512 The Friday Afternoon Story Hour II Alice E. Allen The stories in this department are especially arranged to be told to the children, although, of course, they may be read, if preferred. Where they are long- as in the following stories of Lafayette - they are divided into parts, one to be used each week of the month. The poems may be learned by the children, or if some of them are too difficult, they may be read and talked over. Sometimes the stories or poems that tell a story may be played by the children. Use as many additional pictures as possible. The children will enjoy making themselves into little tableaux suggested by the pictures. Some may make the tableaux, the others guessing what picture they represent. Use all the good and appropriate Victrola Records you can get hold of. Stories, poems, plays, pictures, and songs are chosen for the most part, to suggest and inspire good cheer, bravery, heroism, sacrifice, and patriotism at this time when these characteristics are so much needed. First Week THE CHILD OF THE CASTLE It was a grim old castle for a It little new baby to come to. was set down on a lonely moor in the mountains of France. It looked something like a fort, with its long rows of portholes on each side the narrow door. Across the upper front part of the castle, were long French windows. On each side was a round tower. The coming of a baby to the castle was so important that down in the parish register the clerk made the entry with a great many flourishes. It took some time. To begin with, the baby's father and mother both belonged to fine old French families, and had long names. So, of course, did the baby. His mother was Madame Marie Louise Julie de la Riviere. His father was Monsiegneur Michel Louis Christophe Roch Gilbert Dumotier, Marquis of this, Baron of that, and Siegneur of something else. And the baby's name was Monsiegneur Marie Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert Dumotier. If you can't remember all of it, for the present you may call him what his pretty little girl-mother did-Gilbert Dumotier. Lafayette Fierce winds swept about the castle, tossing the heather and broom of the moor into great purple and golden plumes. Often, it shook the cradle where the baby lay. It didn't take him many months to find out that he was the only glad little thing in all the great grim castle. By and by, as he grew older. he found out why everything about him was sad. His father and mother had been so happy in the castle for awhile. Then, a terrible thing, called War, had taken his gay handsome young father away from his wife and his home. He had never come back. And just a little while before the baby had come to the castle, word had been brought that he had been killed on the field of battle. The child of the castle began to notice things about his home. There was a grandmother, there, who helped take care of him. There were two aunts, who couldn't do enough for him. But the sweetest, fairest thing he had to look at was his mother's face. Sometimes, it made him think of the flowers that grew on the mountains. By and by, the little boy began to ask questions. Why were the doors double-barred and the windows all protected? The castle had been built, his mother told him, just where another very old one had stood. It had been made to look as much like the old one as it could. Now, the first castle had been built in the days of the Crusades, so of course it had been made strong and secure. told him many stories of those brave old days. The boy began to study the portraits on the walls. picture mother held him up to so often was father. She The He wore cuirass and helmet. And over and over and over again, mother to'd him of the day when Father rode away down the steep mountain road to fight for France, waving his hand gaily to her. But who were these other men? They were his grandfather and great-grandfather and great-great-grandfather, Mother told him. They had all been warriors - every back to one who had taken a brave single one of them part in the Crusades. The boy thrilled when he heard that. Next to Father's, there was one picture that the boy was very fond of. It was of one of his ancestors, Mother said, who had lived in the days of Charles VII of France. He had been very dashing and daring. His motto had been "Cur non?"-"Why not?" The little boy said the words over and over. Somehow, he liked the sound of them. He had lessons with Mother and Grandmother. One of the happiest times of his little life was the hunting season. Once, when he was about eight years old, there was great excitement in the castle. Some of the servants told that a hyena with eyes like big balls of fire and cruel teeth had been prowling about the estate. The boy listened eagerly. He had often wakened in his little bed at the cry of some such wild beast in the forest. He knew that if you went too near the dark woods, you could sometimes hear a wild boar out looking for mushrooms. So he was sure this story was true. He felt sorry for the women and little children who were so frightened by the dread beast. He couldn't get the story out of his head. In his bed, he thought about it. "Mother, "he said at last, "I will go out and kill the hyena. Then the little children need not be afraid any more. Think how Grandmother and the aunts must have raised their hands and shrugged their shoulders at that. "You are too young yet, my son," said his mother gently. But in her eager little heart, I'm sure she was glad that her boy wanted to go out and make way with the cruel things, so that women and children might be safe and happy in their work and play. When he was eleven years old, his mother decided that it was time he went to school. There were many things a boy of so fine and great a family should know that she and Grandmother could not teach him at home. So, he and his mother left the grim old castle. They traveled a long distance, seeing many new and strange things. And, by and by, they came to a city so full of wonders that the boy could scarcely believe it was realthe City of Paris. Something to Look for in October (Used by the kind courtesy of the author) What is that flaming vine on the cak? What are those rich red patches