out, as it were, on a dissecting-table by our Folk-lore Societies, and the thoughts and beliefs, customs and superstitions therein preserved have been studied from the comparative point of view for the light they throw on the primitive development of the human mind. Those of us who read the Journal of American Folk-lore, or the papers on Indian mythology recently contributed by C. M. Barbeau to the anthropological series issued by the Geological Survey of Canada, have many sources at hand with which Mr. Macmillan’s folk-tales may be profitably compared. Some of the stories—those, for instance, that refer to Shrove Tuesday on the one hand, and packed sardines on the other—are obviously of no earlier date than “the days when Canada was owned by the French.” But many of them go back to “long before the white men came to Canada.” That these are folk-tales of the universal type is evidenced by the primitive traditions which they embody. In all such stories striking resemblances occur, whether they are the records of Algonquins or Zulus, Hottentots or Australian Bushmen. To say nothing of charms and incantations, magic coats and magic wands, ogres and giants, mermen and mermaidens, supernatural creatures and speaking beasts, evil spirits in disguise, there are the standing-dishes of all such folk-tales—the strong man and his adventures, the bride carried off by the youthful hero and pursued by her father, the promise that the bride shall be given to anyone who shall accomplish some difficult task, with death as the penalty of failure. These and such-like features are all examples of primitive methods of self-expression, and represent, in the case before us, the Indian’s elemental ideas of the universe around him and his relation to it.

Thus Mr. Macmillan’s “Wonder Tales,” while serving for the pleasure and delight of children, have their points of contact with what we must take to be the background of prehistoric culture on the continent of America. But the children will read and enjoy them for their own sake, and unhampered by any such applications of the comparative method. They will learn in this book the answers to such conundrums as the following—Why Frog croaks, Why Bear eats fish, Why Bunny has a short tail and long hind-legs and a split upper-lip, Why Partridge makes a drumming noise, Why Mosquitoes sting, Why Aspen leaves tremble, What Woodpecker and Bluejay were before they were changed into birds, Why the Moon usually travels alone in the forest. And, if they find anything unsatisfactory about the answers herein recorded, they will have the opportunity of exercising their imaginations to better purpose than was done by those who gave these answers in the days when the world was young!

October, 1917.


The tales in this collection have been gathered in various parts of Canada. They have been selected from a larger collection of folk-tales and folk-songs made by the writer for more academic and scientific purposes. They are not the product of the writer’s imagination; they are the common possession of the “folk.” Many of them are still reverently believed by the Canadian Indians, and all are still told with seriousness around camp fires in forests and on plains, upon the sea and by cottage hearths. The dress in which they now appear may be new, but the skeleton of each story has been left unchanged.

Canada is a country with a romantic past. The atmosphere in which our ancestors lived in the early days of exploration and colonization, if not one of enchantment, was at least one of mystery. The traditions and tales of our country’s past are rapidly disappearing in its practical present, and the poetry of its former times is rarely heard above the hum of its modern life. Its “old unhappy far-off things and battles long ago” are fading memories, for comparatively little has been done to save its old tales from oblivion. That the children of the land may know something of the traditions of the mysterious past in which their forefathers dwelt and laboured is the writer’s only excuse for the publication of this volume.

The writer’s deepest thanks are here expressed to the nameless Indians and “habitants,” the fishermen and sailors, “the spinners and the knitters in the sun,” from whose lips he heard these stories.

It is perhaps but fair to explain that the proofs were corrected by the writer in the intervals between other duties on Vimy Ridge, France, and that to this fact and the consequent haste any minor errors may in part at least be attributed.


