Eight short stories for children in English language

Eight short stories for children in English language.

1. Climber Saves the Den

Climber was the most daring of a family of three Canadian wolf-cubs. Starlight, his father, and Aurora, his mother, had left the cubs alone in the den for a short time; this story tells what hap­pened when they returned.

When Starlight came back to the rocky cliff in which his den was, he found Aurora at the foot of it waiting for him. She was greatly worried at something that had happened.

Silently, with hair on end, she led Starlight to a point from which they could see the den; and as Starlight looked down, a fierce glare came into his eyes.

All over his body his hair stood on end and if anyone had wanted to know how angry a real wild wolf can look, he should have seen Starlight at that moment.

The parent wolves glanced at each other, for there, in the centre of the cubs’ playground, right in front of their den, sat the greatest bear Starlight had ever seen.

The old bear looked sleepy; perhaps he had not been long awake from his winter sleep. Certainly he did not look as if he was there to make a nuisance of himself; he did not even seem to know that he was on forbidden ground.

With many deep grunts, he was scratching him­self from end to end, bringing his huge fore- paws to work and twisting himself as if there was not a bone in his body. He seemed to find it a relief to sit somewhere away from the flies.

Presently, a small wet nose and two bright eyes appeared at the mouth of the wolves’ den. It was Climber looking out, as indeed he gener­ally was when he had received orders to stay below.

He saw the bear, like a great fur-clad mountain, sitting in the centre of their play­ground. He did not know what it was and he did not care very much. It had no right to be there and he knew that Starlight, his father and Aurora, his mother, would not like it.

Climber decided to set things right. Yelping and snarling, he shot from the mouth of the den and hurled himself, fang and claw, full into the old bear’s back.

If ever a bear was taken by surprise that bear was! He did not wait to find out what had done it; he did not even look. All he knew was that something was attacking him, so he uttered one grunt of terror and surprise, and fled. Nor did he want to consider the best way down.

He went clean over the edge of the playground and landed with a thump twenty feet below. Whether, in doing so, he hurt himself, or whether it was because of fear or cannot say, but he went off yelling at the top of his voice. And Starlight’s family could hear him still yelling and whimpering as he crashed through the undergrowth a mile below.

At the end of the playground, looking down, sat Climber, a fluffy ball of a wolf-cub, not much larger than a hedgehog!

1. What worried Aurora and made Starlight angry?

2. What was the bear doing?

3. How was the den saved from danger?

2. Preparing for Winter-II

Let us see how animals and birds prepare for winter. Many of them brave the storms of winter as well as they can, taking shelter in the worst weather and making the best of the fine days.

Indeed, many of the creatures of the wild become quite tame at that season, for the search for food brings them much nearer human dwellings than they care to come in summer when food is to be found in plenty.

Other animals decide that the best way of passing the dreary season is to lie in a kind of deep sleep in some out-of-the-way corner. This plan is followed by the hedgehog who prepares himself for his long winter fast by growing a ‘ coat’ of fat just beneath his skin.

The bat, dormouse and squirrel are other animals which like to dream the winter away, though they may peep out on fine days. The squirrel, indeed, is quite well prepared for winter, for not only does he have his tail at its bushiest and warmest then, but in autumn he lays by stores of nuts.

In winter he digs up his store and feeds well. The field-mouse too, hoards his store of nuts, fruit, grain and other dainties. Often his larder is an old bird’s-nest.

When winter comes upon us we might well ask what has happened to the insects which were with us in so great numbers only a few months ago. We know, of course, that most of the honey-bees are resting snugly in their well- made hives, while now and again; we may disturb a queen wasp or a butterfly as she slumbers in some out-of-the-way corner.

Most insects, however, are dead, for their life is a short one; but they have left eggs or grubs or cocoons from which new insects will come in spring, when life begins afresh upon the earth.

Perhaps the wisest and luckiest creatures of all are those birds which do not spend winter in the mists and snows of the north, but take flight to the warm countries of the south. The swallow, cuckoo and nightingale are the best known of these migrating birds as they are called. Perhaps you’ can think of some others.

Where “do these birds go? A great many of them fly south to Africa, some going overland across the south of Europe, while others prefer to take a straighter course over the sea.

The long journey is often full of great danger to the little feathered travelers, for storms may arise and the weaker birds may not be able to keep up with the stronger. Quite often a migrating bird in search of a rest may alight on the rigging of a ship far out at sea and cling to the rope, more dead than alive.

