The fight was about to begin when Billy got there, and the herald was crying out how the champion would fight the dragon for the princess's sake, when suddenly there was heard a fearsome great roaring, and the people shouted, "Here he is now, the dragon!"

The dragon had more heads than the biggest of the giants, and fire and smoke came from every one of them. And when the champion saw the creature, he never waited even to take his sword,—he turned and ran; and he never stopped till he came to a deep well, where he jumped in and hid himself, up to the neck.

When the princess saw that her champion was gone, she began wringing her hands, and crying, "Oh, please, kind gentlemen, fight the dragon, some of you, and keep me from being eaten! Will no one fight the dragon for me?" But no one stepped up, at all. And the dragon made to eat the princess.

Just then, out stepped Billy from the crowd, with his fine suit of clothes and his hide belt on him. "I'll fight the beast," he says, and swinging his stick three times round his head, to give him the strength of a thousand men besides his own, he walked up to the dragon, with easy gait. The princess and all the people were looking, you may be sure, and the dragon raged at Billy with all his mouths, and they at it and fought. It was a terrible fight, but in the end Billy Beg had the dragon down, and he cut off his heads with the sword.

There was great shouting, then, and crying that the strange champion must come to the king to be made prince, and to the princess, to be seen. But in the midst of the hullabaloo Billy Begs slips on the brown mare and is off and away before anyone has seen his face. But, quick as he was, he was not so quick but that the princess caught hold of him as he jumped on his horse, and he got away with one shoe left in her hand. And home he rode, to his master's house, and had his old clothes on and the mare in the stable before his master came back.

When his master came back, he had a great tale for Billy, how the princess's champion had run from the dragon, and a strange knight had come out of the clouds and killed the dragon, and before anyone could stop him had disappeared in the sky. "Wasn't it wonderful?" said the old gentleman to Billy. "I should say so," said Billy to him.

Soon there was proclamation made that the man who killed the dragon was to be found, and to be made son of the king and husband of the princess; for that, everyone should come up to the king's town and try on the shoe which the princess had pulled from off the foot of the strange champion, that he whom it fitted should be known to be the man. On the day set, there was passing of coaches and chaises, of carriages and wheelbarrows, people on horseback and afoot, and Billy's master was the first to go.

While Billy was watching, at last came along a raggedy man.

"Will you change clothes with me, and I'll give you boot?" said Billy to him.

"Shame to you to mock a poor raggedy man!" said the raggedy man to Billy.

"It's no mock," said Billy, and he changed clothes with the raggedy man, and gave him boot.

When Billy came to the king's town, in his dreadful old clothes, no one knew him for the champion at all, and none would let him come forward to try the shoe. But after all had tried, Billy spoke up that he wanted to try. They laughed at him, and pushed him back, with his rags. But the princess would have it that he should try. "I like his face," said she; "let him try, now."

So up stepped Billy, and put on the shoe, and it fitted him like his own skin.

Then Billy confessed that it was he that killed the dragon. And that he was a king's son. And they put a velvet suit on him, and hung a gold chain round his neck, and everyone said a finer-looking boy they'd never seen.

So Billy married the princess, and was the prince of that place.

THE LITTLE HERO OF HAARLEM[1]

[Footnote 1: Told from memory of the story told me when a child.]

A long way off, across the ocean, there is a little country where the ground is lower than the level of the sea, instead of higher, as it is here. Of course the water would run in and cover the land and houses, if something were not done to keep it out. But something is done. The people build great, thick walls all round the country, and the walls keep the sea out. You see how much depends on those walls,—the good crops, the houses, and even the safety of the people. Even the small children in that country know that an accident to one of the walls is a terrible thing. These walls are really great banks, as wide as roads, and they are called "dikes."

Once there was a little boy who lived in that country, whose name was Hans. One day, he took his little brother out to play. They went a long way out of the town, and came to where there were no houses, but ever so many flowers and green fields. By-and-by, Hans climbed up on the dike, and sat down; the little brother was playing about at the foot of the bank.

Suddenly the little brother called out, "Oh, what a funny little hole! It bubbles!"

"Hole? Where?" said Hans.

"Here in the bank," said the little brother; "water's in it."

"What!" said Hans, and he slid down as fast as he could to where his brother was playing.

There was the tiniest little hole in the bank. Just an air-hole. A drop of water bubbled slowly through.

