Journeys Through Bookland Volume X Part 5

9. _Do not Preach._ Tell the story so the moral, if there is any, may be seen and felt without your striving to point it out.

10. _Talk the Story Over Freely with Your Children._ Try to get their ideas, rather than to give your own. You can tell whether you have succeeded and what your faults in narration have been.

_The Fairies of the Caldon-Low_

The difference between poetry and prose may be shown in rather a startling manner with such a selection as _The Fairies of the Caldon-Low_ (Volume II, page 395). Children like Mary Howitt's little narrative, but what does it really say? Let us put it in plain prose and see!

"Where have you been, Mary?"

"I've been to the top of Caldon-Low to see the midsummer night."

"What did you see?"

"I saw the suns.h.i.+ne come down and the winds blow."

"What did you hear?"

"I heard the water-drops made and the ears of corn fill."

"Tell me everything, Mary, for you must have seen the fairies."

"Then take me on your knee, mother, and listen. Last night a hundred fairies danced on lively feet to the merry music of nine harpers, but the merriest thing was the sound of the fairy talk."

"What did you hear them say?"

"I'll tell you, but let me do it in my own way. Some rolled water down the hill and said, 'this will turn the poor old miller's wheel, and a busy man he will be by morning. There has been no rain since the first of May, and how the jolly old miller will laugh till the tears fill his eyes when he sees the water rise in the milldam.' And some seized the winds and put horns to their mouths and blew sharply. 'And there!' said they shrilly, 'the merry winds go from every horn to clear the damp mildew from the blind old widow's corn. Though she has been blind for a long time she'll be merry enough when the corn stands up stiff and strong without any mildew!' Then some brought flax seed and flung it down, saying, 'by sunrise this will be growing in the weaver's field, and how the poor lame fellow will laugh when he sees his vacant field filled with blue flax flowers in a single day.' Then a brownie with a long beard spoke, 'I have spun all the tow and I want more. I have spun a linen sheet for Mary's bed and an ap.r.o.n for her mother.' I couldn't help but laugh out loud, and then I was alone. On the top of Caldon-Low, the mists were cold and gray and I could see nothing but mossy stones lying about me. But as I came down I heard the jolly miller laughing and his wheel going merrily. I peeped into the widow's cornfield and, sure enough, the golden corn was free from mildew, and at the gate of the croft stood the weaver, whose eye told the good news about his flax field. Now that's all I heard and all I saw, so please make my bed, mother, for I'm as tired as I can be."

Rather a pretty story, even in plain prose, is it not? It is re-written just about as it would be told to a little child for the first time, a child interested in the good fairies who do good things for the poor and the suffering. Then a little later, when the child reads for himself he can see how much better Mary Howitt tells the story in verse.

Nevertheless, some children will prefer it in prose and often may ask to have other poems "told in prose." There is no reason for refusing. Story first, poem afterward, is a good rule to follow if you want to create a taste for poetry. Sometimes just a remark, "Let us see how this sounds in poetry," will create enough interest to enable the parent to begin reading aloud to an attentive audience. Most children will not learn to like poetry if left to their own devices. It must be read aloud to them and its beauties pointed out occasionally to create a love for so artificial a thing as metrical composition.

Parents will find in the General Index at the end of this volume not only reference to the contents of _Journeys_ by t.i.tle and author, but also a cla.s.sification of subject matter, so that it will be easy to find different examples of poetry,--lyric, ballad, sonnet,--and of prose,--fiction, adventure, history, etc., offering a wide range of selection for story-telling purposes.

_Little Giffin of Tennessee_

This little narrative poem (Volume IV, page 461), is intensely dramatic.

Too abrupt in style for easy reading and filled with words the children may not understand, it is not well adapted to the very young. But there's a story in it of courage and deep patriotism that will be an inspiration to every child who can hear it. What better subject can a parent find for his son's encouragement than a tale told in his own words or read in the following?

Little Giffin of Tennessee was only a boy, only a boy of sixteen, not bigger nor stronger than Charlie, Thomas or George Jones whom you see going by to school every day. Yet he wasn't running along bareheaded carrying a bat or swinging his books by a strap. Little Giffin was a poor wounded soldier boy who had been already in eighteen battles; more than one, you see, for every year of his short life.

In the last terrible charge, a grape shot had struck him in the leg and arm and torn the flesh from his broken bones. Over him his comrades swept up to the face of the enemy's guns, and little Giffin was left to fight his battle with cold, and rain and hunger. All night long he lay moaning on the ground, and it was late in the forenoon of the next day when he was found and taken to the hospital.

There they laid his mangled body among the hundreds of others who had met with a fate as hard as his own. It was hours before the surgeons could come to him, and then so hurried were they by other calls upon them that only a hasty dressing of his poisoned wound was possible.

Some kindly visitors found him there, his fair young face flushed with the deadly fever, and begged the surgeons to do something for him.

"We can do nothing," they said. "Our hands are full. His case is hopeless. We must help where it will do some good."

"But may we take him with us? May we see what we can do for him? Perhaps we can find a doctor who can cure him."

"Take him and welcome," the surgeon replied. "But you can find no doctor who can save the dead. Little Giffin can never get well."

But the good people lifted the broken form and carried it out from the hospital's deadly air, into the golden suns.h.i.+ne and away to a clean little cot in a humble home where a good doctor treated him and a kind motherly nurse hung over him and soothed his feverish brain for many a weary hour. For days it seemed that every breath would be his last and for months his sufferings wrung the hearts of his friends.

