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The King's Three Sons 👑

Once upon a time, a King had three sons. The two older sons were clever and bright. But the youngest son said very little and seemed foolish. Everyone called him Dummling.

When the King grew old, he wanted to give the crown to one of his sons. The King took his three sons to the courtyard. He blew three feathers into the air. 'Follow your feather,' he said. 'The one who brings me the most splendid carpet will be King after me.'

One feather flew east. One feather flew west. But Dummling's feather went up a little, then fell to the ground nearby.

The King's Challenge 👑

Once upon a time there lived a king who had three sons. The two elder brothers were learned and bright, but the youngest said very little and seemed rather foolish, so everyone called him Dummling.

When the king grew old and feeble, he wished to leave his crown to one of his sons, but he could not decide which. He settled that they should travel, and whoever brought back the most splendid carpet would become king.

To decide which way each should go, the king led them to the palace courtyard and blew three feathers into the air, telling his sons to follow where the feathers flew. One feather flew eastwards, another westwards, but the third went straight up before falling near the palace. The two elder brothers set off east and west, making fun of poor Dummling, who had to stay where his feather had fallen.

The Poor Fisherman 🎣

There was once a fisherman who was very old and very poor. He had a wife and three children. Every day he went to the sea to catch fish. He made a rule for himself. He would throw his nets only four times each day.

One morning he went out by moonlight 🌙. He threw his nets into the water. When he pulled them back, he felt a great weight. But when the nets came out, there was no fish. He had caught only the body of a dead donkey.

Four Throws Only 🎣

There was once a fisherman so old and so poor that he could scarcely support his wife and three children. He went to the sea every morning before dawn, and he made a rule never to throw his nets more than four times.

One morning he came to the shore by moonlight. He undressed, threw his nets, and felt a great weight as he drew them in. He thought he had caught a large fish and felt very pleased. But when he looked, he saw only the body of a dead donkey in his nets. He was much disappointed.

Annoyed, he mended his nets where the donkey had torn them and threw them a second time. Again he felt a great weight, but he found only a large basket full of rubbish. 'O Fortune,' he cried, 'do not mock me, a poor fisherman who can hardly feed his family!'

Four Casts

There was once a fisherman so old and so poor that he could scarcely support his wife and three children. Every morning before sunrise, he would make his way down to the shore and cast his nets into the sea. He had made himself a rule: he would throw his nets no more than four times each day.

One morning he set out by moonlight. He undressed, waded into the shallows, and threw his nets wide. As he drew them back, he felt a great weight. His heart leapt—surely this was a large fish. But when the nets broke the surface, his hopes collapsed. Tangled in the cords was the carcass of a dead donkey, its weight having torn the nets in several places.

Frustrated, the fisherman mended his nets and cast them a second time. Again he felt a great weight, and again he allowed himself hope. This time he hauled in a large basket filled with rubbish and mud. He shook his head bitterly. 'O Fortune,' he cried out to the indifferent sea, 'do not trifle with me, a poor fisherman who can hardly support his family!' He washed the nets clean and cast them for the third time. When he drew them in, he found only stones and mud. By now he was almost in despair. But he had one cast left.

The Duke and the Island 🏝️

Long ago, Prospero was the Duke of Milan. He loved to read and study his books. He trusted his brother Antonio to help rule the dukedom. But Antonio wanted to be duke himself. With the help of the King of Naples, Antonio took Prospero's dukedom away from him.

Antonio and the king put Prospero and his little daughter Miranda into a small boat with no sail. They left them to drift on the sea. But one kind lord named Gonzalo secretly put fresh water, food, and some of Prospero's precious books into the boat.

The boat washed up on an enchanted island. Prospero and Miranda were safe. The island had once belonged to a wicked witch. Prospero used his magic to set spirits free. The chief spirit was called Ariel 🧚, and Ariel obeyed him.