"It is a hole in the dike!" cried Hans. "What shall we do?"

He looked all round; not a person or a house in sight. He looked at the hole; the little drops oozed steadily through; he knew that the water would soon break a great gap, because that tiny hole gave it a chance. The town was so far away—if they ran for help it would be too late; what should he do? Once more he looked; the hole was larger, now, and the water was trickling.

Suddenly a thought came to Hans. He stuck his little forefinger right into the hole, where it fitted tight; and he said to his little brother, "Run, Dieting! Go to the town and tell the men there's a hole in the dike. Tell them I will keep it stopped till they get here."

The little brother knew by Hans' face that something very serious was the matter, and he started for the town, as fast as his legs could run. Hans, kneeling with his finger in the hole, watched him grow smaller and smaller as he got farther away.

Soon he was as small as a chicken; then he was only a speck; then he was out of sight. Hans was alone, his finger tight in the bank.

He could hear the water, slap, slap, slap, on the stones; and deep down under the slapping was a gurgling, rumbling sound. It seemed very near.

By-and-by, his hand began to feel numb. He rubbed it with the other hand; but it got colder and more numb, colder and more numb, every minute. He looked to see if the men were coming; the road was bare as far as he could see. Then the cold began creeping, creeping, up his arm; first his wrist, then his arm to the elbow, then his arm to the shoulder; how cold it was! And soon it began to ache. Ugly little cramp-pains streamed up his finger, up his palm, up his arm, till they reached into his shoulder, and down the back of his neck. It seemed hours since the little brother went away. He felt very lonely, and the hurt in his arm grew and grew. He watched the road with all his eyes, but no one came in sight. Then he leaned his head against the dike, to rest his shoulder.

As his ear touched the dike, he heard the voice of the great sea, murmuring. The sound seemed to say,—

"I am the great sea. No one can stand against me. What are you, a little child, that you try to keep me out? Beware! Beware!"

Hans' heart beat in heavy knocks. Would they never come? He was frightened.

And the water went on beating at the wall, and murmuring, "I will come through, I will come through, I will get you, I will get you, run—run—before I come through!"

Hans started to pull out his finger; he was so frightened that he felt as if he must run for ever. But that minute he remembered how much depended on him; if he pulled out his finger, the water would surely make the hole bigger, and at last break down the dike, and the sea would come in on all the land and houses. He set his teeth, and stuck his finger tighter than ever.

"You shall not come through!" he whispered, "I will not run!"

At that moment, he heard a far-off shout. Far in the distance he saw a black something on the road, and dust. The men were coming! At last, they were coming. They came nearer, fast, and he could make out his own father, and the neighbours. They had pickaxes and shovels, and they were running. And as they ran they shouted, "We're coming; take heart, we're coming!"

The next minute, it seemed, they were there. And when they saw Hans, with his pale face, and his hand tight in the dike, they gave a great cheer,—just as people do for soldiers back from war; and they lifted him up and rubbed his aching arm with tender hands, and they told him that he was a real hero and that he had saved the town.

When the men had mended the dike, they marched home like an army, and Hans was carried high on their shoulders, because he was a hero. And to this day the people of Haarlem tell the story of how a little boy saved the dike.

THE LAST LESSON[1]

[Footnote 1: Adapted from the French of Alphonse Daudet.]

Little Franz didn't want to go to school, that morning. He would much rather have played truant. The air was so warm and still,—you could hear the blackbird singing at the edge of the wood, and the sound of the Prussians drilling, down in the meadow behind the old sawmill. He would so much rather have played truant! Besides, this was the day for the lesson in the rule of participles; and the rule of participles in French is very, very long, and very hard, and it has more exceptions than rule. Little Franz did not know it at all. He did not want to go to school.

But, somehow, he went. His legs carried him reluctantly into the village and along the street. As he passed the official bulletin-board before the town hall, he noticed a little crowd round it, looking at it. That was the place where the news of lost battles, the requisition for more troops, the demands for new taxes were posted. Small as he was, little Franz had seen enough to make him think, "What now, I wonder?" But he could not stop to see; he was afraid of being late.

