Easter Stories: Classic Tales for the Holy Season
383
Easter Stories: Classic Tales for the Holy Season
383Paperback
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Overview
Everyone who believes Easter is about more than bunnies and eggs will be grateful for this new collection of short stories that shed light on the deeper meaning of the season. Selected for their spiritual value and literary quality, these classic tales capture the spirit of Easter in a way that will captivate readers of all ages. Parents and grandparents will find that children love to hear these stories read aloud, year after year.
Easter Stories includes time-honored favorites from world-famous storytellers such as C.S. Lewis, Leo Tolstoy, Selma Lagerlof, Oscar Wilde, Elizabeth Goudge, Maxim Gorky, Ruth Sawyer, and Walter Wangerin – as well as many you’ve never heard before. Illustrated with original woodcuts.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780874865981 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Plough Publishing House, The |
| Publication date: | 02/02/2015 |
| Pages: | 383 |
| Sales rank: | 798,976 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.40(w) x 8.40(h) x 1.10(d) |
About the Author
C.S. Lewis (1898-1963) was a British novelist, poet, academic, medievalist, literary critic, essayist, theologian, broadcaster, and lecturer. He is best known for his fictional works, including The Screwtape Letters, The Space Trilogy, and The Chronicles of Narnia. The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, the second book in the seven-book Narnia series, often tops must-read lists of classic children's literature; the series has been adapted for film, radio, TV, and the stage.
Date of Birth:
November 29, 1898Date of Death:
November 22, 1963Place of Birth:
Belfast, Nothern IrelandPlace of Death:
Headington, EnglandEducation:
Oxford University 1917-1923; Elected fellow of Magdalen College, Oxford in 1925Website:
http://www.cslewisclassics.comRead an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
The White Lily
Jane Tyson Clement
Adapted from Frances Jenkins Olcott
Once long ago, near a village far away, there lived an old peasant known as Ivan. He had a little hut, a small garden, a dog named Rubles, and a six-year-old nephew, Peter, who was an orphan. Ivan was not a bad man, as he did not murder, did not steal, told no lies, and did not meddle in other people's business. But on the other hand he couldn't be called a good man either. He was cross and dirty. He seldom spoke, and then only grudgingly and unpleasantly. He paid no attention to his neighbors, never showed them kindness, and refused any small courtesy or friendliness they offered him. Eventually they paid no attention to him either and let him go his own way. As for Rubles the dog, he was afraid of his master and never went near him. He would follow him at a distance to the village and back, would bark at all strangers as watchdogs should do, and he would drive off the foxes that tried to molest the hens. So Ivan kept the dog and left scraps for him, but never stroked or praised him.
Peter was a silent little boy, since he was never spoken to except in anger. He had no friends, for the village children feared his uncle too much to come near him, and Peter was too shy to speak to anyone. So he ran wild in the woods and made up his own lonely games. He feared his uncle Ivan, who had never beaten him hard but had laid a stick to him now and then, and who spoke to him so fiercely that Peter was quite cowed and frightened.
All this was bad enough, but added to it was filth and ugliness. The little cottage was brown and bleak, the windows (there were two quite nice ones) grimy and stained, the wooden rafters sooty, and all the walls and corners full of cobwebs. On the floor were the scraps and leavings of many meals, and the mud dragged in from many rainy months. The hearth was black, the pots and kettles dingy, the big bed for Ivan and the trundle bed for Peter tumbled and unmade, the table littered and smeared, and the chairs half-broken. It was all a sorry sight, and no better outdoors, for the doorsill was tumble-down, weeds grew everywhere, the vegetables came up as best they might, and not a flower was to be seen.
The living things themselves were even worse. Rubles was thin and dirty and full of burrs. Poor Peter wore rags, his hair grew long and was tangled with straw from his bed, and he was so filthy one could scarcely see the boy beneath. As for Ivan, he was huge. His black hair and beard were unkempt, and he looked quite terrifying. His clothes were as black with age and no washings as his hair. He was so unpleasant to look at that all he met turned their heads away, wrinkled their noses, and passed him as quickly as possible.