But at last there came a day when he could sit up a little, and then for weeks he hobbled about, an almost helpless cripple with a rude crutch for his only support.

But his new friends had known that he would get well, for even during the days of burning fever and the weeks of weary recovery his heart had been filled with courage and his steel blue eye had glinted with a dauntless spirit that would not die.

The crippled right arm and mangled fingers were slow in healing and nearly useless when the wounds were closed and only ugly scars remained.

In spite of all, though, he learned again to write, and you can imagine that the first letter, in its scraggly writing, began, "My Dearest Mother," and the next, "Dear Captain."

Mother's answer came first and brought warmth and love to the heart of the brave little cripple who dreamed now only of home--home, which he had not dared hope to see again. But then the Captain's letter came:

"Dear Giffin:

"Your letter reached me tonight. G.o.d bless you, my boy. I thought you were gone with the others. Of the eighty-five who made that fatal charge only you and I are now alive. They say that Johnston is hard pressed and needs every man----"

Little Giffin never finished reading the letter. He was up and ready to start away to the front, to his Captain and to Johnston.

"Johnston needs every man," he said, as the first tears he had shed came to his brave blue eyes. "He needs every man and I'll be some help. I'll write to you, if I'm spared. Good bye. G.o.d bless you, kindest of friends."

He was gone. Long his friends waited for word from Giffin, little Giffin of Tennessee. But there came only the news of a terrible battle with Johnston, where indeed every man was needed.

And little Giffin? Little Giffin never wrote.

But I'd rather have one loyal Giffin, in a nameless grave on a southern battle field, than all the cowardly men who would fawn around me if I were a king.

Now I'll read you a little poem which tells better than I can the story of brave little Giffin of Tennessee.

_The Ballad of Agincourt_

By telling the story and giving some explanation of difficult terms, we are often able to create an interest in poems that would otherwise remain unread. The best of old English ballads are so full of martial spirit that they may well prove an inspiration to many a boy in these days when war has so recently rent the whole world and proved the courage of our own young men. Back of the action that brought bloodshed and suffering is a spirit of loyalty, a genuine patriotism that is as much needed now as when it animated the souls of the British soldiery in those days of long ago. It is part of our inheritance, and may not be forgotten. It is to be hoped that we may never need it again amid the smoke and carnage of the battlefield, or in the silent horror of the trenches, but we have each for himself conflicts to wage with foes more insidious than the armed forces of rival nations, and we can win them only by the same spirit of devotion that brought victory at Agincourt.

_The Ballad of Agincourt_ (Volume V, page 95), is followed by notes that make clear its historical setting, but a few comments may help to a better appreciation of the inspirational value of the selection.

It is natural that in verses written about three hundred years ago there should be found some crudities in style, some lapses in syntax, and not a few words strange to us or having a meaning somewhat different from their present significance. Among such lapses in syntax we find the slight confusion of tenses in the first stanza, caused in the poet's mind by the necessity of making a rhyme for France, though this might have been obviated by writing "stands" for "stood" and using the present tense throughout. The necessities of rhyme troubled Drayton not a little: he must p.r.o.nounce "Agincourt" as it is written to rhyme with "sort," which, by the way, is not a perfect rhyme for "fort" in the sixth stanza, and "great" does not rhyme with "seat" nor "feat"; in the seventh, "rear," "there" and "were" do not rhyme; other instances are easily found. Of words not now familiar, or used in an unfamiliar sense, the following are examples: We do not frequently speak of the wind "standing" in a certain direction; we do not often "advance" our sails nor "prove" our chance; "vaward" and "bilboes" are old words; "ding" in the sense used here has long been forgotten; of "archery" except as a sport we know nothing; "Spanish yew" is no longer valuable for bows, and few can tell how long a "clothyard" (the English ell, 45 inches long) is, or whether it differs from any other "yard" as a measure of length.

If the things just mentioned are defects they are of little moment and add to the quaintness of the verses without detracting from their force.

Anyone who reads for inspiration and for his own betterment puts aside the critical spirit, places himself in the position of the writer, harmonizes thoughts and reads for the message without much concern for the medium. But there are force, action, rhythm, clearness and beauty in this old ballad. Let us see what we can find without carrying a.n.a.lysis to the point where it destroys the spirit. All we need is an understanding of the meaning of the sentences and an expressive reading aloud. The former, we can supply here, the latter the reader must contribute. Poetry must be read aloud to be appreciated by any but those who can listen to their thoughts and hear the words their eyes garner from the printed page. Such readers are few.

Here is the paraphrase that makes the meaning clear.

With a wind blowing straight for France the English soldiery spread their sails to try one more campaign against their ancient enemies.

Crossing the open sea they landed at the mouth of the Seine river, following King Henry and his n.o.ble courtiers.

There was fighting all the way, and many a strongly garrisoned fort was taken, to the joy of all the English. Every day had its skirmish with the French, who stoutly defended the way to Agincourt where lay their commander with all his great army of fifty thousand men. Here the Frenchman sent to King Henry the sarcastic message: "You are going to your doom. Better get your ransom ready before you advance further." To this insult the English king made no answer, but an angry smile that foreshadowed the fall of his vile opponents flashed from his eyes.