When he came to the school-yard his heart beat very fast; he was afraid he was late, after all, for the windows were all open, and yet he heard no noise,—the schoolroom was perfectly quiet. He had been counting on the noise and confusion before school,—the slamming of desk covers, the banging of books, the tapping of the master's cane and his "A little less noise, please,"—to let him slip quietly into his seat unnoticed. But no; he had to open the door and walk up the long aisle, in the midst of a silent room, with the master looking straight at him. Oh, how hot his cheeks felt, and how hard his heart beat! But to his great surprise the master didn't scold at all. All he said was, "Come quickly to your place, my little Franz; we were just going to begin without you!"

Little Franz could hardly believe his ears; that wasn't at all the way the master was accustomed to speak. It was very strange! Somehow—everything was very strange. The room looked queer. Everybody was sitting so still, so straight—as if it were an exhibition day, or something very particular. And the master—he looked strange, too; why, he had on his fine lace jabot and his best coat, that he wore only on holidays, and his gold snuff-box in his hand. Certainly it was very odd. Little Franz looked all round, wondering. And there in the back of the room was the oddest thing of all. There, on a bench, sat visitors. Visitors! He could not make it out; people never came except on great occasions,—examination days and such. And it was not a holiday. Yet there were the agent, the old blacksmith, the farmer, sitting quiet and still. It was very, very strange.

Just then the master stood up and opened school. He said, "My children, this is the last time I shall ever teach you. The order has come from Berlin that henceforth nothing but German shall be taught in the schools of Alsace and Lorraine. This is your last lesson in French. I beg you, be very attentive."

His last lesson in French! Little Franz could not believe his ears; his last lesson—ah, that was what was on the bulletin-board! It flashed across him in an instant. That was it! His last lesson in French—and he scarcely knew how to read and write—why, then, he should never know how! He looked down at his books, all battered and torn at the corners; and suddenly his books seemed quite different to him, they seemed—somehow—like friends. He looked at the master, and he seemed different, too,—like a very good friend. Little Franz began to feel strange himself. Just as he was thinking about it, he heard his name called, and he stood up to recite.

It was the rule of participles.

Oh, what wouldn't he have given to be able to say it off from beginning to end, exceptions and all, without a blunder! But he could only stand and hang his head; he did not know a word of it. Then through the hot pounding in his ears he heard the master's voice; it was quite gentle; not at all the scolding voice he expected. And it said, "I'm not going to punish you, little Franz. Perhaps you are punished enough. And you are not alone in your fault. We all do the same thing,—we all put off our tasks till to-morrow. And—sometimes—to-morrow never comes. That is what it has been with us. We Alsatians have been always putting off our education till the morrow; and now they have a right, those people down there, to say to us, 'What! You call yourselves French, and cannot even read and write the French language? Learn German, then!'"

And then the master spoke to them of the French language. He told them how beautiful it was, how clear and musical and reasonable, and he said that no people could be hopelessly conquered so long as it kept its language, for the language was the key to its prison-house. And then he said he was going to tell them a little about that beautiful language, and he explained the rule of participles.

And do you know, it was just as simple as ABC! Little Franz understood every word. It was just the same with the rest of the grammar lesson. I don't know whether little Franz listened harder, or whether the master explained better; but it was all quite clear, and simple.

But as they went on with it, and little Franz listened and looked, it seemed to him that the master was trying to put the whole French language into their heads in that one hour. It seemed as if he wanted to teach them all he knew, before he went,—to give them all he had,—in this last lesson.

From the grammar he went on to the writing lesson. And for this, quite new copies had been prepared. They were written on clean, new slips of paper, and they were:—

France: Alsace. France: Alsace.

All up and down the aisles they hung out from the desks like little banners, waving:—

France: Alsace. France: Alsace.

And everybody worked with all his might,—not a sound could you hear but the scratching of pens on the "France: Alsace."

Even the little ones bent over their up and down strokes with their tongues stuck out to help them work.

After the writing came the reading lesson, and the little ones sang their ba, be, bi, bo, bu.

Right in the midst of it, Franz heard a curious sound, a big deep voice mingling with the children's voices. He turned round, and there, on the bench in the back of the room, the old blacksmith sat with a big ABC book open on his knees. It was his voice Franz had heard. He was saying the sounds with the little children,—ba, be, bi, bo, bu. His voice sounded so odd, with the little voices,—so very odd,—it made little Franz feel queer. It seemed so funny that he thought he would laugh; then he thought he wouldn't laugh, he felt—he felt very queer.