Betrayed at Sea ⛵

Prospero, the Duke of Milan, loved learning and spent his days among books. He trusted his brother Antonio to govern the dukedom in his place. But Antonio wanted the crown for himself. With help from Alonso, the King of Naples, Antonio seized power and forced Prospero onto a small boat far out at sea.

Prospero's tiny daughter Miranda, not yet three years old, was placed in the boat with him. The traitors sailed away, leaving them to die. Yet one loyal courtier named Gonzalo secretly put fresh water, food, clothing, and—most precious of all—some of Prospero's beloved books into the boat before it was cast adrift.

Betrayal and Exile

Prospero, Duke of Milan, was a learned man who lived among his books, leaving the management of his dukedom to his brother Antonio. He trusted Antonio completely, but that trust was ill-rewarded. Antonio wanted to wear the duke's crown himself, and with the help of Prospero's enemy, Alonso, King of Naples, he seized the dukedom with all its honour, power, and riches.

The conspirators took Prospero to sea, and when they were far from land, they forced him into a small boat with no tackle, mast, or sail. In their cruelty they put his little daughter Miranda, not yet three years old, into the boat with him, and sailed away. But one courtier, Gonzalo, secretly placed in the boat fresh water, provisions, clothes, and what Prospero valued most: some of his precious books.

The boat was cast upon an enchanted island under the spell of a witch named Sycorax, who had imprisoned good spirits in the trunks of trees. She died shortly before Prospero arrived, but the spirits, of whom Ariel was the chief, still remained in their prisons. Prospero, a great magician, set free the imprisoned spirits, yet kept them obedient to his will.

A Prayer Through the Day ☀️

Edgar Allan Poe wrote this short poem as a prayer to Maria, the Mother of God. In it, he tells of the many times he has called out to her in his mind and heart. At every hour of the day — when the sun rises in the morning, when it blazes at noon, and when the light grows dim at twilight — he has spoken her name and asked for her presence.

Whether his days have been filled with joy or with sorrow, whether things have gone well or badly, he has always turned to her. He asks that she stay with him, no matter what comes. His words are simple, but they are full of trust. He does not pray only when he is in trouble. He prays at all times, in all seasons of his life.

The poem moves like the hours of a single day, but it also moves like the seasons of a life. Morning, noon, and twilight stand for youth, middle years, and the approach of night. Through all of it, Poe's speaker seeks the same thing: a guiding presence, a mother's care, and the hope that he will not be left alone.

A Kingdom by the Sea

Many years ago, in a kingdom that stood beside the cold, restless sea, there lived a maiden whose name was Annabel Lee. She was young—hardly more than a child—and the object of her devotion was a boy who was himself a child, the speaker of this story. Together they shared a love that seemed to them more profound than any love the world had known. It was not the fleeting affection of youth, but something deeper, something that felt eternal.

The kingdom was a place of grey stone towers and narrow streets that wound down to the shore, where the waves broke endlessly against the rocks. The boy and Annabel Lee walked together along the water's edge, sharing secrets and dreams. They were alone in their joy, wrapped in a cocoon of devotion that seemed impenetrable.

The boy believed that even the seraphs—the winged angels who dwell in heaven—looked down upon their love with envy. These celestial beings, who had never known earthly passion, coveted the pure and consuming bond between the two children. In the kingdom by the sea, the boy and Annabel Lee lived as though the world contained only the two of them, wrapped in a devotion that knew no boundary and no fear.

Lost in the Woods 🌲

A King was hunting in a great forest. He chased a deer so far that he lost his way.

An old woman appeared. 'I can show you the way out,' she said, 'but only if you marry my daughter.' The King was afraid, so he agreed.