The Baker’s Magic Wand
Star-Boy and the Sun Dance
Jack and His Magic Aids
The Bad Indian’s Ashes
The Mermaid of the Magdalenes
The Boy and the Dancing Fairy
The Mouse and the Sun
Glooskap’s Country
How Rabbit Lost His Tail
The Partridge and His Drum
How Summer Came to Canada
How Turtle Came
The First Mosquito
The Moon and His Frog-Wife
Glooskap and the Fairy
The Passing of Glooskap
The Indian Cinderella
The Boy and His Three Helpers
The Duck with Red Feet
The Northern Lights
The Boy and the Robbers’ Magical Booty
The Coming of the Corn
The Dance of Death
The First Pig and Porcupine
The Shrove Tuesday Visitor
The Boy of Great Strength and the Giants
The Strange Tale of Caribou and Moose
Jack and His Wonderful Hen
The Sad Tale of Woodpecker and Bluejay
The Stupid Boy and the Wand
The Blackfoot and the Bear
The Boys and the Giant

The Book of Nature Myths, by Florence Holbrook


In preparing the Book of Nature Myths the desire has been to make a second reader which would be adapted to the child’s interest, ability, and progress.

The subject-matter is of permanent value, culled from the folk-lore of the primitive races; the vocabulary, based upon that of the Hiawatha Primer, is increased gradually, and the new words and phrases will add to the child’s power of expression. The naive explanations of the phenomena of nature given by the primitive races appeal to the child’s wonder about the same phenomena, and he is pleased and interested. These myths will gratify the child’s desire for complete stories, and their intrinsic merit makes them valuable for oral reproduction.

The stories have been adapted to youthful minds from myths contained in the works of many students of folk-lore whose scholarship is undisputed. Special acknowledgment is due Miss Eva March Tappan for her valuable assistance in the final revision of the text.

The Story of the First Humming-bird
The Story of the First Butterflies
The Story of the First Woodpecker
Why the Woodpecker’s Head is Red
Why the Cat always falls upon her Feet
Why the Swallow’s Tail is Forked
Why the White Hares have Black Ears
Why the Magpie’s Nest is not well built
Why the Raven’s Feathers are Black
How Fire was brought to the Indians
How the Quail became a Snipe
Why the Serpent sheds his Skin
Why the Dove is Timid
Why the Parrot repeats the Words of Men
The Story of the First Mocking-bird
Why the Tail of the Fox has a White Tip
The Story of the First Frogs
Why the Rabbit is Timid
Why the Peetweet cries for Rain
Why the Bear has a Short Tail
Why the Wren flies Close to the Earth
Why the Hoofs of the Deer are Split
The Story of the First Grasshopper
The Story of the Oriole
Why the Peacock’s Tail has a Hundred Eyes
The Story of the Bees and the Flies
The Story of the First Moles
The Story of the First Ants
The Face of the Manito
The Story of the First Diamonds
The Story of the First Pearls
The Story of the First Emeralds
Why the Evergreen Trees never lose their Leaves
Why the Aspen Leaves tremble
How the Blossoms came to the Heather
How Flax was given to Men
Why the Juniper has Berries
Why the Sea is Salt
The Story of the First Whitefish
Was it the First Turtle?
Why the Crocodile has a Wide Mouth
The Story of the Picture on the Vase
Why the Water in Rivers is never Still
How the Raven helped Men
The Story of the Earth and Sky
How Summer came to the Earth
The Story of the First Snowdrops
Why the Face of the Moon is White
Why all Men love the Moon
Why there is a Hare in the Moon
The Children in the Moon
Why there is a Man in the Moon
The Twin Stars
The Lantern and the Fan

Sandman’s Goodnight Stories, by Abbie Phillips Walker

Copyright, 1921, by Harper & Brothers

To My Sister
I Lovingly Dedicate
These Little Stories



Friendly Fairies, by Johnny Gruelle


Written & Illustrated by JOHNNY GRUELLE

The Three Little Gnomes
The Happy Rattle
Recipe for a Happy Day
Grandfather Skeeter-Hawk’s Story
Crow Talk
The Fairy Ring
Mr. and Mrs. Thumbkins
The Old, Rough Stone and the Gnarled Tree
Sally Migrundy
How Johnny Cricket Saw Santa Claus
The Twin Sisters
Little Thumbkin’s Good Deed
The Wishbone
Tim Tim Tamytam
A Change of Coats

Nibsy’s Christmas & Others, by Jacob A. Riis


Books For Libraries Press
First Published 1893
Reprinted 1969

To Her Most Gracious Majesty
Queen of Denmark
the friend of the afflicted and the mother of the
motherless in my childhood’s home
these leaves are inscribed
with the profound respect and admiration
the Author



Nibsy’s Christmas
What the Christmas sun saw in the Tenements
Skippy of Scrabble Alley

A Defective Santa Claus, by James Whitcomb Riley


With Pictures by


Copyright 1904
James Whitcomb Riley




Little Boy! Halloo!—halloo!
Can’t you hear me calling you?—
Little Boy that used to be,
Come in here and play with me.

