Sample Stories

 

Sheltering Wings 

(Founded on an incident observed during a severe storm) 

 

It was intensely cold. Heavy sleds creaked continuously as they scraped over the jeweled sounding board of dry, unyielding snow; the signs above the shop doors shrieked and groaned as they swung helplessly to and fro, and the clear, keen air seemed frozen into sharp little crystalline needles that stabbed every living thing that must be out in it. The streets were almost forsaken in mid-afternoon. Business men hurried from shelter to shelter; every dog remained at home; not a bird was seen or heard. The sparrows had been forced to hide themselves in crevices and holes; the doves found protected corners and huddled together as best they could; many birds were frozen to death.  

A dozen or more doves were gathered close under the cornice of the piazza of a certain house, trying with little success to keep warm. Some small sparrows, disturbed and driven from the cozy place they had chosen, saw the doves and came flying across the piazza. 

“Dear doves,” chirped the sparrows, “won’t you let us nestle near you? Your bodies look so large and warm.” 

“But your coats are frosted with cold. We cannot let you come near, for we are almost frozen now,” murmured the doves sadly. 

“But we are perishing!” 

“So are we.” 

“It looks so warm near your broad wings, gentle doves, Oh, let us come! We are so little, and so very, very cold. 

“Come,” cooed one dove at last, and a trembling little sparrow fluttered close and nestled under the broad wings. 

“Come,” cooed another dove, and another little sparrow found comfort. 

“Come! Come!” echoed another warm-hearted bird, and another, until at last more than half the doves were sheltering small, shivering sparrows beneath their own half-frozen wings. 

“My sisters, you were very foolish,” said the other doves. “You mean well, but why do you risk your own beautiful lives to give life to worthless sparrows?” 

“Ah, they are so small and so very, very cold,” murmured the doves. “Many of us will perish this cruel night; while we have life let us share its meager warmth with those in bitter need.” 

Colder and colder grew the day. The sun went down behind the clouds suffused with soft and radiant beauty, but more fiercely and relentlessly swept the wind around the house where the doves and sparrows waited for death. 

An hour after sunset a man came up to the house and strode across the piazza. As the door of the house closed heavily behind him, a little child watching from the window saw something jarred from the cornice fall heavily to the piazza floor. 

“Oh, Papa!” she cried in surprise, “a poor, frozen dove has fallen on our porch.” 

When he stepped out to pick up the frozen dove, the father saw the others under the cornice. They were no longer able to move or to utter a cry, so he brought them in and placed them in a room where they might slowly revive. Soon more than half the doves could coo gratefully and raise their stiffened wings. Then out from beneath the wing of each revived dove fluttered a living sparrow. 

“Look, Papa,” cried the child, “each dove that has come to life was folding a poor little sparrow, close to her heart.” 

They gently raised wings of the doves that could not be revived. Not one had a sparrow beneath it. 

Colder and fiercer grew the wind without; cutting and more piercing grew the frozen crystalline needles of air; but each dove that had sheltered a frost-coated sparrow beneath her own shivering wings lived to rejoice in the glowing, gladsome sunshine of the days to come. 

Selected  

  

The Flight of Feathers 

Assuma was an Algonquin chieftain, and wise as he was good. For a thousand moons his tribe had prospered under his care. He had restrained the young men when they wished to put on the war paint and go forth to slay, and he gathered the little children around his knees when the fires were bright and warm, that he might fill their minds with thoughts that they would cherish. 

The great chieftain had searched the innermost nature of his people, and learned that only the good and the true were brave. A world of wickedness about him had shown him the horrible truth that evil ways never failed to leave in their wake a trail of sorrow. He had seen jealousy creep into the hearts of the young, and he had seen pale, dead faces in the night. 

On the dark skins that covered the walls of his own abode, Assuma had formed strange signs. There was a cross. When a member of his tribe looked upon it, he remembered his chieftain’s words, “You shall help one another.” And there was a square. When an Algonquin looked upon it, he remembered the words, “You shall deal justly with one another.” And the circle; when they looked upon it, they remembered, “You shall be kind to one another.” Finally there was the print of a human hand, which told them to remember the words, “You shall work for the good of all.” 

It happened one day that Assuma sat at his tepee door, his ear open to the grievances of anyone who might cry for justice. A slender girl approached slowly and dropped to her knees, weeping. 

