*Robert Browning.

And as it is with us, so it is with a nation, with a people.

In the dim, far-off times when our forefathers were wild, naked
savages, they had no books. Like ourselves, when we were tiny,
they could neither read nor write. But do you think that they
had no stories? Oh, yes! We may be sure that when the day's
work was done, when the fight or the chase was over, they
gathered round the wood fire and listened to the tales of the
story-teller.

These stories were all of war. They told of terrible combats
with men or with fierce strange beasts, they told of passion, of
revenge. In them there was no beauty, no tenderness, no love.
For the life of man in those far-off days was wild and rough; it
was one long struggle against foes, a struggle which left little
room for what was beautiful or tender.

But as time went on, as life became more easy, in one way or
another the savage learned to become less savage. Then as he
changed, the tales he listened to changed too. They were no
longer all of war, of revenge; they told of love also. And
later, when the story of Christ had come to soften men's hearts
and brighten men's lives, the stories told of faith and purity
and gentleness.

At last a time came when minstrels wandered from town to town,
from castle to castle, singing their lays. And the minstrel who
had a good tale to tell was ever sure of a welcome, and for his