Collection of six good stories for children

1. Preparing For Winter-I

The short days of October remind us that summer is long past, and that autumn too is coming to an end. Although it is pleasant to think of the bright days and splendid twilights of summer, many of us look forward to the long, dark evenings that are before us.

How are we to spend them? Most of us do not find the question difficult to answer. We shall have more time for reading, for listening to the radio, for looking at our favorite pro­gramme on television and for following our chosen hobbies.

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Of course, all our spare time will not be spent indoors, but when we venture out we shall have to wear overcoats and other thick clothing which we could not have worn in the heat of summer.

Indeed, we make quite a change in our lives as winter comes on. We should remember that we are not the only creatures to do so. Many animals and most plants prepare for the dull, cold days of winter even more carefully than we do.

Have you ever wondered what happens in winter to the many hundreds of plants whose flowers adorn our gardens and meadows during the summer months? When they have shed their last flowers, most of them wither away and we often say that they are dead.

That is not quite true, however, for beneath the ground the roots of many of them lie as if asleep, ready to spring up again when the bleak days are past. The daisy, the dandelion and the violet are among the plants which pass the winter in this way.

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Many plants, such as the poppy, the shepherd’s purse and the sweet pea, do really die when summer goes, but they have taken care to pro­vide seed from which new plants of their kind may spring in the next season. Often the seed is scattered widely by wind or by other means.

Most trees prepare for winter by allowing their leaves to fall before the season of storms comes upon them. During the long summer sunshine the leaves have been busy making food for the tree, but in autumn the tree begins to use up the food stored in them.

Each leaf is then sealed with a tiny layer of cork and gradu­ally it turns to the yellow or golden-brown color which makes our woods so beautiful in that season. Then when winter comes, or even sooner, the leaves drop off or are scattered by the wind.

Through the months of snows and frosts and gales the trees stand with branches bare and cold, like great ships that have furled their sails in the face of the storm and are resting until the fair weather comes again.

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1. What changes do we make in our lives when winter comes?

2. How do the dandelion arid the shepherd’s purses pass the winter?

3. How do most trees prepare for winter?

2. The Cratchits Christmas-I

Bob Cratchit, who was a clerk, had only fifteen ‘ bob ‘ a week; he pocketed on Saturdays only fifteen copies of his Christian name. Yet Christ­mas blessed his humble house.

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Up rose Mrs. Cratchit, gay in ribbons, which are cheap and make a good show for sixpence? She laid the cloth, helped by Belinda Cratchit, second of her daughters, also gay in ribbons; while Master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes.

And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker’s they had smelt the goose, and had known it for their own. These young Cratchits danced about the table, and Master Peter blew the fire, until the slow potatoes, bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan-lid to be let out and peeled.

‘Whatever has got your father, then? ‘Said Mrs. Cratchit, ‘ and your brother, Tiny Tim! And Martha wasn’t as late last Christmas Day! ”Here’s Martha, Mother! ‘Said a girl, coming in as she spoke.

‘Here’s Martha, Mother! ‘Cried the two young Cratchits. ‘Hurrah! There’s such a goose, Martha! ‘

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‘Why, bless your heart, my dear, how late you are! ‘Said Mrs. Cratchit, kissing Martha a dozen times, and taking off her shawl and bonnet for her. ‘Well! Never mind so long as you have come. Sit down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm.’

‘No, no! There’s father coming,’ cried the two young Cratchits, who were everywhere at once. ‘Hide, Martha, hide!

So Martha hid herself, and in came Bob Cratchit, the father, with his threadbare clothes darned up and brushed ; and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim! He bore a little crutch, and had his limbs supported by an iron frame.

Why, where’s our Martha?’ cried Bob Cratchit, looking round.

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Not coming,’ said Mrs. Cratchit.

‘Not coming,’ said Bob. ‘Not coming, upon Christmas Day!

Martha didn’t like to see her* father sad, if it were only in joke, so she came out from behind the door, and ran into his arms. Mean­while the two young Cratchits bore Tiny Tim off into the wash-house, so that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper.

‘And how did little Tim behave? ‘Asked Mrs. Cratchit, when Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart’s content.

‘As good as gold,’ said Bob, ‘ and better. Somehow he thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember, upon Christmas Day, Who made lame beggars walk and blind men see,’

Bob’s voice trembled when he told them this, and trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty. Then Tim’s active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back he came to his stool before the fire.

Bob, turning up his cuffs, made some hot mixture in a jug with lemons, and stirred it round and round, and put it on the hob to simmer. Master Peter and the two young Cratchits went to fetch the goose, with which they soon returned in a procession.