One bleak March day, when it seemed as if all had been waiting for spring for many weeks, Ivan had to go to the village to fetch some beans. As he trudged along the road, homeward bound again, in the distance he saw a man coming toward him. Ivan was ready as usual to pass him by without a glance, but when he drew nearer, out of the tail of his eye Ivan noticed he was a stranger, and in spite of himself Ivan looked full at him. Then he could not look away. The stranger was young, tall and spare, in rough peasant dress, with a shepherd's staff. On one arm he carried a sheaf of white lilies, like the day lilies that grew wild in the fields, only so fair and glowing that they dazzled the eye. Ivan stopped in his tracks, and with a smile the stranger stopped also. While Ivan stared, the stranger looked him over slowly, from his broken boots to his lined and dirty face. Then he spoke:
"Good day, friend."
When there was only silence, with Ivan staring, the stranger spoke again.
"What is it you see?"
Ivan lifted his eyes then to the man's face. The light there was like the lilies, and he looked at them again.
"Those flowers ... I never saw any so fair."
"One of them is yours," said the stranger.
"Mine?" said Ivan.
The stranger took one of them and offered it to Ivan, who with astonishment and unbelief exclaimed, "What do you want for it? I am a poor man."
"I want nothing in return, only that you should keep the flower clean and pure."
Ivan wiped his dirty hands on his coat and reached for the lily. His fingers closed around the stem, and he stood in the road staring at it for a long while, not knowing what to do with the precious thing now that he had it. When he looked up at last, the stranger had passed into the distance again. Carefully Ivan carried the lily home.
Once inside the door he stood doubtfully in the middle of the floor, looking all around at the filth and disorder and not knowing where to put the white shining lily. Peter had been sitting dejectedly by the dead fire, but now he stood up slowly, gazing at his uncle in amazement. At last he found his voice and said to him, "Where did you find it?"
And in a hushed tone Ivan answered, "A stranger gave it to me, for nothing, and told me only to keep it clean and pure. ... What am I to do with it?"
In an eager voice Peter answered, "We must find something to hold it! On that high shelf you put an empty wine bottle last Easter. That would do."
"Then you must hold it while I fetch the bottle down. But your hands are too dirty! Draw water from the well and wash first!"
This Peter rushed to do, coming back at last with clean hands. Ivan carefully gave him the flower, but cried out when Peter put it to his face to smell it. "Wait! Your face is too dirty!" Ivan seized a rag and rushed outside to the well, where he drew a bucket of water and washed the rag first, and then came in and awkwardly scrubbed Peter's face. When he was through he stepped back, unbelieving, as the boy with care smelled the white flower. He thought he had never seen that boy before. Then he remembered the bottle and clambered up to get it. But it was dirty, too, and clogged with cobwebs. So out to the well it went, and came in clean and shining, filled with clear water. He set the lily in it and placed it on the window sill. Then they both looked at it. Its glow lit the dim and dingy room, and as they looked at it a wonder rose in Ivan at all the filth around him. "This fair lily cannot live in such a place!" he said aloud. "I must clean it."
"Can I help?" asked Peter.
It was a hard task and took more than one day. Windows were washed, walls and floors swept and scrubbed, pots and kettles scoured, and chairs mended. The table was washed, the beds aired and beaten and put in order, and the hearth polished till the long-neglected tiles gleamed in the firelight and the pots and kettles winked back. The unaccustomed daylight flooded in the windows and the dark rafters shone in the shadows. All the while the lily glowed on the window sill. When they were done, they looked about them in wonder and pleasure that the little house could be so fair. And then they saw each other.
"We don't belong in a house like this!" said Ivan. "Next we scrub ourselves."
By now he and the boy were friends, having worked so well together. So they scrubbed themselves, and Ivan went to the village to buy decent clothes for them both. He noticed Rubles following him at a distance. When he came home he thought to himself, "That dog is a sight, dirty and full of burrs. He doesn't belong to this house. He must be cleaned." But when he went to get him, the dog slunk away out of reach and feared to come to him. Ivan put gentleness into his tone, but it took nearly a day to win the dog, until with Peter's help he could brush him and wash him. After soft words and a good supper, Rubles no longer cowered and whined, but gazed at Ivan with a wondering love in his eyes, and beat his tail on the floor, and licked Ivan's hand. And Ivan felt a strange glow in his heart.