Lost in the forest 🌲

A King was once hunting deep in a vast forest, and he chased his quarry so eagerly that none of his courtiers could keep up. When evening came, he realised he was utterly lost. An old woman with a nodding head appeared before him. 'Can you show me the way out of this forest?' he asked. 'Only on one condition,' she replied. 'You must marry my daughter, or you will die of hunger here.' In his terror the King agreed, and the old woman led him to her cottage, where her daughter sat by the fire. She was very beautiful, yet the King could not look at her without a secret shudder. Still, he lifted the maiden onto his horse, and the old woman showed him the way home. Soon preparations for the wedding began.

A Mysterious Guest 🏴‍☠️

I am Jim Hawkins. When I was a boy, my father kept the Admiral Benbow inn on the coast of England. One cold day a tall, heavy man came plodding to our door. He was nut-brown from the sun, with a tarry pigtail falling over his soiled blue coat. Across one cheek ran a sabre cut.

He whistled, then broke into song: 'Fifteen men on the dead man's chest—Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!' He rapped on the door and called for rum. When my father brought it, the stranger said, 'This is a handy cove. You can call me captain.' He threw down three gold pieces.

A Lodger Arrives

I take up my pen to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end. I go back to the time when my father kept the Admiral Benbow inn and the brown old seaman with the sabre cut first took up his lodging under our roof.

He was a tall, strong, nut-brown man, his tarry pigtail falling over the shoulder of his soiled blue coat. He rapped on the door and called roughly for a glass of rum. 'This is a handy cove,' said he, throwing down gold pieces. 'You might call me captain.'

A Boston Boyhood 📚

Ralph Waldo Emerson was born in Boston on May 25, 1803, the third son of a minister. His father died when Ralph was only eight years old, leaving his mother, Ruth Haskins, to raise five little boys alone. The family had very little money, but Mrs. Emerson was wise, dignified, and loving.

The boys spent their holidays in Concord with their step-grandfather, Dr. Ripley. Though Ralph was born in the city, he quickly fell in love with the woods and fields of Concord. He loved reading poems and classic stories. He filled notebooks with his own thoughts, verses, and favourite quotations. He had formed a habit that would last his whole life: writing down the ideas that came to him each day. The woods and fields along the Concord River were first a playground and then the background of the dreams of his awakening imagination.

A Boston Boyhood

Ralph Waldo Emerson was born in Boston on May 25, 1803, the third son of William Emerson, minister of the First Church. His father died in 1811, leaving Ruth Haskins Emerson a widow with five little boys in very straitened circumstances. Dr. Ripley of Concord, her husband's stepfather, helped the family and invited the boys to the Old Manse, so that the woods and fields along the Concord River became first a playground and then the background of their awakening imaginations.

Born in the city, Emerson's young mind found delight in poems and classic prose. His vacations in the country gave him an increasing love of nature. Even as a little boy he attempted flights of verse, and he and his mates took pleasure in declaiming to each other in barns and attics. At Harvard, he did not shine as a scholar, though he won prizes for essays and declamations. Yet his instinct led him to wide reading of works, outside the curriculum, that spoke directly to him. He had already formed the habit of writing in a journal, not the facts but the thoughts and inspirations of the day.

Early Years and Education

Ralph Waldo Emerson was born in Boston on May 25, 1803, the third son of William Emerson, minister of the First Church. When Ralph's father died in 1811, his mother Ruth Haskins raised five little boys in straitened circumstances with great dignity and piety. Her husband's stepfather, Reverend Dr. Ripley of Concord, helped the family and constantly invited the boys to the Old Manse, so that the woods and fields along the Concord River became the background of their awakening imaginations.

Born in the city, Emerson's young mind first found delight in poems and classic prose. His vacations in the country gave him a great and increasing love of nature, which he wove into his early poems. Even as a little boy he had the habit of attempting flights of verse, stimulated by Milton, Pope, or Scott. At college Emerson did not shine as a scholar, though he won prizes for essays. Yet young Emerson's instinct led him to wide reading outside the curriculum, and he had already formed the habit of writing in a journal the thoughts and inspirations of the day.