So it went on with the lessons; they had them all. And then, suddenly, the town clock struck noon. And at the same time they heard the tramp of the Prussians' feet, coming back from drill.

It was time to close school.

The master stood up. He was very pale. Little Franz had never seen him look so tall. He said:—

"My children—my children"—but something choked him; he could not go on. Instead he turned and went to the blackboard and took up a piece of chalk. And then he wrote, high up, in big white letters, "Vive la France!"

And he made a little sign to them with his head, "That is all; go away."

THE STORY OF CHRISTMAS

There was once a nation which was very powerful, very fortunate, and very proud. Its lands were fruitful; its armies were victorious in battle; and it had strong kings, wise lawgivers, and great poets. But after a great many years, everything changed. The nation had no more strong kings, no more wise lawgivers; its armies were beaten in battle, and neighbouring tribes conquered the country and took the fruitful lands; there were no more poets except a few who made songs of lamentation. The people had become a captive and humiliated people; and the bitterest part of all its sadness was the memory of past greatness.

But in all the years of failure and humiliation, there was one thing which kept this people from despair; one hope lived in their hearts and kept them from utter misery. It was a hope which came from something one of the great poets of the past had said, in prophecy. This prophecy was whispered in the homes of the poor, taught in the churches, repeated from father to son among the rich; it was like a deep, hidden well of comfort in a desert of suffering. The prophecy said that some time a deliverer should be born for the nation, a new king even stronger than the old ones, mighty enough to conquer its enemies, set it free, and bring back the splendid days of old. This was the hope and expectation all the people looked for; they waited through the years for the prophecy to come true.

In this nation, in a little country town, lived a man and a woman whose names were Joseph and Mary. And it happened, one year, that they had to take a little journey up to the town which was the nearest tax-centre, to have their names put on the census list; because that was the custom in that country.

But when they got to the town, so many others were there for the same thing, and it was such a small town, that every place was crowded. There was no room for them at the inn. Finally, the innkeeper said they might sleep in the stable, on the straw. So they went there for the night.

And while they were there, in the stable, their first child was born to them, a little son. And because there was no cradle to put Him in, the mother made a little warm nest of the hay in the big wooden manger where the oxen had eaten, and wrapped the baby in swaddling clothes, and laid Him in the manger, for a bed!

That same night, on the hills outside the town, there were shepherds, keeping their flocks through the darkness. They were tired with watching over the sheep, and they stood or sat about, drowsily, talking and watching the stars. And as they watched, behold, an angel of the Lord appeared unto them! And the glory of the Lord shone round about them! And they were sore afraid. But the angel said unto them, "Fear not, for behold I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born, this day, in the city of David, a saviour,—which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you: ye shall find the babe, wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger."

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men."

When the angels were gone up from them into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, "Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us." And they came, with haste, and they found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger. And when they saw Him in the manger, they knew that the wonderful thing the angel said had really happened, and that the great deliverer was born at last.



THE CHILD-MIND; AND HOW TO SATISFY IT

"It is the grown people who make the nursery stories," wrote Stevenson, "all the children do is jealously to preserve the text." And the grown person, whether he makes his stories with pen or with tongue, should bring two qualities at least to the work—simplicity of language and a serious sincerity. The reason for the simplicity is obvious, for no one, child or otherwise, can thoroughly enjoy a story clouded by words which convey no meaning to him.

The second quality is less obvious but equally necessary. No absence of fun is intended by the words "serious sincerity," but they mean that the story-teller should bring to the child an equal interest in what is about to be told; an honest acceptance, for the time being, of the fairies, or the heroes, or the children, or the animals who talk, with which the tale is concerned. The child deserves this equality of standpoint, and without it there can be no entire success.

As for the stories themselves, the difficulty lies with the material, not with the child. Styles may be varied generously, but the matter must be quarried for. Out of a hundred children's books it is more than likely that ninety-nine will be useless; yet perhaps out of one autobiography may be gleaned an anecdote, or a reminiscence which can be amplified into an absorbing tale. Almost every story-teller will find that the open eye and ear will serve him better than much arduous searching. No one book will yield him the increase to his repertoire which will come to him by listening, by browsing in chance volumes and magazines, and even newspapers, by observing everyday life, and in all remembering his own youth, and his youthful, waiting audience.

