Child's Story Garden by - (reading books for 5 year olds TXT) 📕

secret of building their nests. You will be sorry when they are gone and

will wish them back.”

But still the farmers shook their heads and said: “The birds must go.”

So the birds of Killingworth were driven away, until not a single note

was heard, and only empty nests were left. The little children of the

town were hoping each day to see their friends again, and a strange

stillness and loneliness seemed to fill the little town, for the music

in the air had ceased.

The summer came, and never before had it been so hot. The little insects

and worms which the little birds had always driven away covered every

tree and bush, eating the leaves until nothing was left but the bare

twigs. The streets were hot and shadeless. In the orchard the fruit

dropped, scorched and dried by the sun. When the grains were gathered

one-half of the crop had been destroyed by the insects. Now the old

farmers said among themselves:

“We have made a great mistake. We need the birds.”

One day in the early spring a strange sight was seen in the little town

of Killingworth. A great wagon covered with green branches was driven

down the main street, and among the branches were huge cages, and the

cages were filled with birds. Oh! they were all there—the robin, the

bluebird, the lark and the oriole—birds of every color and kind. When

the great wagon reached the town hall it stopped. The cages were taken

down from the branches of green, and little children, with eager hands

and happy eyes, threw open the doors. Out came the birds and away they

flew to field and orchard and wood, singing again and again:

“Oh! we are glad to be here! We are glad to be here!”

The little children sang, too, and the gray-haired farmers said: “The

birds must always stay in Killingworth.”

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [Adapted]

In a very faraway country, a long time ago, there lived a man who loved

music and little children and the birds and flowers. And the little

children loved Pan—for that was his name—because he told them such

beautiful stories and played on a set of pipes which he had made from

the reeds which grew by the river. Every evening, when it was time for

the sun to go to sleep and all the little stars to wake up, Pan would

take his pipes, go down to the river side, and play all the songs he

knew. Everybody could hear Pan’s music for miles and miles, but many of

them did not like his music, and wished that he would not play. Once

some of these people gathered together and planned how they could stop

Pan from playing his pipes, and while they were talking, some beetles

near by heard their plans. Now, one of these beetles had hurt his wing

at one time and had fallen down in the dust on the road, and could go no

farther. It was a very hot day, and the poor little beetle was almost

dead from the heat. Soon Pan came walking along and saw the beetle, and,

picking it up very carefully, he carried it on some green leaves to a

shady place, where he left it to rest and get well. The beetle had never

forgotten Pan’s kindness, and when he heard the plans these bad people

had made he said: “Come, friends, and go with me, for we must hurry and

tell Pan what the wicked people have planned, so that he will not be

there when they go to push him into the river.”

The beetles had only one day in which to reach Pan, for the evil people

were going to carry out their plans the next night, so they spread their

wings and flew as fast as they could fly. They could not travel far at a

time, because their wings grew very tired and their bodies were so

heavy. When they could fly no longer they would walk, and when they were

tired walking they would fly again. In this way they hurried on and on,

for the day was growing into night, and they could hear Pan playing his

beautiful songs way down by the river bank. They had almost reached him

when they heard what seemed to be a crowd of people running through the

bushes and among the trees, and it seemed that they were going toward

the river. Next there was a big splash and many voices talking loudly,

and after that—silence. When the beetles reached the place where Pan

always sat they could not find him; but there in the river were his

pipes, which he loved so well.

The people had reached Pan before the beetles, and had pushed him into

the river, and his pipes fell in, too, but Pan did not wait to get them.

He climbed out and ran as fast as his feet would carry him. The people

ran after him, but he leaped and bounded over the bushes and flowers,

and ran on and on. Sometimes they were almost upon him, but he always

out-ran them. He wished to hide, but could find no place. He could not

climb the trees, for the people could climb trees, too, and he could not

hide in the grass or under the bushes, for they would be sure to find

him there.

At last, along the river bank, he spied the little violets that had

closed their eyes, but were still gazing at the stars. One little violet

seemed to say to him, “I will hide you,” and it folded its little petals

around him. Pan was safe now, and from his hiding place he could hear

the people searching for him. They looked for a long time, but they did

not find him. He was happy and thankful, and, as he was very tired and

the soft petals of the violets made a pleasant resting place, he was

soon fast asleep.