Many birds, too, seek rest on some lonely lighthouse; some­times, attracted by the bright light, they even dash themselves to death against the glass of the lighthouse, At St. Catherine’s lighthouse; perches have been built round the lantern so that birds, attracted by its gleam, may rest during their long flight.

There are many secrets in the story of bird migration. Why do some birds leave us while others are content to brave the snows of winter? Again, how do migrating birds find their way over trackless miles of unknown land and sea and then, in springtime, find their way back again?

Often the birds return to the spot which they left in the autumn; swallows, for example, may come back to the nest which they left the year before.

And then, as if to make their task as difficult as possible, migrating birds very often prefer to fly through the dark­ness of the night. How do they find their way? We do not know, for this is one of the many riddles in the great world of Nature.

1. How do the hedgehog and the squirrel prepare for winter?

2. What happens to most insects when winter comes?

3. Are some of the wonderful facts about migrating birds?

3. Queer Creatures of the Deep-I

In the mighty ocean, as well as in lakes and rivers, are to be found many queer creatures, some strangely shaped or colored, others having strange ways of living. Let us look at some of these.

Here is one which seems to be not a living creature but a flower; indeed its name reminds us of a flower, for it is called the sea-anemone. Sometimes it is called a sea-rose, and the name is quite a good one, for at its upper end the sea-anemone has a ring of feelers, or tentacles, which are spread out like the petals of a rose.

If you wander among the rocks when the, tide is out you are almost sure to come across a few sea-anemones, but the brightest of these ‘flowers of the sea’ are found amid the coral reefs of Australia or Japan.

The sea-anemone, however, is not as delightful as he looks. For one thing, he has a wide mouth and a hearty appetite, and can swallow shrimps and small fish at a gulp.

His body is soft like a jelly, so that he cannot do much against such creatures while they are alive; but, at the tip of each tentacle, he carries a poison-bag, inside which sharp-pointed threads are coiled.

When the sea-anemone meets what seems to him a tasty tit-bit, one of the threads is thrust forth. It pierces the skin, the poison flows out and his victim is soon in his power.

For this reason, other small creatures of the deep keep away from the ‘ rose of the sea.’

The sea-anemone has, however, one friend, the hermit-crab. This crab being very timid lives all by himself in the empty shell of some shell-fish. Even so, he does not feel too safe and, should he chance to meet with a sea- anemone, he takes him on his back.

Having now a roof over his head, the hermit- crab feels much safer, for all around him, like a gay umbrella, spread out those poison ten­tacles. One can harm me now,’ he tells himself.

The sea-anemone, too, feels safer and more comfortable than when standing on his one foot, which, since it is shaped like a sucker, is not much good for walking, though it is perfect for holding-on. Indeed, the sea-anemone finds the hermit-crab very useful, for his ten­tacles steal the food which the crab catches.

A much more alarming sea-creature is the octopus which, luckily, visits our shore but rarely. In distant seas, however, the octopus is one of the giants of the deep, for he may be as much as forty feet long. He has a soft, rubber-like body, a sharp nose, big staring eyes and eight long and strong tentacles ringed round his ever-hungry mouth.

Neither men nor shell-fish care to find them­selves within reach of those eight arms ; for each has, on its under side, a double row of suckers by means of which the octopus can take such a firm grip of any creature that it is almost impossible to get free.

The arms of the octopus also serve as legs on which he rambles about the floor of the ocean. If he wishes to go more quickly than his arms can carry him, he has in his body a funnel which he uses as a squirt, the force of the action shooting him backwards at a good pace.

Sometimes he squirts away the sand and makes in the ocean bed a sort of hollow in which he can rest. There he lies half-buried, and waits for a crab to come by-for a tasty crab is one of his chief delights.

Two can play at this game, however, for the whale is as fond of octopus as the octopus is of crab; indeed, he can swallow the octopus whole!

1. What are the names of the creatures shown on page 184? Which is which?

2. Of what use are they to one another?

3. Why is an octopus to be feared?

4. The Bishop’s Dream-II

When the Bishop saw that these were the humble workers of whose service God thought so much, he knew how proud and foolish he had been. In shame and sorrow he began to weep and his falling tears awoke him. ‘My thoughts have not been right thoughts,’ he said, ‘ but I will try to make amends.’

That very day he sent for the master of the sculptors. Then he told him to fill the empty place over the cathedral doorway, not with a statue of himself but with an image of the little girl.

He told him also, to make two great stone figures of the white oxen. When these figures were finished, they were set on high upon the tallest tower or the cathedral, so that all men could see them against the blue sky.

