I have since wished that every city primary teacher could have visited
with me the first-grade room in Providence where the pupils were German,
Russian, or Polish Jews, and where some of them had heard no English
previous to that year,--it being then May. The joy that shone on their
faces was nothing less than radiance when the low-voiced teacher said,
"Would you like to tell these ladies some of your stories?"

They told us their stories, and there was truly not one told poorly or
inexpressively; all the children had learned something of the joy of
creative effort. But one little fellow stands out in my memory beyond all
the rest, yet as a type of all the rest.

Rudolph was very small, and square, and merry of eye; life was one
eagerness and expectancy to him. He knew no English beyond that of one
school year. But he stood staunchly in his place and told me the story of
the Little Half Chick with an abandon and bodily emphasis which left no
doubt of his sympathetic understanding of every word. The depth of moral
reproach in his tone was quite beyond description when he said, "Little
Half Chick, little Half Chick, when _I_ was in trubbul you wouldn't help
_me_!" He heartily relished that repetition, and became more dramatic each
time.

Through it all, in the tones of the tender little voice, the sidewise pose
of the neat dark head, and the occasional use of a chubby pointing finger,
one could trace a vague reflection of the teacher's manner. It was not
strong enough to dominate at all over the child's personality, but it was
strong enough to suggest possibilities.

In different rooms, I was told _The Half Chick_, _The Little Red Hen_,
_The Three Bears_, _The Red-Headed Woodpecker_, _The Fox and the Grapes_,