And that youthful audience? A rather too common mistake is made in allowing overmuch for the creative imagination of the normal child. It is not creative imagination which the normal child possesses so much as an enormous credulity and no limitations. If we consider for a moment we see that there has been little or nothing to limit things for him, therefore anything is possible. It is the years of our life as they come which narrow our fancies and set a bound to our beliefs; for experience has taught us that for the most part a certain cause will produce a certain effect. The child, on the contrary, has but little knowledge of causes, and as yet but an imperfect realisation of effects. If we, for instance, go into the midst of a savage country, we know that there is the chance of our meeting a savage. But to the young child it is quite as possible to meet a Red Indian coming round the bend of the brook at the bottom of the orchard, as it is to meet him in his own wigwam.

The child is an adept at make-believe, but his make-believes are, as a rule, practical and serious. It is credulity rather than imagination which helps him. He takes the tales he has been told, the facts he has observed, and for the most part reproduces them to the best of his ability. And "nothing," as Stevenson says, "can stagger a child's faith; he accepts the clumsiest substitutes and can swallow the most staring incongruities. The chair he has just been besieging as a castle is taken away for the accommodation of a morning visitor and he is nothing abashed; he can skirmish by the hour with a stationary coal-scuttle; in the midst of the enchanted pleasuance he can see, without sensible shock, the gardener soberly digging potatoes for the day's dinner."

The child, in fact, is neither undeveloped "grown-up" nor unspoiled angel. Perhaps he has a dash of both, but most of all he is akin to the grown person who dreams. With the dreamer and with the child there is that unquestioning acceptance of circumstances as they arise, however unusual and disconcerting they may be. In dreams the wildest, most improbable and fantastic things happen, but they are not so to the dreamer. The veriest cynic amongst us must take his dreams seriously and without a sneer, whether he is forced to leap from the edge of a precipice, whether he finds himself utterly incapable of packing his trunk in time for the train, whether in spite of his distress at the impropriety, he finds himself at a dinner-party minus his collar, or whether the riches of El Dorado are laid at his feet. For him at the time it is all quite real and harassingly or splendidly important.

To the child and to the dreamer all things are possible; frogs may talk, bears may be turned into princes, gallant tailors may overcome giants, fir-trees may be filled with ambitions. A chair may become a horse, a chest of drawers a coach and six, a hearthrug a battlefield, a newspaper a crown of gold. And these are facts which the story-teller must realise, and choose and shape the stories accordingly.

Many an old book, which to a modern grown person may seem prim and over-rigid, will be to the child a delight; for him the primness and the severity slip away, the story remains. Such a book as Mrs Sherwood's Fairchild Family is an example of this. To a grown person reading it for the first time, the loafing propensities of the immaculate Mrs Fairchild, who never does a hand's turn of good work for anyone from cover to cover, the hard piety, the snobbishness, the brutality of taking the children to the old gallows and seating them before the dangling remains of a murderer, while the lesson of brotherly love is impressed are shocking when they are not amusing; but to the child the doings of the naughty and repentant little Fairchilds are engrossing; and experience proves to us that the twentieth-century child is as eager for the book as were ever his nineteenth-century grandfather and grandmother.

Good Mrs Timmin's History of the Robins, too, is a continuous delight; and from its pompous and high-sounding dialogue a skilful adapter may glean not only one story, but one story with two versions; for the infant of eighteen months can follow the narrative of the joys and troubles, errors and kindnesses of Robin, Dicky, Flopsy and Pecksy; while the child of five or ten or even more will be keenly interested in a fuller account of the birds' adventures and the development of their several characters and those of their human friends and enemies.

From these two books, from Miss Edgeworth's wonderful Moral Tales; from Miss Wetherell's delightful volume Mr Rutherford's Children; from Jane and Ann Taylor's Original Poems; from Thomas Day's Sandford and Merton; from Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress and Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare, and from many another old friend, stories may be gathered, but the story-teller will find that in almost all cases adaptation is a necessity. The joy of the hunt, however, is a real joy, and with a field which stretches from the myths of Greece to Uncle Remus, from Le Morte d'Arthur to the Jungle Books, there need be no more lack of pleasure for the seeker than for the receiver of the spoil.

* * * * *

The following is a list of valuable sources for the story-teller, all yielding either good original material for adaptation, or stories which need only a slight alteration in the telling.[1]

[Footnote 1: Readers may be interested in A History of Story-telling, by Arthur Ransome. (Jack.)]

