Children’s Stories quotes

“He is as beautiful as a weathercock,” remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic tastes; “only not quite so useful,” he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not.

“Why can’t you be like the Happy Prince?” asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon.

“The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything.”

“Why can’t you be like the Happy Prince?” asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. “The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything.”

“I am glad there is someone in the world who is quite happy,” muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.

“He looks just like an angel,” said the Charity Children as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean white pinafores.

“That is because you have done a good action,” said the Prince. And the little Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep.

Thinking always made him sleepy.

When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. “What a remarkable phenomenon,” said the Professor of Ornithology as he was passing over the bridge. “A swallow in winter!” And he wrote a long letter about it to the local newspaper.

“Dear little Swallow,” said the Prince, “you tell me of marvellous things, but more marvellous than anything is the suffering of men and of women.

There is no Mystery so great as Misery.

Fly over my city, little Swallow, and tell me what you see there.”

Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen.

“I am covered with fine gold,” said the Prince, “you must take it off, leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold can make them happy.”

Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the Happy Prince looked quite dull and grey.

“I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you.”

“It is not to Egypt that I am going,” said the Swallow. “I am going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?”

And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his feet.

So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince.

“As he is no longer beautiful he is no longer useful,” said the Art Professor at the University.

Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. “We must have another statue, of course,” he said, “and it shall be a statue of myself.”

“No red rose in all my garden!” he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears.

“Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched.”

“Here at last is a true lover,” said the Nightingale. “Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him.

Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill.

Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?

”

“She has form,” he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove—“that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not.

In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity.

She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice.

“What are you doing here?” he cried in a very gruff voice, and the children ran away.

“My own garden is my own garden,” said the Giant; “anyone can understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself.”

So he built a high wall all round it, and put up a noticeboard.

“My own garden is my own garden,” said the Giant; “anyone can understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself.” So he built a high wall all round it, and put up a noticeboard.

He was a very selfish Giant.

The poor children had now nowhere to play. They tried to play on the road, but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did not like it.

Years went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. He could not play about any more, so he sat in a huge armchair, and watched the children at their games, and admired his garden.

“I have many beautiful flowers,” he said; “but the children are the most beautiful flowers of all.”

One winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing. He did not hate the Winter now, for he knew that it was merely the Spring asleep, and that the flowers were resting.

One winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing.

He did not hate the Winter now, for he knew that it was merely the Spring asleep, and that the flowers were resting.

Suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder, and looked and looked. It certainly was a marvellous sight. In the farthest corner of the garden was a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms.

“Who hath dared to wound thee?” cried the Giant; “tell me, that I may take my big sword and slay him.”

“Nay!” answered the child; “but these are the wounds of Love.”

“Who art thou?” said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he knelt before the little child.

“Let me tell you a story on the subject,” said the Linnet.

“Is the story about me?” asked the Water-rat. “If so, I will listen to it, for I am extremely fond of fiction.”

“It is applicable to you,” answered the Linnet; and he flew down, and alighting upon the bank, he told the story of “The Devoted Friend.”

I am his best friend, and I will always watch over him, and see that he is not led into any temptations. Besides, if Hans came here, he might ask me to let him have some flour on credit, and that I could not do.

Flour is one thing, and friendship is another, and they should not be confused. Why, the words are spelt differently, and mean quite different things.

Everybody can see that.’

“Then you are quite behind the age,” said the Water-rat. “

Every good storyteller nowadays starts with the end, and then goes on to the beginning, and concludes with the middle.

That is the new method. I heard all about it the other day from a critic who was walking round the pond with a young man.

“I am rather afraid that I have annoyed him,” answered the Linnet. “The fact is, that I told him a story with a moral.”

“Ah! that is always a very dangerous thing to do,” said the Duck.

And I quite agree with her.

After the banquet there was to be a Ball. The bride and bridegroom were to dance the Rose-dance together, and the King had promised to play the flute.