Assuma laid his hand on her head and comforted her, “Why have you come, my daughter?” he asked. “Who has offended you?” 

“I have come because I have broken the good circle,” the girl confessed. 

“How have you broken it, my daughter?” 

“I have told that which is not true about one of the maidens of the tribe. Now others are pointing at her, and she is ashamed.” 

“Why did you do this thing?” 

“Because,” said the girl, hesitatingly, “her string of shells is prettier than mine!” 

“That is bad!” said Assuma. “You have indeed broken the good circle. And you have also broken the cross, because you have harmed instead of helped another. And you have also broken the square, because you have been unjust. And you have also broken the sign of the human hand, because you have worked against the good of all. You must be punished. The evil words that you have spoken must be gathered up, one by one, from the ears of those who have heard them. Thus, only, can justice be done and peace restored. 

“At dawn you shall go with me to the top of the high hill yonder. You shall bring with you a large goose. I shall be waiting for you.” 

The girl went away sadder than when she had come. Then the great chief called one of his runners to him, and sent him hastily with a message to all the tribesmen, far and near, bidding them to gather at the council grounds at the foot of the high hill. 

The new day dawned, and the sad young girl came at the appointed time to the summit of the high hill, carrying a goose. A great throng was gathering at the foot of the hill. Assuma took the goose and plucked a feather from its wing. He held it up in the air, and released it to the wind, which quickly swirled it about, and soon it was lost to sight. 

“My daughter,” said Assuma, “you shall stand in this spot and pick the feathers from the goose, one by one, and set them adrift upon the wind. When you have plucked them all, come to me at the foot of the hill, where our people have gathered.” 

All through the day the maiden plucked the feathers and cast them adrift. And when night had come, she crept wearily down the hill. 

Assuma met her as she drew near, and led her before the gathering. “My children,” he said, “you have seen the scattering of an untruth, like the feathers of a goose. Its words have drifted here and there among you on the winds of speech. Lying words are in your hearts, eating like a hungry wolf at the white innocence of another. You alone can find them. They must be found and destroyed that they may do no further harm. 

“Tomorrow you shall go into the woods, and out upon the plains seeking the feathers this young maiden has plucked from the goose. For each feather that is brought back to me, there shall be a reward. When evening comes, we shall gather here again, and you will feast and dance, for the good name of one of us has been brought back to life.  

Though the entire tribe searched all day, only seven feathers were found. These Assuma placed in the girl’s hand. “Take these,” he said, “to the one of whom you spoke evil, and tell her that these seven feathers are all you can give back to her to atone for that which you have taken away.” 

So was it all done in silence with the light of the evening sun shining golden on the hillside, and peace lit like a silver star above the hearts of men, for a great truth had come to earth. 

Used by permission of the Sunshine Magazine 

  

The Lost Wallet 

It was snowing hard for the first time that winter, and the white flakes were piling up on Maple Street. Billy Gates grasped his shovel and put on his gloves. He wanted to clear the snow away from the front of his house before it got too deep. 

Just then he saw three people coming toward him. When they drew near, he saw that they were old Mr. Judd and Tommy and Jackie Green. Tommy and Jackie were twins, eight years old and just one week younger than Billy. 

Tommy called, “Hello, Billy. Come with us. Mr. Judd has lost his wallet with two dollars in it, and we’re going to help find it.” 

Poor Mr. Judd didn’t see very well, and whenever he mislaid anything, he asked the Green boys and Billy to go to his house to look for it with him. The boys were glad to help the kind old man. Then, too, they had a great deal of fun at his house. 

Mr Judd had been a sailor when he was young, and he told them many exciting stories of the sea whenever they visited him. 

“Come on, Billy,” Mr. Judd urged, “you’re Maple Street’s champion finder of lost articles.” 

Billy wished he could go with his friends. It was fun playing detective for old Mr. Judd. And it would be more fun to hear the stories that were sure to follow. 

But then he remembered his father who had to work long hours at the busy creamery. If Billy went to help Mr. Judd, his father would have to shovel the snow himself that evening when he reached home. So Billy made his decision. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Judd,” he said, “but I’ve got to finish this job so that Daddy won’t have to do it tonight.” 

Mr. Judd patted Billy’s shoulder. “That’s right,” he said. “You’ve got good parents, and I’m glad you want to help them. But I’m sorry you can’t come with us.” 