over the rocky pastures? Look at the autumn colors until they stain your very eyeballs with colors, and leave your memory fast dyed with the glory of the woods. Are the bees still getting honey? From what five flowers? How many sorts of nuts have you squirreled (that's a new word) for the winter? Do you know the hickory nut, the pig nut, the shell or shag bark, the black walnut, the butternut, the hazel nut, the chestnut, the pecan nut, the "English" walnut, the chinkapin - by the shapes of the trees, by the shapes of the leaves, by the taste of the meats? Stock up in nuts and nut lore this October. Look for the first flying wedge of wild geese going south in the sky. Look for the beginnings of the muskrat house in the meadow. Look for the stores of corn and nuts laid up by mice and squirrels and jays in all the little holes and hollows. Look for the little coveys of quail in your neighborhood and hide them from the gunners if you can; that is, keep the gunners off all the land that you may chance to control. Birds! Birds! Birds! We need millions more birds to check the insect pests and to keep the earth glad with life and song. Look for partridge and wintergreen berries; and make a day's hunt for the ilex, snowberry, arrowwood berries; green brier, cornel make a berry day toward the end of October. It will be a day to reremember. Look for the ballooning spiders. Look for the flying thistledown and the hawkweed seeds that float on the wind currents as ships on the sea. Look for the golden heart of October - for the corn and pumpkins, and those serene sweet days of sunshine that fill the woods, the fields, and the heart with quiet joy.- Dallas Lore Sharp her little son. She could see him for a few minutes and talk to him only across the threshold of his room. If he heard too much outside news, he might forget that he was in school to study his lessons. The school wasn't much like the great castle on the windy moor. I think the boy must have missed its big rooms and the fresh cold air. His room at school wasn't much bigger than a cell. Over the door, an opening was supposed to let in plenty of fresh air. But as the hall outside was kept tightly closed, there wasn't much air to go through the opening. And the boys weren't allowed to eat fresh fruits, as they were thought unsafe until cooked. Such strange lessons as they had, too, in those longago days. First, they had to learn all there was to know about all the titled families of France. They must know about different coats-of-arms, and what each meant. This study was called Heraldry. Then they learned to dance gracefully, to make wonderful bows, and to say the right thing at the right time. They were taught Drawing, Latin, and all about the wars, which they called History. They fenced and vaulted and rode- every boy must be able to sit and manage his horse perfectly. But when I tell you what I have read about the punishments of those old school-days, you will wonder that there was any studying done at all. In making his report, with which he was probably much pleased, one of the old school-masters tells that during the fifty years of his teaching, he administered "900,000 canings; 20,000 beatings; 100,000 slaps; and 20,000 switchings.' Among smaller things, he says he has given "10,000 filips," and over a million "raps and hits." He hurled a Bible or a catechism or a singing- book at some hapless boy 12,000 times. for not learning lessons and 76,000 for not learning Bible He caused 700 to kneel on peas. He punished 80,000 verses. with hair so red that he was sometimes called "the big boy with red hair." He was such a fortunate boy. He could choose just what he wanted to do. And money and friends and his well-known family were all at hand to help him do it. He thought it over. He might be a great lawyer. He could go into politics. He could write. Or with his splendid standing, he might even become one of the King's courtiers. But, somehow, none of these things just suited him. When he thought about what he wanted to do and be, he remembered strong free winds blowing across great moors, he saw barred doors and grim protected windows. He saw stern faces that looked at him from portraits. Most clearly of all, he saw his father's clear, shining, brave young eyes. "I will be a soldier, too," he decided. His mother, who had always been a soldier herself for courage and bravery and love of high, pure things, must have been glad, indeed, when her only son made this choice. And when he was made a member of the dashing Black Musketeers and took his old ancestor's motto "Why not?" - for his own, her heart must have beat high with joy and pride. Poor little Mother! She didn't live long to be proud of her soldier-son. When he was only thirteen, she died. It was a sad thing for the boy. For although he had many friends and money and other things, none of them could ever take the place of his brave little mother. About this time an uncle died too. The big boy with red hair found himself the owner of a wonderful estate with more money than he knew what to do with. Rich, fine-looking, well-educated, every inch a soldier, it's no wonder his friends began to talk about his marriage. In those days, people married when they were only boys and girls, you know. In one of the most beautiful and famous homes of Paris, was a lovely little girl, not yet twelve years old. Her name was Adrienne de Noailles. This was the bride picked out for the red-headed soldier-boy, and the boy and girl seem to have been pleased with the arrangement. But because Adrienne's mother wished it, the young people waited two years before they were married. Adrienne's mother looked after the boy, and became almost like an own mother to him. One day, Paris saw a wonderful wedding. It was all flowers and fragrances; bright colors, silk, and gold lace. There was much bowing and courtesying of powdered heads, much swishing of long trains, much kissing of hands and giving of good wishes. The groom wasn't seventeen and the bride wasn't quite fourteen. But they went to live in the bride's home, so full of rooms and furniture and pictures and beautiful things, that it is like a leaf out of a fairy-tale to read about their life there. |