He played very badly, but no one had ever dared to tell him so, because he was the King.

Indeed, he knew only two airs, and was never quite certain which one he was playing; but it made no matter, for, whatever he did, everybody cried out, “Charming! charming!”

But the Catherine Wheel shook her head. “Romance is dead, Romance is dead, Romance is dead,” she murmured.

She was one of those people who think that, if you say the same thing over and over a great many times, it becomes true in the end.

Suddenly, a sharp, dry cough was heard, and they all looked round.

“What is a sensitive person?” said the Cracker to the Roman Candle.

“A person who, because he has corns himself, always treads on other people’s toes,” answered the Roman Candle in a low whisper; and the Cracker nearly exploded with laughter.

“Pray, what are you laughing at?” inquired the Rocket; “I am not laughing.”

I always think of them as being quite different. As for keeping myself dry, there is evidently no one here who can at all appreciate an emotional nature. Fortunately for myself, I don’t care.

The only thing that sustains one through life is the consciousness of the immense inferiority of everybody else, and this is a feeling that I have always cultivated.

But none of you have any hearts. Here you are laughing and making merry just as if the Prince and Princess had not just been married.”

“I never said I knew him,” answered the Rocket. “

I dare say that if I knew him I should not be his friend at all. It is a very dangerous thing to know one’s friends.

”

“Conversation, indeed!” said the Rocket. “You have talked the whole time yourself. That is not conversation.”

“Somebody must listen,” answered the Frog, “and I like to do all the talking myself. It saves time, and prevents arguments.”

“But I like arguments,” said the Rocket.

“I hope not,” said the Frog complacently. “

Arguments are extremely vulgar, for everybody in good society holds exactly the same opinions.

Goodbye a second time; I see my daughters in the distance,” and the little Frog swam away.

“Well, that is his loss, not mine,” answered the Rocket. “I am not going to stop talking to him merely because he pays no attention. I like hearing myself talk. It is one of my greatest pleasures.

I often have long conversations all by myself, and I am so clever that sometimes I don’t understand a single word of what I am saying.

”

A person of my position is never useful. We have certain accomplishments, and that is more than sufficient. I have no sympathy myself with industry of any kind, least of all with such industries as you seem to recommend.

Indeed, I have always been of opinion that hard work is simply the refuge of people who have nothing whatever to do.

”

“Good heavens!” cried the Goose. “It is going to rain sticks,” and she rushed into the water.

“I knew I should create a great sensation,” gasped the Rocket, and he went out.

but more often he would be alone, feeling through a certain quick instinct, which was almost a divination, that the secrets of art are best learned in secret, and that

Beauty, like Wisdom, loves the lonely worshipper.

Many curious stories were related about him at this period.

We toil for them all day long, and they heap up gold in their coffers, and our children fade away before their time, and the faces of those we love become hard and evil.

We tread out the grapes, and another drinks the wine. We sow the corn, and our own board is empty.

We have chains, though no eye beholds them; and are slaves, though men call us free.”

We tread out the grapes, and another drinks the wine. We sow the corn, and our own board is empty.

We have chains, though no eye beholds them; and are slaves, though men call us free.

”

The priest rides by and tells his beads, and no man has care of us. Through our sunless lanes creeps Poverty with her hungry eyes, and Sin with his sodden face follows close behind her.

Misery wakes us in the morning, and Shame sits with us at night.

But what are these things to thee? Thou art not one of us. Thy face is too happy.” And he turned away scowling, and threw the shuttle across the loom, and the young King saw that it was threaded with a thread of gold.

“Take these things away, and hide them from me. Though it be the day of my coronation, I will not wear them. For on the loom of Sorrow, and by the white hands of Pain, has this my robe been woven.

There is Blood in the heart of the ruby, and Death in the heart of the pearl.

” And he told them his three dreams.

“Are not the rich and the poor brothers?” asked the young King.

