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    Story-Tell Lib
    Story-Tell Lib
    Story-Tell Lib
    Ebook64 pages44 minutes

    Story-Tell Lib

    By Annie Trumbull Slosson

    ()

    Read preview
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 27, 2013
    Story-Tell Lib

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      Book preview

      Story-Tell Lib - Annie Trumbull Slosson

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Story-Tell Lib, by Annie Trumbull Slosson

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: Story-Tell Lib

      Author: Annie Trumbull Slosson

      Release Date: December 1, 2006 [EBook #19989]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STORY-TELL LIB ***

      Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed

      Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

      Story-Tell Lib

      Copyright, 1900

      By Charles Scribner’s Sons

      All rights reserved

      Contents

      Story-Tell Lib

      I

      Story-Tell Lib

      That was what everybody in the little mountain village called her. Her real name, as she often told me, ringing out each syllable proudly in her shrill sweet voice, was Elizabeth Rowena Marietta York. A stately name, indeed, for the little crippled, stunted, helpless creature, and I myself could never think of her by any name but the one the village people used, Story-tell Lib. I had heard of her for two or three summers in my visits to Greenhills. The village folk had talked to me of the little lame girl who told such pretty stories out of her own head, kind o’ fables that learnt folks things, and helped ’em without bein’ too preachy. But I had no definite idea of what the child was till I saw and heard her myself. She was about thirteen years of age, but very small and fragile. She was lame, and could walk only with the aid of a crutch. Indeed, she could but hobble painfully, a few steps at a time, with that assistance. Her little white face was not an attractive one, her features being sharp and pinched, and her eyes faded, dull, and almost expressionless. Only the full, prominent, rounding brow spoke of a mind out of the common. She was an orphan, and lived with her aunt, Miss Jane York, in an old-fashioned farmhouse on the upper road.

      Miss Jane was a good woman. She kept the child neatly clothed and comfortably fed, but I do not think she lavished many caresses or loving words on little Lib, it was not her way, and the girl led a lonesome, quiet, unchildlike life. Aunt Jane tried to teach her to read and write, but, whether from the teacher’s inability to impart knowledge, or from some strange lack in the child’s odd brain, Lib never learned the lesson. She could not read a word, she did not even know her alphabet. I cannot explain to myself or to you the one gift which gave her her homely village name. She told stories. I listened to many of them, and I took down from her lips several of these. They are, as you will see if you read them, kind o’ fables, as the country folk said. They were all simple little tales in the dialect of the hill country in which she lived. But each held some lesson, suggested some truth, which, strangely enough, the child herself did not seem to see; at least, she never admitted that she saw or intended any hidden meaning.

      I often questioned her as to this after we became friends. After

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