THE BIBLE. MOTHER GOOSE'S MELODY. (Bullen.) THE STORY HOUR, by Kate Douglas Wiggin. (Gay & Hancock.) STORIES FOR KINDERGARTEN. (Ginn.) ST NICHOLAS MAGAZINE, bound volumes. (Warne.) LITTLE FOLKS, bound volumes. (Cassell.) FABLES AND NURSERY TALES, edited by Prof. Charles Eliot Norton. (Heath.) STORIES TO TELL THE LITTLEST ONES, by Sara Gone Bryant. (Harrap.) MOTHER STORIES, by Maud Lindsay. (Harrap.) MORE MOTHER STORIES, by Maud Lindsay. (Harrap.) AESOP'S FABLES. STORIES TO TELL TO CHILDREN, by Sara Cone Bryant. (Harrap.) THE BOOK OF STORIES FOR THE STORY-TELLER, by Fanny Coe. (Harrap.) SONGS AND STORIES FOR THE LITTLE ONES, by Gordon Browne. (Harrap.) CHARACTER TRAINING (stories with an ethical bearing), by E.L. Cabot and E. Eyles. (Harrap.) STORIES FOR THE STORY HOUR, by Ada M. Marzials. (Harrap.) STORIES FOR THE HISTORY HOUR, by Nannie Niemeyer. (Harrap.) STORIES FOR THE BIBLE HOUR, by R. Brimley Johnson. (Harrap.) NATURE STORIES TO TELL TO CHILDREN, by H. Waddingham Seers. (Harrap.) OLD TIME TALES, by Florence Dugdale. (Collins.) THE MABINOGION. (Dent.) PERCY'S RELIQUES. (Warne.)

TOLD THROUGH THE AGES SERIES. (Harrap.) LEGENDS OF GREECE AND ROME, by G.H. Kupfer, M.A. FAVOURITE GREEK MYTHS, by L.S. Hyde. STORIES OF ROBIN HOOD, by J.W. McSpadden. STORIES OF KING ARTHUR, by U.W. Cutler. STORIES FROM GREEK HISTORY, by H.L. Havell, B.A. STORIES FROM WAGNER, by J.W. McSpadden. BRITAIN LONG AGO (stories from old English and Celtic sources), by E.M. Wilmot-Buxton, F.R.Hist.S. STORIES FROM SCOTTISH HISTORY (selected from "Tales of a Grandfather"), by Madalen Edgar, M.A. STORIES FROM GREEK TRAGEDY, by H.L. Havell, B.A. STORIES FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE, by Madalen Edgar, M.A. STORIES FROM CHAUCER, by J.W. McSpadden. STORIES FROM THE OLD TESTAMENT, by Mrs S. Platt. TOLD BY THE NORTHMEN (stories from the Norse eddas and sagas), by E.M. Wilmot-Buxton, F.R.Hist.S. STORIES FROM DON QUIXOTE, by H.L. Havell, B.A. THE STORY OF ROLAND AND THE PEERS OF CHARLEMAGNE, by James Baldwin.

(Teachers in need of good stories should keep themselves acquainted with the development of this series, as fresh volumes are constantly added. The material is precisely the right kind for the story-teller, since the stories have come to us from distant days when, as the national inheritance of this race or that, they were told in homely cabins by parents to their children, or sung by bards to festive companies.)