“Ay,” answered the man, “and the name of the rich brother is Cain.”

And the young King’s eyes filled with tears, and he rode on through the murmurs of the people, and the little page grew afraid and left him.

And with what crown shall I crown thee, and what sceptre shall I place in thy hand? Surely this should be to thee a day of joy, and not a day of abasement.”

“Shall Joy wear what Grief has fashioned?” said the young King.

And he told him his three dreams.

And as for thy dreams, think no more of them.

The burden of this world is too great for one man to bear, and the world’s sorrow too heavy for one heart to suffer.

”

… with their wings as they passed, and chattered to each other, and the little Dwarf was so pleased that he could not help showing them the beautiful white rose, and telling them that the Infanta herself had given it to him because she loved him.

They did not understand a single word of what he was saying, but that made no matter, for they put their heads on one side, and looked wise, which is quite as good as understanding a thing, and very much easier.

The Lizards also took an immense fancy to him, and when he grew tired of running about and flung himself down on the grass to rest, they played and romped all over him, and tried to amuse him in the best way they could.

The Flowers, however, were excessively annoyed at their behaviour, and at the behaviour of the birds. “It only shows,” they said, “what a vulgarising effect this incessant rushing and flying about has.

Well-bred people always stay exactly in the same place, as we do.

No one ever saw us hopping up and down the walks, or galloping madly through the grass after dragonflies. When we do want change of air, we send for the gardener, and he carries us to another bed.

But no fish at all was in it, nor any monster or thing of horror, but only a little Mermaid lying fast asleep.

Her hair was as a wet fleece of gold, and each separate hair as a thread of fine gold in a cup of glass.

Her body was as white ivory, and her tail was of silver and pearl. Silver and pearl was her tail, and the green weeds of the sea coiled round it; and like seashells were her ears, and her lips were like sea-coral.

And the young Fisherman said to himself, “

Of what use is my soul to me? I cannot see it. I may not touch it. I do not know it.

Surely I will send it away from me, and much gladness shall be mine.” And a cry of joy broke from his lips, and standing up in the painted boat, he held out his arms to the Mermaid.

And the young Fisherman said to himself: “

How strange a thing this is! The Priest telleth me that the soul is worth all the gold in the world, and the merchants say that it is not worth a clipped piece of silver.

” And he passed out of the marketplace, and went down to the shore of the sea, and began to ponder on what he should do.

Suddenly a dog bayed in the wood, and the dancers stopped, and going up two by two, knelt down, and kissed the man’s hands.

As they did so, a little smile touched his proud lips, as a bird’s wing touches the water and makes it laugh.

But there was disdain in it. He kept looking at the young Fisherman.

She was silent for a few moments, and a look of terror came over her face. Then she brushed her hair back from her forehead, and smiling strangely she said to him, “

What men call the shadow of the body is not the shadow of the body, but is the body of the soul.

Stand on the seashore with thy back to the moon, and cut away from around thy feet thy shadow, which is thy soul’s body, and bid thy soul leave thee, and it will do so.”

But the young Fisherman laughed.

“Love is better than Wisdom,” he cried, “and the little Mermaid loves me.”

“Nay, but there is nothing better than Wisdom,” said the Soul.

It stopped opposite one of the booths and began eating the oranges, and the man only laughed. Thou canst not think how strange a people they are.

When they are glad they go to the bird-sellers and buy of them a caged bird, and set it free that their joy may be greater, and when they are sad they scourge themselves with thorns that their sorrow may not grow less.

“One evening I met some negroes carrying a heavy palanquin through the bazaar. It was made of gilded bamboo, and the poles were of vermilion lacquer studded with brass peacocks.

And his Soul answered him,

“When thou didst send me forth into the world thou gavest me no heart, so I learned to do all these things and love them.”

“What sayest thou?” murmured the young Fisherman.

And his Soul mocked him and said, “Surely thou hast but little joy out of thy love.