Such a bustle followed that you might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds. And in truth it was something very like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes; Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple-sauce.

Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table; and the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves. Then they crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped.

At last the dishes were set out, and grace was said. It was followed by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast of the goose.

When she did so, and the long-expected gush of stuffing came forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board. Even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried, ‘ Hurrah! ‘

1. Why were the Cratchits so excited?

2. Who was Tiny Tim? Where had he been?

3. What did the family have to eat for the first course?

3. The Cratchits’ Christmas-II

There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn’t believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavour, size and cheapness, were admired by all. Helped out by apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a dinner enough for the whole family.

Indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight, as she looked at one small piece of a bone upon the dish, they hadn’t eaten it all. Yet everyone had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits were steeped in sage and onions to the eyebrows!

Next, when the plates had been changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone, to bring the pudding in.

Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it should break in turning out! Sup­pose somebody should have got over the wail of the back-yard and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose! All sorts of horrors were supposed.

Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing- day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastry-cook’s next door to each other, with a laundry next door to that! That was the pudding!

In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered, smiling proudly; she was carrying the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in brandy, and adorned with Christmas holly stuck into the top.

Oh, a wonderful pudding! Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought that it was at all a small pudding for a large family.

At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The mixture in the jug was tasted, and said to be perfect; apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovel of chestnuts on the fire.

Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth; and at Bob Cratchit’s elbow stood all the glasses that the family owned two tumblers, and a custard cup without a handle.

These held the hot mixture from the jug, however, as well as golden goblets would have done. Bob served it out with beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily.

Then Bob cried out, ‘ A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us! ‘

And all the family echoed his greeting.

‘God bless us, every one! ‘Said Tiny Tim, the last of all. He sat very close to his father’s side upon his little stool, and Bob held his little hand in his.

And now they were ten times merrier than before. Bob Cratchit told them how he had found work for Master Peter, which would bring in quite five-and-sixpence weekly.

The two young Cratchits laughed loudly when they thought of Peter as a working man; and Peter himself looked thoughtfully at the fire.

Martha, who was a poor apprentice at a dress­maker’s shop, then told them what kind of work she had to do, and how many hours she worked at a stretch, and how she meant to lie abed to-morrow morning for a good long rest, for to-morrow would be a holiday which she was to spend at home.

All this time the chestnuts and the jug were passed round. And by and by they had, from Tiny Tim, a song about a lost child travelling in the snow. Tiny Tim had a sad but sweet little voice, and sang very well indeed.

There was nothing grand in all this. They were not a handsome family; they were not well-dressed; their shoes were very far from being waterproof; their clothes were scanty. Yet they were happy, grateful, pleased with one another, and contented with the time.

1. What fears did Mrs. Cratchit have as she went for the pudding?

2. What did the Cratchit family do after their Christ­mas dinner?

3. What made this such a happy Christmas party?

4. My Neighbors

The writer of this story lived, all the year round, in a small hut jar from the busy town. He tells about some of his ‘ neighbors ‘ who prevent his life from becoming a lonely one.

Although my hut is among the fields I have many neighbors to keep me company. They are mostly very small neighbors, but what a number of them there are! I have neighbors in feathery dresses, neighbors in furry suits, and neighbors in shining armor. I have neighbors with two legs, and neighbors with four legs, and neighbors with no legs at all.

There are shy little neighbors, who hide in the bushes and long grass until I have passed; and there are bold ones, who run off with my dinner when I am not looking.

There are neighbors who pick their way daintily along the hedge­row; and there are neighbors who bump into me as they go clumsily about their business.

Yes, what a crowd of neighbors I have living all round my hut, and above my hut, and under­neath my hut, and even in my hut! For they never ask my. Permission, these small people.

Oh, no! Old Hedgehog found under my hut a cozy corner in which to spend the winter, so he moved in, and there he stayed. Once I gave him a gentle poke to warn him that he had not asked permission, but he grunted to let me know how rude he thought me for disturbing his sleep. So I had to leave him!

To tell the truth, my neighbors do as they please with me. Once I had been away from my hut for a few weeks in the early part of the year. When I returned I started lighting my fire, for the weather was rather cold. As I came near my stove I heard a scuffling in the chimney. I ran outside and looked up, and was just in time to see two starlings fly out from the chimney-top.

Now what do you think of that? They had made their nest in my one and only chimney, and I had to do without a fire till the family hatched out and flew away.

So I sat shivering over an old oil-stove that gave off no heat at all; and while I shivered I could hear the Starling family having great times in their cosy, sheltered home.