Away back on the river bank, where Pan always sat, were the beetles.

They were very sorry that they had not reached him in time to tell him

that the people were coming, and that they could not get his pipes out

of the water, where they had fallen. And, though they never saw him

again, they always remembered him and the beautiful music he used to

play.

One day some little children were picking violets by the river, and they

found one little violet that had eyes just like Pan’s eyes. They took it

home and named it Pan’s Eye, in memory of their old friend, but, as that

was rather a hard name for the little children to say, they called it

Pansy.

In the little town of Atri, which was nestled on the side of a wooded

hill, there was a strange custom.

The king had one day brought to the town a great bell, which he hung in

the market place beneath a shed, protected from the sun and rain. Then

he went forth with all his knightly train through the streets of Atri

and proclaimed to all the people that whenever a wrong was done to any

one, he should go to the market place and ring the great bell, and

immediately the king would see that the wrong was righted.

Many years had gone by. Many times the great bell had rung in the little

town of Atri, and, as the king had said, the wrongs of which it told,

were always righted.

In time, however, the great rope by which the bell was rung, unraveled

at the end and was unwound, thread by thread. For a long time it

remained this way, while the great bell hung silent. But close by, a

grape-vine grew, and, reaching upward, finally entwined its tendrils

around the ragged end of the bell rope, making it strong and firm again

as it grew around it, up toward the great bell itself.

Now, in the town of Atri there lived a knight, who, in his younger days,

had loved to ride and hunt; but as he grew old he cared no more for

these things. He sold his lands, his horses and hounds, for he now loved

only the gold which the sale of them brought to him. This he hoarded and

saved, living poorly, that he might save the more.

Only one thing he kept—his favorite horse, who had served him

faithfully all his life. But even this faithful friend he kept in a poor

old stable, often allowing him to go cold and hungry.

Finally the old man said: “Why should I keep this beast now? He is old

and lazy, and no longer of any use to me. Besides, his food costs me

much that I might save for myself. I will turn him out and let him find

food where he can.”

So the faithful old horse, who had served his master all his days, was

turned out without a home. He wandered through the streets of the town,

trying to find something to eat. Often the dogs barked at him, and the

cold winds made him shiver as he wandered about, hungry and homeless,

with no one to care for him.

One summer afternoon, when all the drowsy little town seemed sleeping,

the tones of the great bell rang out, loud and clear, waking the people

from their naps and calling them forth to see who was ringing the bell

of justice.

The judge, with a great crowd following, hurried to the market place,

but when they came near, they stopped in surprise. No man was near, who

might have rung the bell; no one but a thin old horse, who stood quietly

munching the vine which grew around the bell rope. He had spied the

green leaves growing there, and, being hungry, had reached for them,

thus ringing the great bell of Atri, and calling forth the judge and all

the people.

“‘Tis the old knight’s horse,” the people cried. Then many told the tale

of how the old horse had been turned out to starve, while his master

hoarded and saved his gold.

“The horse has rung the bell for justice, and justice he shall have,”

said the judge. “Go, bring the old knight to me.”

The knight was hurried to the place, where, before all the people, the

judge censured him for his cruel treatment of his faithful old horse,

and asked him to give a reason for it.

“The old beast is useless,” said his master. “He is mine, and I have a

right to do with him as I wish.”

“Not so,” said the judge. “He has served you faithfully all his life. He

can not speak to tell of his wrongs, so we must speak for him. Go, now;

take him home. Build a new stable and care for him well.”

The old knight walked slowly home, while the horse was led behind by the

crowd.

So the Great Bell of Atri had righted one more wrong, for it was even as

the judge had commanded. The faithful old horse lived in comfort all the

rest of his life, for his master, in caring for him, learned to love him

again, and treated him as only a faithful friend should be treated.

When the king heard the story he said:

“Surely, never will the bell ring in a better cause than in speaking for

a suffering dumb creature who can not speak for himself.”

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [Adapted]

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