STORIES OF THE ENGLISH, by F. (Blackwood.) OLD GREEK FOLK STORIES, by Josephine Peabody. (Harrap.) RED CAP TALES, by S.R. Crockett. (Black.) A CHILD'S BOOK OF SAINTS, by Wm. Canton. (Dent.) CUCHULAIN, THE HOUND OF ULSTER, by Eleanor Hull. (Harrap.) THE HIGH DEEDS OF FINN, by T.W. Rolleston, M.A. (Harrap.) THE BOOK OF THE EPIC, by H.A. Guerber. (Harrap.) THE MYTHS OF GREECE AND ROME, by H.A. Guerber. (Harrap.) MYTHS OF THE NORSEMEN, by H.A. Guerber. (Harrap.) MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF THE MIDDLE AGES, by H.A. Guerber. (Harrap.) HERO-MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF THE BRITISH RACE, by M.I. Ebbutt, M.A. (Harrap.) THE MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER. GLEANINGS IN BUDDHA-FIELDS, by Lafcadio Hearn. (Kegan Paul.) THE GOLDEN WINDOWS, by Laura E. Richards. (Allenson.) HANS ANDERSEN'S FAIRY TALES. GRIMM'S FAIRY TALES. ENGLISH FAIRY TALES, by Joseph Jacobs. (Nutt.) FOLK-TALES FROM MANY LANDS, by Lilian Gask. (Harrap.) CELTIC FAIRY TALES, by Joseph Jacobs. (Nutt.) INDIAN FAIRY TALES, by Joseph Jacobs. (Nutt.) WEST AFRICAN FOLK-TALES, by W.H. Barker and C. Sinclair. (Harrap.) RUSSIAN FAIRY TALES, by R. Nisbet Bain. (Harrap.) COSSACK FAIRY TALES, by R. Nisbet Bain. (Harrap.) THE HAPPY PRINCE, by Oscar Wilde. (Nutt.) DONEGAL FAIRY TALES, by Seumas McManus. IN CHIMNEY CORNERS, by Seumas McManus. THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. THE BLUE FAIRY BOOK (and others), by Andrew Lang. (Longmans.) FAIRY STORIES, by John Finnemore. (S.S. Union.) THE JAPANESE FAIRY BOOK. (Constable.) FAIRY TALES FROM FAR JAPAN, translated by Susan Bollard. (Religious Tract Society.) IN THE CHILD'S WORLD. (Philip.) LEGENDS FROM FAIRYLAND, by Holme Lee. (Warne.) THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER, by John Ruskin. (Grant Allen.) THE WELSH FAIRY BOOK, by Jenkyn Thomas. (Unwin.) AT THE BACK OF THE NORTH WIND, by George Macdonald. (Blackie.) TELL-ME-WHY STORIES ABOUT ANIMALS, by C.H. Claudy. (Harrap.) TELL-ME-WHY STORIES ABOUT GREAT DISCOVERIES, by C.H. Claudy. (Harrap.) UNCLE REMUS, by Joel Chandler Harris. (Routledge.) MACAULAY'S LAYS OF ANCIENT ROME. LE MORTE D'ARTHUR, by Sir Thomas Malory. (Macmillan.) THE BOY'S FROISSART, by Henry Newbolt. (Macmillan.) STORIES FROM DANTE, by Susan Cunnington. (Harrap.) THE JUNGLE BOOKS, by Rudyard Kipling. (Macmillan.) JUST SO STORIES, by Rudyard Kipling. (Macmillan.) WOOD MAGIC, by Richard Jefferies. (Longmans.) AMONG THE FARMYARD PEOPLE, by Clara D. Pierson. (Murray.) AMONG THE NIGHT PEOPLE, by Clara D. Pierson. (Murray.) AMONG THE MEADOW PEOPLE, by Clara D. Pierson. (Murray.) THE ANIMAL STORY BOOK, by Andrew Lang. (Longmans.) WILD ANIMALS I HAVE KNOWN, by Ernest Thompson Seton. (Nutt.) A BOOK OF NATURE MYTHS, by Florence Holbrook. (Harrap.) MORE NATURE MYTHS, by F.V. Farmer. (Harrap.) PARABLES FROM NATURE, by Mrs A. Gatty. (Bell.) NORTHERN TRAILS, by W.J. Long. (Ginn.) THE KINDRED OF THE WILD, by Chas. G.D. Roberts. (Duckworth.) RAB AND HIS FRIENDS, by Dr John Brown. A CHILD'S GARDEN OF VERSES, by R.L. Stevenson. (Longmans.) A TREASURY OF VERSE FOR LITTLE CHILDREN, compiled by Madalen Edgar, M.A. (Harrap.) A TREASURY OF VERSE FOR BOYS AND GIRLS, compiled by Madalen Edgar, M.A. (Harrap.) A TREASURY OF BALLADS, compiled by Madalen Edgar, M.A. (Harrap.) BIMBI, by Ouida. (Chatto.) STORIES FROM SHAKESPEARE, by Dr Thomas Carter. (Harrap.) STORIES FROM THE FAERIE QUEENE, by Laurence H. Dawson. (Harrap.) MORAL TALES, by Maria Edgeworth. (Macmillan.)

THE END