A Defective Santa Claus

Allus when our Pa he’s away
Nen Uncle Sidney comes to stay
At our house here—so Ma an’ me
An’ Etty an’ Lee-Bob won’t be
Afeard ef anything at night
Might happen—like Ma says it might.

(Ef Trip wuz big, I bet you he
‘Uz best watch-dog you ever see!)
An’ so last winter—ist before
It’s go’ be Chris’mus-Day,—w’y, shore
Enough, Pa had to haf to go
To ‘tend a lawsuit—”An’ the snow
Ist right fer Santy Claus!” Pa said,
As he clumb in old Ayersuz’ sled,
An’ said he’s sorry he can’t be
With us that night—”‘Cause,” he-says-ee,
“Old Santy might be comin’ here—
This very night of all the year

I’ got to be away!—so all
You kids must tell him—ef he call—
He’s mighty welcome, an’ yer Pa
He left his love with you an’ Ma

An’ Uncle Sid!” An’ clucked, an’ leant
Back, laughin’—an’ away they went!
An’ Uncle wave’ his hands an’ yells
“Yer old horse ort to have on bells!”
But Pa yell back an’ laugh an’ say
“I ‘spect when Santy come this way
It’s time enough fer sleighbells nen!”
An’ holler back “Good-by!” again,
An’ reach out with the driver’s whip
An’ cut behind an’ drive back Trip.

An’ so all day it snowed an’ snowed!
An’ Lee-Bob he ist watched the road,

In his high-chair; an’ Etty she
U’d play with Uncle Sid an’ me—
Like she wuz he’ppin’ fetch in wood
An’ keepin’ old fire goin’ good,

Where Ma she wuz a-cookin’ there
An’ kitchen, too, an’ ever’where!
An’ Uncle say, “‘At’s ist the way
Yer Ma’s b’en workin’, night an’ day,
Sence she hain’t big as Etty is
Er Lee-Bob in that chair o’ his!”
Nen Ma she’d laugh ‘t what Uncle said,
An’ smack an’ smoove his old bald head
An’ say “Clear out the way till I
Can keep that pot from b’ilin’ dry!”
Nen Uncle, when she’s gone back to
The kitchen, says, “We ust to do

Some cookin’ in the ashes.—Say,
S’posin’ we try some, thataway!”
An’ nen he send us to tell Ma
Send two big ‘taters in he saw

Pa’s b’en a-keepin’ ’cause they got
The premiun at the Fair. An’ what
You think?—He rake a grea’-big hole
In the hot ashes, an’ he roll
Them old big ‘taters in the place
An’ rake the coals back—an’ his face
Ist swettin’ so’s he purt’-nigh swear
‘Cause it’s so hot! An’ when they’re there
‘Bout time ‘at we fergit ‘em, he
Ist rake ‘em out again—an’ gee!—
He bu’st ‘em with his fist wite on
A’ old stove-led, while Etty’s gone

To git the salt, an’ butter, too—
Ist like he said she haf to do,
No matter what Ma say! An’ so
He salt an’ butter ‘em, an’ blow

‘Em cool enough fer us to eat—
An’ me-o-my! they’re hard to beat!
An’ Trip ‘ud ist lay there an’ pant
Like he’d laugh out loud, but he can’t.
Nen Uncle fill his pipe—an’ we
‘Ud he’p him light it—Sis an’ me,—
But mostly little Lee-Bob, ’cause
“He’s the best Lighter ever wuz!”
Like Uncle telled him wunst when Lee-
Bob cried an’ jerked the light from me,
He wuz so mad! So Uncle pat
An’ pet him. (Lee-Bob’s ust to that—

‘Cause he’s the little-est, you know,
An’ allus has b’en humored so!)
Nen Uncle gits the flat-arn out,
An’, while he’s tellin’ us all ’bout