The image of the little girl was carved with a bundle of hay in her hands. The child who had fled the oxen knew nothing of this, nor did she know that the statue over the doorway vas her own self carved in stone. When she grew up, we are told, she forgot her childish. Yet what she had done was not forgotten in Heaven.

As for the oxen on the tower, one looked eastward and the other looked westward across the wide country below the city on the hill. One caught the golden light of the rising sun and the other was lit with the red blaze of sunset.

There they stood and the folk as they looked up at them felt glad that they were there. ‘It is well,’ said they, ‘ that these dumb laborers who have helped to build God’s house, should find a place of honor upon the house.’

They remembered, too, that the Master of that house had once been a little Babe, warmed in a manger by the breath of cattle. At the thought of this, men grew kinder to their cattle and to the beasts that worked for them aid indeed to all dumb animals.

So the dream which had changed the Bishop’s heart helped to teach men to value all good work, however humble it might be. It taught them also to think more about their fellow- creatures.

When Bishop Evrard died, he was buried humbly, as he wished, before the great door­way of the church. To this day the stone figure of the little girl looks down upon him from on high; and hundreds of folk step across the stone pavement above him as they pass to praise and prayer in the house of God.

1. What did the Bishop learn from his dream?

2. How did he make up for his evil thoughts?

3. When you have finished the story, turn back to Question 1 on page 122. Which word do you now think is the best to use for the Bishop?

5. The boy who Loved Music-I

More than two hundred and fifty years ago, there lived in a small town in Germany a boy named George Frederick Handel. George’s father was a doctor who was well known for his skill.

‘Some day George, you too will become famous,’ said the old Doctor to his son one morning. ‘Perhaps you will be a great doctor.’

George shook his head and said, ‘ I have no wish to be a doctor, Father.’

‘Then perhaps you will be a great judge,’ said the Doctor.

‘I have no wish to be either a judge or a doctor,’ replied the boy. ‘I want to give my life to music. I want to be able to play beautiful music, just like those great masters about whom I have heard so much ; yes, and some day I want to be able to write music of my own.’

What nonsense is this, child? ‘Cried the Doctor angrily. ‘No son of mine shall waste his time at music. Be off to school! Perhaps your- books will drive such folly out of your head.’

So George went off to school but neither books nor lessons could drive away his great love for music. Often, unknown to his father, he would creep round to the open door of one of the town churches in order to listen to the playing of the great organ.

‘Some day I shall be able to play like that’, the boy would say to himself as he turned to go home.

George had one great friend, his Aunt Anna. She loved her nephew dearly and knew how much the boy longed to be able to play.

One day Aunt Anna led the boy up to the attic. Opening the door, she showed him a small, old-fashioned kind of piano called a spinet, which she had secretly hidden there.

‘It is a very small one, George,’ she said. ‘Its sound is not loud so it will not disturb your father. If you practice quietly you will soon learn to play quite well.’

George’s eyes sparkled with wonder. ‘You dear Aunt Anna,’ he cried. ‘How can I thank you?’

After that, in the dead of night, the boy would steal up to the attic and there, while the family slept in peace below, he would practice his beloved music.

About forty miles from the town where George lived stood the castle of a great Duke. George had often heard of the splendid life at the castle. He had been told, too, about the great players who came to perform before the Duke.

One day Doctor Handel, who happened to be the Duke’s doctor, was called to the castle to attend to some person who was ill.

‘Good-bye George, my boy,’ he said to George as he walked across the town square to the coach. ‘ I shall be away for a week or more. See that you work hard at your lessons until I return.’

George looked earnestly at his father. ‘Oh Father, please take me with you,’ he begged-

‘You! What business could you has at the Duke’s castle?’ asked the Doctor rather taken aback.

‘ No business, Father,’ answered the boy, but I have heard about the wonderful life there and about the beauty of the music.’

‘Music, music, always music! ‘Exclaimed his father angrily. ‘Music will ruin your life, boy! No, you may not go with me to the Duke’s castle.’

With these words the Doctor climbed into the waiting coach which at once set off on its journey.

‘Take me! Oh, please take me,’ cried George, half in tears, and the boy began to run after the coach as it rumbled through the roughly paved streets.

1. How did George show his love for music?

2. What did his father think of that love?

3. How did Aunt Anna help him?

4. Where did George wish to go with his father?

6. The Boy who Loved Music-II

In those days the roads were bad and travel­ing was slow, so George did not have much difficulty in peeping up with the coach as it rolled on its way.