A Cold New Year's Eve 🌨️

It was New Year's Eve, and the snow fell fast. The sky was dark, and the air was bitterly cold. A poor little girl 🧒 walked through the streets with bare feet. She had no hat and no coat. Her feet were red and blue from the freezing air.

The girl carried matches in her old apron. She held a small bundle of them in her hand. All day long, she had tried to sell them. Nobody had bought a single match.

The girl was hungry and cold. From the windows of the houses, she could see candles glowing. She could smell roast goose cooking. But she had nothing.

Cold and Hungry 🥶

It was bitterly cold and nearly dark on the last evening of the year. Snow was falling, and through the streets walked a poor little girl, bareheaded and barefoot. She had left home wearing her mother's old slippers, but they were far too large. When she ran across the street to escape two fast carriages, both slippers fell off. One vanished entirely; a boy snatched up the other, laughing as he ran away. He said he would use it as a cradle one day.

Now the little girl's feet were bare and turning red and blue from the cold. She carried matches in her old apron and held a bundle in her hand. All day long she had walked the streets, but nobody had bought a single match. Nobody had given her even a penny.

She crept along, trembling with cold and hunger. From every window, candlelight glowed warmly. The smell of roasting goose drifted into the street, for it was New Year's Eve. The little girl thought of the feast inside those warm houses, but she dared not go home. She had sold nothing, and her father would be furious. Besides, home was nearly as cold as the street, with wind whistling through the cracks in the roof. She pressed herself into a corner where two houses met, pulling her tiny feet beneath her skirt, but she only grew colder.

New Year's Eve

The last evening of the year was bitterly cold. Snow fell steadily through the darkness, and the wind cut like a blade. Through the streets walked a small girl, bareheaded and barefoot, her fair hair dusted white with snow. She had left home wearing her mother's old slippers—enormous things, far too large—but they were gone now. One had disappeared when two carriages thundered past, forcing her to scramble aside. The other had been snatched by a street boy who thought it would make a fine cradle someday.

So she walked on with naked feet, red and blue from the cold, carrying an old apron full of matches and clutching a bundle in her hand. All day long she had walked these streets, calling out her wares in a voice that grew fainter as the hours passed. Not a single person had bought a match from her. Not one had given her a coin. People hurried by, their collars turned up against the wind, their eyes fixed on their own destinations.

She was trembling with cold and hunger—a picture of misery, her small frame shaking with each gust of wind. The snowflakes settled on her long curls, but she never thought of that. From every window, candlelight gleamed warm and golden, and the air was rich with the smell of roasting goose. Laughter and voices drifted out from behind closed doors. It was New Year's Eve, and the city was preparing to celebrate. The little girl thought of that, and kept walking, her bare feet leaving small prints in the fresh snow.

New Year's Eve

Most terribly cold it was; it snowed, and was nearly quite dark, and evening — the last evening of the year. In this cold and darkness there went along the street a poor little girl, bareheaded, and with naked feet. When she left home she had slippers on, it is true; but what was the good of that? They were very large slippers, which her mother had hitherto worn; so large were they; and the poor little thing lost them as she scuffled away across the street, because of two carriages that rolled by dreadfully fast.

One slipper was nowhere to be found; the other had been laid hold of by an urchin, and off he ran with it; he thought it would do capitally for a cradle when he some day or other should have children himself. So the little maiden walked on with her tiny naked feet, that were quite red and blue from cold. She carried a quantity of matches in an old apron, and she held a bundle of them in her hand. Nobody had bought anything of her the whole livelong day; no one had given her a single farthing.

She crept along trembling with cold and hunger — a very picture of sorrow, the poor little thing! The flakes of snow covered her long fair hair, which fell in beautiful curls around her neck; but of that, of course, she never once now thought. From all the windows the candles were gleaming, and it smelt so deliciously of roast goose, for you know it was New Year's Eve; yes, of that she thought.