Old Chris’mus-times when he’s a kid,
He ist cracked hickernuts, he did,
Till they’s a crockful, mighty nigh!
An’ when they’re all done by an’ by,
He raked the red coals out again
An’ telled me, “Fetch that popcorn in,
An’ old three-leggud skillut—an’
The led an’ all now, little man,—
An’ yer old Uncle here ‘ull show
You how corn’s popped, long years ago
When me an’ Santy Claus wuz boys
On Pap’s old place in Illinoise!—

An’ your Pa, too, wuz chums, all through,
With Santy!—Wisht Pa’d be here, too!”
Nen Uncle sigh at Ma, an’ she
Pat him again, an’ say to me

An’ Etty,—”You take warning fair!—
Don’t talk too much, like Uncle there,
Ner don’t fergit, like him, my dears,
That ‘little pitchers has big ears!’”
But Uncle say to her, “Clear out!—
Yer brother knows what he’s about.—
You git your Chris’mus-cookin’ done
Er these pore childern won’t have none!”
Nen Trip wake up an’ raise, an’ nen
Turn roun’ an’ nen lay down again.
An’ one time Uncle Sidney say,—
“When dogs is sleepin’ thataway,

Like Trip, an’ whimpers, it’s a sign
He’ll ketch eight rabbits—mayby nine
Afore his fleas’ll wake him—nen
He’ll bite hisse’f to sleep again

An try to dream he’s go’ ketch ten.”
An’ when Ma’s gone again back in
The kitchen, Uncle scratch his chin
An’ say, “When Santy Claus an’ Pa
An’ me wuz little boys—an’ Ma,
When she’s ’bout big as Etty there;—
W’y,—’When we’re growed—no matter where,’
Santy he cross’ his heart an’ say,—
‘I’ll come to see you, all, some day
When you’ got childerns—all but me
An’ pore old Sid!’” Nen Uncle he
Ist kindo’ shade his eyes an’ pour’

‘Bout forty-’leven bushels more
O’ popcorn out the skillut there
In Ma’s new basket on the chair.
An’ nen he telled us—an’ talk’ low,

“So Ma can’t hear,” he say:—”You know
Yer Pa know’, when he drived away,
Tomorry’s go’ be Chris’mus-Day;—
Well, nen tonight,” he whisper, “see?—
It’s go’ be Chris’mus-Eve,” says-ee,
“An’, like yer Pa hint, when he went,
Old Santy Claus (now hush!) he’s sent
Yer Pa a postul-card, an’ write
He’s shorely go’ be here tonight….
That’s why yer Pa’s so bored to be
Away tonight, when Santy he
Is go’ be here, sleighbells an’ all,

To make you kids a Chris’mus-call!”
An’ we’re so glad to know fer shore
He’s comin’, I roll on the floor—
An’ here come Trip a-waller’n’ roun’

An’ purt’-nigh knock the clo’eshorse down!—
An’ Etty grab Lee-Bob an’ prance
All roun’ the room like it’s a dance—
Till Ma she come an’ march us nen
To dinner, where we’re still again,
But tickled so we ist can’t eat
But pie, an’ ist the hot mincemeat
With raisins in.—But Uncle et,
An’ Ma. An’ there they set an’ set
Till purt’-nigh supper-time; nen we
Tell him he’s got to fix the Tree
‘Fore Santy gits here, like he said.

We go nen to the old woodshed—
All bundled up, through the deep snow—
“An’ snowin’ yet, jee-rooshy-O!”
Uncle he said, an’ he’p us wade

Back where’s the Chris’mus-Tree he’s made
Out of a little jackoak-top
He git down at the sawmill-shop—
An’ Trip ‘ud run ahead, you know,
An’ ‘tend-like he ‘uz eatin’ snow—
When we all waddle back with it;
An’ Uncle set it up—an’ git
It wite in front the fireplace—’cause
He says “‘Tain’t so ‘at Santy Claus
Comes down all chimblies,—least, tonight
He’s comin’ in this house all right—
By the front-door, as ort to be!—

We’ll all be hid where we can see!”
Nen he look up, an’ he see Ma
An’ say, “It’s ist too bad their Pa
Can’t be here, so’s to see the fun