A few miles from the town one of the pas­sengers noticed the little boy running along some distance behind.

‘Why, Doctor Handel,’ he exclaimed, ‘ is that not your little son, George’ I believe he is trying to catch up with.

At once the driver was ordered to stop the coach and in a little while George came pant­ing up.

Doctor Handel was in a furious rage. ‘How dare you follow the coach, young sir? ‘He cried. You will return to town at once-on your own legs, as you have come.’

‘Please, Father, take me with you,’ gasped George earnestly.

‘Certainly not,’ was the angry reply.

‘But good Doctor, you cannot send the boy back now,’ said the other passenger. ‘He is tired out and would without a doubt fall by the wayside. Then perhaps, robbers would get him.’

Indeed that punishment is what the young rascal deserves,’ declared the Doctor angrily, ‘ but perhaps he had better come with me.’ Then he turned to the boy and said sternly, you may come into the coach and I shall take you with me, though I know not what I shall do with you at the Duke’s castle. But remember, one word about music and back you shall go by the next coach.’

So George climbed into the coach and away they went. It was a happy boy who drove into the courtyard of the Duke’s castle that evening.

During his stay at the castle George was left to amuse himself while Doctor Handel went about his business. Nothing delighted the boy more than to wander into the castle chapel where he could hear the organ playing and the choir-boys practicing their hymns.

One day the master of the choir-boys spoke to the little stranger. ‘Why do you come here so often? ‘He asked kindly.

‘It is because I like to hear you playing the organ and to listen to the boys practicing their hymns,’ replied George.

‘And could you play the organ?’ asked the master.

‘I should like to try sir, if you please,’ was the reply.

‘Come let me hear you then,’ said the master, and he gave George his seat at the organ.

So George sat down. He had practiced hard on his spinet at home and once or twice the organ-master in the church near his home had allowed him to play the church organ. Of course, this great organ in the Duke’s chap, felt strange to him, but he managed to play quite a difficult tune.

‘Very good, very good indeed my boy,’ said the master when George had finished. ‘Tell me, how would you like to play before the Duke? ‘

‘Before the Duke! Oh, sir! ‘Exclaimed George. ‘I-I should try my best to please him.’

‘Then you shall play after the service on Sunday,’ answered the master.

1. How did George manage to reach the Duke’s castle?

2. How did he spend his time there?

3. What promise did the organ-master make to him?

7. The Glass Jug’s Story-I

‘Hullo! I say, there! ‘

I was passing a shop window and felt sure that I heard these words. They seemed to come from the window, but as I could see nothing there except glass jugs and vases and such things, I began to walk on. Then the voice spoke again.

‘Do stop, please,’ it said. ‘Everybody passes by, and we are so lonely.’

I looked, but still I saw nobody. ‘I am the glass jug in the corner of the window,’ the voice began again. I looked to­wards the corner, and there sure enough, was a pretty glass jug standing among six glasses.

As I stared at the jug, which sparkled gaily in a stray gleam of sunshine, it began to speak once more.

‘This is my family of glasses,’ said the Glass Jug. ‘Five fine healthy boys they are. Just listen to their names: Tang, Teng, Ting, Tong and Tung. The sixth is called Tug; he has a nasty crack in his side, but the shopkeeper doesn’t know about it yet.’

‘How long have you been here? ‘I asked politely.

‘Three months ever since we were born,’ replied the Jug.

‘Born? ‘I said. Are glass jugs born ? ‘

‘Of course they are,’ said the Jug. ‘We were born in the glass-works. Shall I tell you how we were made? ‘Please do,’ I said.

The Jug gave a ringing cough and so did tale glasses, and then began its story.

‘A year ago we were all in the earth. Part of us was sand-very fine, white sand; part of us was a white powder, called potash; and park of us was a brick-red powder called red lead.

‘It was in the glass-works that the three parts first met. There they were mixed together, just as your mother mixes flour with other things to make a pudding. A lot of broken glass was put in the mixture too; your mother does not put that in her puddings! ‘

‘I hope not! ‘I said with a smile.

‘Well,’ the Jug continued its story, ‘ the mixture was emptied into a kind of large clay pot. If you visit the glass-works where I was born you will see eight of these pots set in a ling round a very hot furnace.

‘Oh dear, it was hot in there! Indeed, it was so hot that the sand and the broken glass and the other things in my mixture all melted to­gether into a liquid as red as fire and about as thick as syrup.’

‘Fancy sand melting! ‘I exclaimed.