Then they started down the street. Billy looked sadly after the three. What a great time they would have in Mr. Judd’s warm, jolly, little house. The boys loved to be there, for it was full of the odd things that the old man had brought from the far places of the earth. And each one of these things had a story. 

But it would be silly to stand fretting. So Billy set to work. 

The snow had been falling heavily, and Billy had to push hard to get it out into the road. It didn’t seem possible that the light, airy flakes could weigh so much. 

Soon his arms and shoulders were tired. He wanted to rest, but he had determined not to stop until the job was finished. 

At last there was just one more strip to be cleared. Billy set the wide shovel down and pushed. He watched the soft snow as it crept up the wood of the shovel. 

Then suddenly something black and square appeared in the whiteness. Billy stopped working and picked up the black object. He brushed it off and turned it over in his hands. 

Why, it was a wallet and inside it were two single dollar bills. This must be the wallet that Mr. Judd had lost! 

He crammed it into his pocket and quickly pushed the last strip of snow into the street. 

“Mother,” he called when this was done, “I’m going over to Mr. Judd’s house. I’ve found his wallet.” 

Down the street he ran, and when he rang Mr. Judd’s doorbell, Tommy Green opened the door. Tommy looked very sad. 

“We haven’t found the wallet yet,” he said, “and Mr. Judd feels so bad about it that I don’t think he’ll be able to tell that story.” 

Just then the old man came into the room. Billy could see that he was worried. Mr. Judd didn’t have a great deal of money, and two dollars was a large sum to him. 

“Mr. Judd,” said Billy with a grin, “guess what has happened!” 

“You look so happy,” said Mr. Judd, “that if you hadn’t just come into the house, I’d say you’d found my wallet.” 

“Well, look at this,” Billy cried. 

Mr. Judd blinked with surprise when he saw what Billy had in his hand. Then he laughed, “Why, Billy, we’ve turned the house upside down looking for that. Wherever did you find it?” 

Of course they all wanted to hear what had happened. Tommy and Jackie Green stood by with their eyes popping while Billy told his tale. 

“That’s odd,” said Mr. Judd when the story was finished. “I must have dropped it when I went for my walk this morning. I was sure I had lost that wallet in the house.” 

Then he brought the three boys into the kitchen. They sat at the table and Mr. Judd gave each one a glass of the root beer that he made himself. 

The boys agreed with Mr. Judd that it had been fine of Billy to give up having fun with his friends so that he could help his father. Billy thought that if they knew what a good father he had, they wouldn’t think that what he had done had been so great. 

Then they sat about the kitchen stove while Mr. Judd told them the exciting story of how his ivory elephant from India had lost one of its tusks.                                                        

   Ruth Cannon  

 

The Squirrel Family 

Once upon a time there were some frolicsome squirrels who were having a lovely time hopping and jumping from pine tree to pine tree. The mother squirrel didn’t have time to play; she had something more to do. She was cleaning house. She worked hard until her hole in the tree was all nice and clean; then she called her children squirrels to come home. Squirrels always go quickly when they are called, and these squirrels went just that way. They ran, hopped, and jumped right into their hole in the tree to hear what the mother had to say.  

“My little ones,” said Mrs. Bushy Tail, (for that was mother squirrel’s name), “it is going to storm, I fear, and we shall all have to get in our winter supply of food. You won’t have time to play for some time, but you must gather all the nuts you can. Something tells me winter is coming.” 

Her little Frisky-Top said, “Well, here I go first of all to get my nuts,” and out of the hole he jumped. 

But her little Bright-Eyes said, “Oh, I would rather play, and then I’ll get my nuts tomorrow.” 

Well, you should have seen Frisky work. He found such fine, large nuts and oh! so many of them. And Mrs. Bushy Tail, too, gathered in a great many nuts. But little Bright-Eyes played all day except when he stopped to eat a nut.  

That night some great clouds came, and soon it started to snow; and before long everything was white. 

Little Frisky-Top said, “How glad I am I have a store of nuts.” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Bushy Tail, “I, too, am glad, for now we shall not need to go out in the cold and snow.” 

Little Bright-Eyes said nothing, but he was thinking hard. How he wished he had obeyed his mother when she told him to gather in his nuts.  