Although I count Hedgehog and the Starling family among my bold neighbors, I love them too. Hedgehog is a quiet and rather shy old fellow, and the Starlings cheer me with welcome songs during winter when most other birds are silent. Still, the way in which they behaved to me was not very polite, was it?

The dearest of my hut neighbors is Jenny Wren, who is the smallest of my feathered companions. I love her because she trusts me and, I think, even look on me as her guardian. Certainly I would protect her against anyone or anything cruel enough to wish her harm; but nobody,, surely, would think of harming a little wren.

I knew I had Jenny Wren for a neighbor long before I ever saw her, for I often heard her cheery song coming from/the thick hawthorn hedge that runs past the front door of my hut. This hedge is so thick, however, that I could never catch sight of the tiny songster.

Then one bright morning, as I sat at break­fast with the door wide open, she paid me a visit. Leaving the hawthorn, she flew over and perched on the door-handle. From there she sang another line or two, as if she were saying, ‘ How do how do; isn’t the weather beautiful this morning? ‘

I said, ‘ Good-morning, Miss Wren,’ and went on eating, which was not very polite of me. From the door-handle Jenny Wren flew into the hut and perched on the book-case, and from there she again gave nice a short but lively solo.

She was not at all afraid, and hopped from book-case to chair, and from chair to picture, until at last she arrived on the table among my breakfast dishes. I had a happy quarter- hour with my trusting visitor, and when she at last flew out again, I remembered my manners and, going to the door, invited her to return whenever she could.

Ever since that day Jenny Wren has been one of my dearest neighbors. If she is not on my bedroom window-sill to welcome me when I wake in the morning, she never fails to greet me from her hawthorn hedge as I go down to the stream to wash.

I am going to tell you now about the lucky meeting I had with another of my neighbors; this times was one of the smallest of the furry- coats. It was during that time when the Starling family forced me to sit and shiver so long. As I told you, I had been away for a few weeks, so I returned with a great number of parcels, full of food and other things. I was busy storing them away in tins and cupboards when, from a large bread-tin, I heard the tiniest of soft scratching. I carefully raised the lid, wonder­ing what would jump out, and there, huddled away in a corner, was a sad little bundle of red-brown fur. It was Field-mouse, one of my timid neighbors.

Field-mouse is one of the small folk who usually hide in the long grass until I have passed, but as I had been away so long, he thought it quite safe to slip in and see what he could find to eat.

The bread-tin could not have been properly closed, and the silly little fellow had either jumped or tumbled down among the bread crumbs that lay at the bottom of it.

No doubt he enjoyed himself while the crumbs lasted, but when they were finished he found himself in trouble, for he could not climb up the slippery sides of the tin again!

How long the poor animal had remained in that prison I cannot tell you, but when I lifted him out, he nestled shivering in my hand and made no effort to run away. From my store of food I took a tea-biscuit and crumbled a little in my hand. It was quite sad to see how eagerly the poor creature ate it. He was too hungry to have any fear of me, and I crumbled piece after piece till that little mite, hardly larger than a thimble, had eaten nearly the whole biscuit! Where he put it all, I don’t know!

When he had quite finished his meal, I took him out to the hedge, among the roots of which I have after seen his brothers and sisters, and laid him gently down.

He sniffed my hand for a second or two, and I could feel his long whiskers tickling my fingers; then with a lively flick old his tail he disappeared among the grasses and ferns that grow under the hedge.

What a blessing that I arrived when I did to save the life of that little furry-coated goblin of the hedge! And how beautifully he thanked me by tickling my hand with his snuffling nose and whiskers!

My dog Mowgli, like all dogs, is very interested in rabbits. One day, as we were passing a huge sandy burrow, he saw a black baby rabbit sitting sunning itself at the entrance.

I don’t think Mowgli had ever seen a black rabbit before, for he stood stock-still and stared. I stopped too, and watched them. Black Rabbit did not move, and I think Mowgli had decided that it must be a toy and not really alive.

I don’t know whether it heard its mother calling, or it thought of giving Mowgli a surprise, but, frisking its tail, that little rabbit gave one leap and disappeared down the burrow.

Mowgli was taken completely by surprise. He gave one terrified yelp and tore away across the field as fast as his short legs would carry him! If my ears had been better I’m sure I should have heard the rabbit family laughing downstairs, for the little black baby certainly enjoyed the joke!

1. Who are the writer’s bold neighbors? Why does he think them bold?

2. Who is his dearest neighbor? How did he get to know her?

3. How did he meet the field-mouse?

4. What terrified the writer’s dog, Mowgli?

5. The Glass Jug’s Story-II

‘How that man worked and worked with me!’ said the Glass Jug, when it had decided to continue its story. ‘He kept rolling the blow­pipe this way and that between his hands, and as I was stuck on the end of it, I kept turning too. Then, what do you think? He put his mouth to the other end of the blow-pipe and blew me up like a small balloon.