^! Yes,’ answered the Jug. ‘I would have given anything for a drink of boiling water to cool me in there.’

‘Boiling water to cool you! ‘I exclaimed, thinking that the Jug had made a mistake.

‘Yes, boiling water,’ replied the Jug. ‘If you had been in a furnace which was thirteen times as hot as boiling water, you would have been glad for a cool drink of boiling water too. But I must continue my story.

Next, a man poked a long iron pipe, like a big pea­shooter, through the little door of the pot and dipped it into the melted glass. When he took the blow-pipe, as he called it, out again, a ball of melted glass, glowing like a light of a Christ­mas tree, was sticking to the end of it. That ball of melted glass was’.

‘You! ‘I said.

‘Right! ‘Replied the Jug. ‘At any rate, it was the beginning of me as a glass jug.’

At that moment the shopkeeper appeared at the back of the window, lifted another glass jug, and disappeared once more.

‘Oh dear,’ sighed my Glass Jug friend. ‘It’s always the same. Nobody seems to want us. I am sure I shall crack with despair one day.’

With these words, the Glass Jug became silent, and it was some time before it spoke again.

1. What story did the Glass Jug offer to tell?

2. What was in the mixture from which the Glass Jug was made?

3. What was the first step in the making of the Jug?

8. The Rain-Maker-II

As before, the rain did not last long and soon complaints were heard again.

‘Impatient people! ‘Cried the Rain-maker. ‘Bring me a young, living, baboon, without fault or blemish, and you shall have rain in plenty.’

The people shook their heads as they set off, for well they knew that it was no easy matter to catch a baboon alive. After a long chase, however, they captured a young baboon and brought it to the Rain-maker. Still the people waited in vain for the promised rain.

‘You need not be surprised that no rain falls,’ said the Rain-maker. I asked for a baboon without fault or blemish and what have you brought me? A baboon with a scratch in one ear and some hairs missing from his tail.

I will give you one more chance. If you roast and eat a lion’s heart, I shall make the clouds melt above your heads.’

After another long chase, a lion was killed and its heart was roasted and shared among the people, but still the rain did not fall. Meanwhile the drought continued. The country lay parched, the animals were starving and the people, as usual, were growing angry and discontented.

‘Why blame me?’ said the Rain-maker. ‘How can I bring rain when the white man who lives among you does his best to drive it away? Kill him and his family and the rain will come.’

The people shook their heads. ‘Why should we kill the white man? ‘Said they. ‘He treats us well, and gives us medicines to cure us when we are ill. If anyone is to be killed, it should be you, for have you not deceived us and made false promises of great rains?’

Thereupon the Rain-maker was seized and brought before the chief men of the tribe to be judged. There it was decided that he should be put to death.

Just then Robert Moffat heard what was about to happen. He hastened to the village court and arrived there just in time to save the Rain­maker from the spears of the angry people.

‘If you do not want the man,’ said Moffat earnestly, ‘ send him back to his home. Killing him will not bring you rain.’

The village chief looked at Moffat in surprise. ‘In truth, the ways of the white man are strange,’ he said. ‘A short time ago this deceiver asked us to kill you. Now you bid us let him go free.’

In the end the chief allowed the Rain-maker to return to his own country; and indeed the man was very glad to leave behind him the land where all his magic had failed.

Still no rain fell and once more the grumb­lings of the people were heard. This time, however, they blamed Moffat and his family.

‘Woe to him who made us sends the Rain­maker away,’ said some. ‘We should have sent the white man away instead, for it is he, without a doubt, who keeps the clouds beyond the mountains.’

One day a crowd of warriors, waving their spears on high, appeared at the door of Hoffa’s house. Fiercely they told the white man that he must leave at once or else be killed along with his wife and child.

‘You may kill us and burn our house,’ de­clared Moffat bravely, ‘ but we shall not move from here.’

The people were taken aback by this bold answer. ‘In truth,’ said they, as they went back to the village, ‘ the white man must have ten lives when he is so fearless of death.’

After that, Moffat and his family were left in peace to work among the African people. He told them that they must await with patience the coming of the rain, and that they must not trust the false magic of rain-makers.

At last, after seven years of drought and barren fields, the rain did come. Grass and crops and shrubs began to grow again and water ran in the rivers; but even to-day the country where Moffat worked is one of the driest spots in the world.

1. What did the Rain-maker tell the people to do in order to bring rain?

2. What happened to the Rain-maker?

3. What in the end made the people respect Robert Moffat?