Thou art as one who in time of death pours water into a broken vessel.

Thou givest away what thou hast, and nought is given to thee in return. It were better for thee to come with me, for I know where the Valley of Pleasure lies, and what things are wrought there.”

Suffer me now to tell thee of the world’s pain, and it may be that thou wilt hearken.

For of a truth pain is the Lord of this world, nor is there anyone who escapes from its net.

There be some who lack raiment, and others who lack bread. There be widows who sit in purple, and widows who sit in rags. To and fro over the fens go the lepers, and they are cruel to each other.

So cold was it that even the animals and the birds did not know what to make of it.

“Ugh!” snarled the Wolf, as he limped through the brushwood with his tail between his legs, “this is perfectly monstrous weather. Why doesn’t the Government look to it?”

“Weet! weet! weet!” twittered the green Linnets, “the old Earth is dead and they have laid her out in her white shroud.”

“The Earth is going to be married, and this is her bridal dress,” whispered the Turtledoves to each other.

Their little pink feet were quite frostbitten, but they felt that it was their duty to take a romantic view of the situation.

“Nonsense!” growled the Wolf. “I tell you that it is all the fault of the Government, and if you don’t believe me I shall eat you.” The Wolf had a thoroughly practical mind, and was never at a loss for a good argument.

“Nonsense!” growled the Wolf. “I tell you that it is all the fault of the Government, and if you don’t believe me I shall eat you.”

The Wolf had a thoroughly practical mind, and was never at a loss for a good argument.

“Well, for my own part,” said the Woodpecker, who was a born philosopher, “I don’t care an atomic theory for explanations. If a thing is so, it is so, and at present it is terribly cold.”

“Well, for my own part,” said the Woodpecker, who was a born philosopher,

“I don’t care an atomic theory for explanations. If a thing is so, it is so, and at present it is terribly cold.”

Terribly cold it certainly was. The little Squirrels, who lived inside the tall fir-tree, kept rubbing each other’s noses to keep themselves warm, and the Rabbits curled themselves up in their holes, and did not venture even to look out of doors.

… in the good Saint Martin, who watches over all travellers, and retraced their steps, and went warily, and at last they reached the outskirts of the forest, and saw, far down in the valley beneath them, the lights of the village in which they dwelt.

So overjoyed were they at their deliverance that they laughed aloud, and the Earth seemed to them like a flower of silver, and the Moon like a flower of gold.

Yet, after that they had laughed they became sad, for they remembered their poverty, and one of them said to the other, “Why did we make merry, seeing that life is for the rich, and not for such as we are?

“Truly,” answered his companion, “much is given to some, and little is given to others.

Injustice has parcelled out the world, nor is there equal division of aught save of sorrow.

”

“Nay, but God careth for the sparrows even, and feedeth them,” he answered.

“Do not the sparrows die of hunger in the winter?” she asked. “And is it not winter now?”

And the man answered nothing, but stirred not from the threshold.

And a bitter wind from the forest came in through the open door, and made her tremble, and she shivered, and said to him: “Wilt thou not close the door? There cometh a bitter wind into the house, and I am cold.”

“Into a house where a heart is hard cometh there not always a bitter wind?”

he asked. And the woman answered him nothing, but crept closer to the fire.

And the Mole answered,

“Thou hast blinded mine eyes. How should I know?”

He said to the Linnet, “Thou canst fly over the tops of the tall trees, and canst see the whole world. Tell me, canst thou see my mother?”

And the Linnet answered,

“Thou hast clipt my wings for thy pleasure. How should I fly?”

And to the little Squirrel who lived in the fir-tree, and was lonely, he said, “Where is my mother?”

And the Squirrel answered,

“Thou hast slain mine. Dost thou seek to slay thine also?”

And the Star-Child wept and bowed his head, and prayed forgiveness of God’s things, and went on through the forest, seeking for the beggar-woman. And on the third day he came to the other side of the forest and went down into the plain.