So all was well within. But without? What of the broken sill and the brown tumbled garden thick with last year's weeds? "A house like this cannot live in a garden like that," said Ivan in a cheerful voice. "We must clean it up." So they went to work, while Rubles sat on his haunches to look at them. And a neighbor passing by stopped to watch, perplexed and astounded and scarcely recognizing the two who worked.
"What are you staring at, neighbor?" called Ivan. "Come in to see our lily. But first go fetch your good wife."
And this the neighbor did, in haste and astonishment, eager to be friendly at last to the old man and his little boy.
For seven days the lily glowed and gleamed on the windowsill, and all the life around it was transformed. Then on the seventh day it vanished. There was no trace of it to be found, though Ivan and Peter searched for it everywhere. But when Ivan looked at Peter's face he thought, "The lily glows there still." When they saw the clean pure house, and spoke with love to each other, and greeted their neighbors, and tended the growing things in the new garden, each thought to himself, "The lily still lives, though we see it no longer."
CHAPTER 2
The Coming of the King
Laura E. Richards
Some children were at play in their playground one day, when a herald rode through the town, blowing a trumpet and crying aloud, "The king! The king passes by this road today. Make ready for the king!"
The children stopped their play and looked at one another. "Did you hear that?" they said. "The king is coming. He may look over the wall and see our playground; who knows? We must put it in order."
The playground was sadly dirty, and in the corners were scraps of paper and broken toys, for these were careless children. But now, one brought a hoe, and another a rake, and a third ran to fetch the wheelbarrow from behind the garden gate. They labored hard till at length all was clean and tidy.
"Now it is clean!" they said. "But we must make it pretty, too, for kings are used to fine things; maybe he would not notice mere cleanness, for he may have it all the time."
Then one brought sweet rushes and strewed them on the ground; others made garlands of oak leaves and pine tassels and hung them on the walls; and the littlest one pulled marigold buds and threw them all about the playground, "to look like gold," he said.
When all was done, the playground was so beautiful that the children stood and looked at it and clapped their hands with pleasure.
"Let us keep it always like this!" said the littlest one; and the others cried, "Yes! Yes! That is what we will do."
They waited all day for the coming of the king, but he never came; only towards sunset a man, with travel-worn clothes and a kind, tired face, passed along the road and stopped to look over the wall.
"What a pleasant place!" said the man. "May I come in and rest, dear children?"
The children brought him in gladly and set him on the seat that they had made out of an old cask. They had covered it with the old red cloak to make it look like a throne, and it made a very good one.
"It is our playground!" they said. "We made it pretty for the king, but he did not come, and now we mean to keep it so for ourselves."
"That is good!" said the man.
"Because we think pretty and clean is nicer than ugly and dirty!" said another.
"That is better!" said the man.
"And for tired people to rest in!" said the littlest one.
"That is best of all!" said the man.
He sat and rested, and looked at the children with such kind eyes that they came about him and told him all they knew – about the five puppies in the barn, and the thrush's nest with four blue eggs, and the shore where the gold shells grew; and the man nodded and understood all about it.
By and by he asked for a cup of water, and they brought it to him in the best cup, with the gold sprigs on it. Then he thanked the children and rose and went on his way; but before he went he laid his hand on their heads for a moment, and the touch went warm to their hearts.
The children stood by the wall and watched the man as he went slowly along. The sun was setting, and the light fell in long slanting rays across the road.
"He looks so tired!" said one of the children.
"But he was so kind!" said another.
"See!" said the littlest one. "How the sun shines on his hair! It looks like a crown of gold."
CHAPTER 3
How Donkeys Got the Spirit of Contradiction
André Trocmé
Translated by Nellie Trocmé Hewett
On a Christmas Day during World War II in Nazi-occupied France, Pastor André Trocmé gathered his congregation together in the Protestant church in the small mountain village of Le Chambon. The people of the area had formed an underground network for saving refugees, many of them Jewish children. Fear kept them from talking much to each other – none of them knew which of their neighbors might betray them to the German occupiers. The rescuers of Le Chambon knew that they might face concentration camp or worse if found out.
Wishing to strengthen his congregation in their resolve to do what is right, Pastor Trocmé told them stories about Jesus' life. Later collected into a book, these original, childlike stories testify to the power of faith to enable ordinary people to risk their lives for strangers.