The next morning Bright-Eyes jumped out of his hole in the tree; everything was covered with snow. Little Bright-Eyes was hungry, but he didn’t have one nut. Oh! how he wished he had minded his mother. No telling how long that snow would last. His mother said, “Bright-Eyes, why don’t you eat some of your nuts?” He felt ashamed, but he told his mother the truth of how he had not minded her at all when she told him to gather in his nuts. 

“Well,” said Mrs. Bushy Tail, “I’ll give you some of my nuts.”  

Frisky-Top said, “I’ll give you some of mine, enough to last until you can get some for yourself.” 

Some time after that, the snow partly melted away, and Bright-Eyes hurried out to get some nuts. After a hard time he found some. And after that I tell you Bright-Eyes never played when his mother told him to gather nuts. 

  

The Discontented Pumpkin 

Jack Frost visited Farmer Crane’s field one night, and the next morning the gold of the pumpkins shone more brilliantly than ever through their silver coverings. 

“It is of no use,” said one large pumpkin to another lying beside it. “It is of no use. I was never made to be cut up for pumpkin pie. I feel sure I was put here for something higher.” 

“Why, what do you mean?” said the other. “You never seemed dissatisfied before. You quite take my breath away. To tell the truth, I do not like the thought of being made for anything but pies. Do tell me of what other use can one be.” 

“Well, I have always thought that I am not like the other pumpkins in this field, and when Farmer Crane pointed me out the other day as the finest one he had, I heard him say, ‘A fine one it would be for a fair.’ It was not till then that I really knew for what I was intended.” 

“I do remember,” answered the other. “Yes, I do remember hearing about some pumpkins being taken to a county fair once, but I never heard how they liked it. As for myself, I should be pleased to be made into delicious pies and served on a beautiful plate.” 

“Why, how can you be satisfied with that thought? But there is Farmer Crane now. He is gathering some of the smaller pumpkins to make pies with, I think.” 

“Perhaps he knows best what we were made for,” answered one to the other. 

“What fine pies they will make,” said Farmer Crane, “I had better take them now, I think,” and they were all quickly added to the golden heap already in the wagon. 

How happy they all were—all but one that lay on the top of the large pile. 

“How hard it is to be thrown in with these ordinary pumpkins. If I could only slip off by myself. Perhaps there is a place at the bottom of the wagon where I can be alone.” 

It was a long way from the top of the pile to the bed of the wagon, but it was very little trouble to slip away from the rest. It would take only a second, and then it would be away from the others. But alas, the discontented pumpkin slipped a little too far, and soon lay on the frozen ground, a shattered heap. 

“Dear me!” said the pumpkins in one breath, “see that fine fellow has slipped off and is broken to pieces. What a feast the cows and pigs will have.” 

“It is too bad,” said one, “he was so anxious to be taken to the fair. It is always better to be contented.” 

 anything but pies. Do tell me of what other use can one be.” 

“Well, I have always thought that I am not like the other pumpkins in this field, and when Farmer Crane pointed me out the other day as the finest one he had, I heard him say, ‘A fine one it would be for a fair.’ It was not till then that I really knew for what I was intended.” 

“I do remember,” answered the other. “Yes, I do remember hearing about some pumpkins being taken to a county fair once, but I never heard how they liked it. As for myself, I should be pleased to be made into delicious pies and served on a beautiful plate.” 

“Why, how can you be satisfied with that thought? But there is Farmer Crane now. He is gathering some of the smaller pumpkins to make pies with, I think.” 

“Perhaps he knows best what we were made for,” answered one to the other. 

“What fine pies they will make,” said Farmer Crane, “I had better take them now, I think,” and they were all quickly added to the golden heap already in the wagon. 

How happy they all were—all but one that lay on the top of the large pile. 

“How hard it is to be thrown in with these ordinary pumpkins. If I could only slip off by myself. Perhaps there is a place at the bottom of the wagon where I can be alone.” 

It was a long way from the top of the pile to the bed of the wagon, but it was very little trouble to slip away from the rest. It would take only a second, and then it would be away from the others. But alas, the discontented pumpkin slipped a little too far, and soon lay on the frozen ground, a shattered heap. 

“Dear me!” said the pumpkins in one breath, “see that fine fellow has slipped off and is broken to pieces. What a feast the cows and pigs will have.” 

“It is too bad,” said one, “he was so anxious to be taken to the fair. It is always better to be contented.”