Next he rolled me this way and that way on a smooth iron table, then blew me up a little more, then rolled me again. Oh dear! I was quite giddy by this time! ‘

‘You poor Glass Jug! ‘I said in pity.

‘Yes, but worse was to follow,’ said the Jug. ‘When I began to feel just a little cooler, what did the cruel man do but push me back into the heat of the furnace again!

‘It was another man who rescued me from there, but alas! He was no kinder than the first. He sat down on a queer sort of chair with long arms, and rolled and turned me until I was as giddy as ever. Of course I was quite soft and he was able to shape me easily with his tools.

He cut me with strong scissors and smoothed me with a piece of wet wood; he made me narrow in one part and wide in another, and gave me a brim with a lip. After I had been heated again, my glass handle was stuck on and there I was-a beautiful, clear, glass jug.’

‘I’m sure you were thankful that your troubles were over,’ I said.

The Glass Jug looked at me closely with his shining eyes. ‘My troubles were not over,’ he said. ‘A boy put me into a long gas-oven with hundreds of other jugs and glasses. Very slowly we moved along that oven, from the hot end to the cool end, and then we were takeout.

You see, we had to cool slowly so that we should harden properly; for it is unwise for a glass jug, just as it is unwise for a boy or girl, to go quickly from a very hot place to the cool air.

‘Although I was now a glass jug, I had none of the beautiful patterns which you see on me. These patterns were cut into me by other men who held me against different kinds of little grindstones.

I could not help admiring the skill of the men who cut the patterns in me, even although they hurt me dreadfully.

‘To end it all, I was dipped in a bath of acid. How I enjoyed that bath! When I was lifted out, I was sparkling like a polished diamond.’

‘What happened next? ‘I asked.

No reply came, so I looked once more into the window. The Glass Jug was no longer there; its ‘ family,’ too, was gone!

In a few moments a man left the shop, carrying a large parcel. As he passed, I am certain that I heard a voice, from inside the parcel, saying, ‘ Hurrah, someone has bought us at last! Good­bye; and thank you for listening to my story.’

1. Why did the Glass Jug complain of being giddy?

2. Why was it put into the gas-oven?

3. How was its pattern made?

6. The Bishop’s Dream-I

Some hundreds of years ago there lived a Bishop named Evrard, who built a great cathedral in a city on a hill. The cathedral was a very beautiful one, with wide carved doorways, lovely windows of colored glass and splendid towers.

As he looked at the stately building while it was being made, the Bishop said to himself, ‘ Surely God has no more beautiful house in the entire world than this, and I, Bishop Evrard, have built it. It is my work, for I have planned it all-the towers and the windows, the carving and the statues.

‘With my riches I have bought the stone and the timbers of which it is made. My gold pays the builders, the carvers and the sculptors who work upon it. In raising this wonderful church I am doing a noble service to God and to my fellow-men.’

Over the great doorway of the cathedral was a place where a statue might stand. The Bishop meant to fill this place with a stone image of him.

‘It must be only a small, simple statue,’ said he, ‘ for I am not a proud man.’ Yet, as he looked up at the empty place, it pleased him to think that, hundreds of years after he was dead, people would stop before his statue and praise him for what he had done. Thus, though he did not know it, his heart became full of pride.

One night Bishop Evrard had a dream. He thought that a shinning angel stood beside his bed, and told him to rise. ‘Come; said the angel. ‘I will show you some of those who have worked with you in building the church.

They are humble, but in God’s sight their work has been worth more than yours.’

The angel led Evrard past the cathedral and down the steep streets of the old city. Though did not seem to see them.

Beyond the city gates they followed a road that led them down till they came to flat, green fields. There, in the middle of the road, they saw two big white oxen yoked to a square block of stone. The great beasts were resting before they began to drag the stone up the steep hill to the cathedral.

‘Look! ‘Said the angel. Then the Bishop saw a little ill-clad girl run out from a poor hut near the place where the oxen were stand­ing. She had a bundle of hay in her arms. Going up to the oxen, she gave a handful of hay first to one and then to the other. Then she stroked their black noses and laid her rosy face against their white cheeks.

Their driver rose from the bank where he had been resting and cried to his cattle to begin their journey. Now that they were refreshed and cheered, they moved off, straining at the thick ropes; and presently the great block of stone was being dragged slowly up the hill.

1. Which of these words tells most nearly what kind of man the Bishop was?

2. What did the angel show to the Bishop in his dream?