A Story about Saving Children, and the Courage It Takes to Go against Social Conventions and Expectations
Until the birth of Jesus, donkeys were like anyone else; that is, just like human beings. I mean just like grown-up human beings, not like children. Children have always had the Spirit of Contradiction. But donkeys used to be docile, just like grown-ups today.
Here is how things changed.
In Bethlehem at the entrance of the town lived a Samaritan. He was a good man. He tried as much as possible to help people forget he was a Samaritan. He thought, spoke, and dressed just like anyone else. He was a conformist.
Everyone respects social conventions. Each of us likes to welcome our guests into clean, well decorated homes. Our Samaritan, who was single and whose house was in disarray, preferred to receive no one. There was one exception – if his best friend warned him way ahead of time, he would allow him to come into his house.
Everyone belongs to a clique. We trust the members of our families and our intimate friends. We like to do them favors. But of strangers, everyone has distrust. We don't know whom we are dealing with.
So thought our Samaritan also.
Everyone is scared of traveling alone in deserted areas in the evening, when roads are especially dangerous. One hears so many terrible reports, so many stories about bandits! Our Samaritan, who was a peddler by trade, was always on the road. But just like everyone, he had common sense and managed not to be delayed.
So, our Samaritan was almost like everyone. He did own a donkey, and not everyone could boast about owning such a donkey.
Why the big fuss, you will say, about owning a donkey?
Well, first of all, this donkey was indispensable. It was used as a truck, since in those days trucks had four legs instead of four wheels as they do today. The donkey carried heavy merchandise for the Samaritan. It carried the Samaritan's whole wealth.
Second, this donkey was a female, a very important fact for the rest of the story.
Third, one reason the Samaritan was so original was that his donkey was not like everyone. It had the Spirit of Contradiction.
Was the donkey, this female donkey, a descendant of Balaam's female donkey in the Old Testament? (Read the Book of Numbers, chapter 22, in the Bible.) Maybe. In any case, while other donkeys obeyed, this donkey was a thinking donkey, and its thoughts resulted in the most unexpected, the strangest, consequences.
Sometimes in the middle of the road the donkey came to a dead stop, smelling something with its grey muzzle. It resisted so firmly that neither blows nor shouts could force it to walk any further.
Oftentimes the donkey did just the opposite. It took off at a trot, its nostrils open to the wind, and nothing could stop it, neither the calls nor the angry objections of its master. Had a special smell or a light on the horizon attracted it? Then the donkey would come back much later, having satisfied its taste for adventure.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Easter Stories"
by .
Copyright © 2015 Plough Publishing House.
Excerpted by permission of Plough Publishing House.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents 1 The Easter Lily - Jane Tyson Clement 2 The Coming of the King - Laura E. Richards 3 How Donkeys Got the Spirit of Contradiction - André Trocmé 4 The Church of the Washing of the Feet - Alan Paton 5 Stories from the Cottonpatch Gospel - Clarence Jordan 6 Saint Veronica’s Kerchief - Selma Lagerlöf 7 The Way to the Cross - Lew Wallace 8 Robin Redbreast - Selma Lagerlöf 9 The Atonement - Ludwig von Gerdtell 10 The Flaming Heart of Danko - Maxim Gorky 11 John - Elizabeth Goudge 12 The Legend of Christopherus - Hans Thoma 13 Robert of Sicily - Sara Cone Bryant 14 Two Old Men - Leo Tolstoy 15 The Golden Egg - Ivy Bolton 16 The Case of Rachoff - Karl Joseph Friedrich 17 The Deserted Mine - Ruth Sawyer 18 The Student - Anton Chekhov 19 A Dust Rag for Easter Eggs - Claire Huchet Bishop 20 The Barge-Master’s Easter - J. W. Ooms 21 The Ragman - Walter Wangerin 22 Easter Under a Park Bench - Kirk Wareham 23 The Death of the Lizard - C. S. Lewis 24 Mary’s Child - The Brothers Grimm 25 The King and Death - Ger Koopman 26 The Selfish Giant - Oscar Wilde From The Everlasting Mercy - John Masefield SourcesRelated Subjects
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