The childern will have, ever’ one!”
Well, we!—We hardly couldn’t wait
Till it wuz dusk, an’ dark an’ late
Enough to light the lamp!—An’ Lee-
Bob light a candle on the Tree—
“Ist one—’cause I’m ‘The Lighter’!”—Nen
He clumb on Uncle’s knee again
An’ hug us bofe;—an’ Etty git
Her little chist an’ set on it
Wite clos’t, while Uncle telled some more
‘Bout Santy Claus, an’ clo’es he wore
All maked o’ furs, an’ trimmed as white

As cotton is, er snow at night!”
An’ nen, all sudden-like, he say,—
Hush! Listen there! Hain’t that a sleigh
An’ sleighbells jinglin’?” Trip go “whooh!”

Like he hear bells an’ smell ‘em, too.
Nen we all listen…. An’-sir, shore
Enough, we hear bells—more an’ more
A-jinglin’ clos’ter—clos’ter still
Down the old crook-road roun’ the hill.
An’ Uncle he jumps up, an’ all
The chairs he jerks back by the wall
An’ th’ows a’ overcoat an’ pair
O’ winder-curtains over there
An’ says, “Hide quick, er you’re too late!—
Them bells is stoppin’ at the gate!—
Git back o’ them-’air chairs an’ hide,

‘Cause I hear Santy’s voice outside!”
An’ Bang! bang! bang! we heerd the door—
Nen it flewed open, an’ the floor
Blowed full o’ snow—that’s first we saw,

Till little Lee-Bob shriek’ at Ma
There’s Santy Claus!—I know him by
His big white mufftash!“—an’ ist cry
An’ laugh an’ squeal an’ dance an’ yell
Till, when he quiet down a spell,
Old Santy bow an’ th’ow a kiss
To him—an’ one to me an’ Sis—
An’ nen go clos’t to Ma an’ stoop
An’ kiss her—An’ nen give a whoop
That fainted her!—’Cause when he bent
An’ kiss her, he ist backed an’ went
Wite ‘ginst the Chris’mus-Tree ist where

The candle’s at Lee-Bob lit there!—
An’ set his white-fur belt afire—
An’ blaze streaked roun’ his waist an’ higher
Wite up his old white beard an’ th’oat!—

Nen Uncle grabs th’ old overcoat
An’ flops it over Santy’s head,
An’ swing the door wide back an’ said,
“Come out, old man!—an’ quick about
It!—I’ve ist got to put you out!”
An’ out he sprawled him in the snow—
“Now roll!” he says—”Hi-roll-ee-O!”—
An’ Santy, sputter’n’ “Ouch! Gee-whiz!
Ist roll an’ roll fer all they is!
An’ Trip he’s out there, too,—I know,
‘Cause I could hear him yappin’ so—
An’ I heerd Santy, wunst er twic’t,

Say, as he’s rollin’, “Drat the fice’t!”
Nen Uncle come back in, an’ shake
Ma up, an’ say, “Fer mercy-sake!—
He hain’t hurt none!” An’ nen he said,—

“You youngsters h’ist up-stairs to bed!—
Here! kiss yer Ma ‘Good-night,’ an’ me,—
We’ll he’p old Santy fix the Tree—
An’ all yer whistles, horns an’ drums
I’ll he’p you toot when morning comes!”
It’s long while ‘fore we go to sleep,—
‘Cause down-stairs, all-time somepin’ keep
A-kindo’ scufflin’ roun’ the floors—
An’ openin’ doors, an’ shettin’ doors—
An’ could hear Trip a-whinin’, too,
Like he don’t know ist what to do—

An’ tongs a-clankin’ down k’thump!—
Nen some one squonkin’ the old pump—
An’ Wooh! how cold it soun’ out there!
I could ist see the pump-spout where

It’s got ice chin-whiskers all wet
An’ drippy—An’ I see it yet!
An’ nen, seem-like, I hear some mens
A-talkin’ out there by the fence,
An’ one says, “Oh, ’bout twelve o’clock!”
“Nen,” ‘nother’n says, “Here’s to you, Doc!—
God bless us ever’ one!” An’ nen
I heerd the old pump squonk again.
An’ nen I say my prayer all through
Like Uncle Sidney learn’ me to,—
“O Father mine, e’en as Thine own,
This child looks up to Thee alone:

Asleep or waking, give him still
His Elder Brother’s wish and will.”
An’ that’s the last I know…. Till Ma
She’s callin’ us—an’ so is Pa,—

He holler “Chris’mus-gif’!” an’ say,—
“I’m got back home fer Chris’mus-Day!—
An’ Uncle Sid’s here, too—an’ he
Is nibblin’ ‘roun’ yer Chris’mus-Tree!”
Nen Uncle holler, “I suppose
Yer Pa’s so proud he’s froze his nose
He wants to turn it up at us,
‘Cause Santy kick’ up such a fuss—
Tetchin’ hisse’f off same as ef
He wuz his own fireworks hisse’f!”

An’ when we’re down-stairs,—shore enough,
Pa’s nose is froze an’ salve an’ stuff

All on it—an’ one hand’s froze, too,
An’ got a old yarn red-and-blue
Mitt on it—”An’ he’s froze some more
Acrost his chist, an’ kindo’ sore

All roun’ his dy-fram,” Uncle say.—
“But Pa he’d ort a-seen the way
Santy bear up last night when that-
Air fire break out, an’ quicker’n scat
He’s all a-blazin’, an’ them-’air
Gun-cotton whiskers that he wear
Ist flashin’!—till I burn a hole
In the snow with him, and he roll
The front-yard dry as Chris’mus jokes
Old parents plays on little folks!
But, long’s a smell o’ tow er wool,
I kep’ him rollin’ beautiful!—

Till I wuz shore I shorely see
He’s squenched! W’y, hadn’t b’en fer me,
That old man might a-burnt clear down
Clean—plum’—level with the groun’!”

Nen Ma say, “There, Sid; that’ll do!—
Breakfast is ready—Chris’mus, too.—
Your voice ‘ud soun’ best, sayin’ Grace
Say it.” An’ Uncle bow’ his face
An’ say so long a Blessing nen,
Trip bark’ two times ‘fore it’s “A-men!”

In the Yule-Log Glow (Christmas Tales from ‘Round the World)





If, gentle reader, you will step across this threshold, now, as the moon rises in the keen Christmas air, and will find a place by the ruddy ingle within-doors, you may hear, if you will, a Babel of voices from many lands, telling over the adventures of the road and falling into the good-fellowship of the happy Christmas season.

Here from the north, with his ample furs thrown back, sits the Russian in friendly talk with a gay little wanderer from Sicilian valleys. There, with elbow crooked by a foaming tankard, leans the German, narrating his perils and pleasures to a gallant Frenchman and a sunbrowned Spaniard who smoke and chatter together as now and then Mynheer stops for a pull at his pipe.

A Swede, Norwegians, an Englishman or two, and even a happy-go-lucky American, are clustered about the Yule-log; for the place you have entered is the common-room of the wide world.

As you slip the latch and take your seat, some traveller calls out: A Merry Christmas! Another cries: A story, a story! and so they fall to, each from his own scrip taking forth a native tale,—and so they sit the midnight out listening and talking in turn; while the good cheer goes round in endless abundance and laughter and song make interludes for the varied narratives.


The Three Christmas Masses, from Alphonse Daudet
A Russian Christmas Party, by Count Léo Tolstoi
Two Christmases, from Georg Schuster
A Tale of a Turkey, by Harrison S. Morris
A Still Christmas, by Agnes Repplier
Thrond, from the Bjornstjerne Bjornson
Christmas in the Desert, by Matilda Betham Edwards




Christmas with the Baron, by Angelo J. Lewis
A Christmas Miracle, by Harrison S. Morris
Salvette and Bernadou, from the French of Alphonse Daudet
The Wolf Tower
The Peace Egg, by Juliana Horatia Ewing
A Story of Nuremberg, by Agnes Repplier
A Picture of the Nativity By Fra Filippo Lippi, by Vernon Lee
Melchior’s Dream, by Juliana Horatia Ewing
Mr. Grapewine’s Christmas Dinner, by Harrison S. Morris