The Bread

Mother broke the small little loaf in two and out fell a number of gold coins...

During a great famine a rich landlord invited the twenty poorest children of the village to his mansion and said: "In this basket there is a small loaf of bread for each of you. Take it and come back every day until the Lord gives us better times."

The children rushed to the basket and in their haste thy began to quarrel and hit one another, for each sought to take the best loaf; and they left without even thinking the landlord for his kind thought.

Only Frances, a modestly dressed but clean little girl, stood timidly apart and took the smallest loaf that was left in the basket, kissed the landlord's hand with gratitude and went back home.

The following day the children were more misbehaving than ever and as usual Frances was left with the smallest loaf. When she returned home her mother broke the small little loaf in two and out fell a number of gold coins.

Her mother was very surprised and a little worried. "Take it back to the landlord immediately," she told her daughter, "I am sure there is some mistake."

Frances went back to the landlord but he said: "No, it is no mistake. I gave orders that some coins be placed in the smallest loaf to reward you, my dear child. Be always modest and satisfied. Whoever is content to take the smallest loaf rather than quarrel for the biggest one, receives a greater reward than that which can be found in a loaf of bread."

Don't insist to have your way

Nor cry for the toys you see;

Learn to see things mother's way

And happy you will be.

 

The Bread and The Water

Peter was mortified and recalled that this was the same boy to whom he had refused a morsel of bread...

During a great famine, Paul, a poor boy, came down from his mountain-side home to the village and knocked at the doors of the well-to-do people and asked for a morsel of bread.

Peter, the son of a rich farmer, was sitting on the steps of the entrance to his house with a big piece of bread in his hands.

"Give me a morsel of that bread," said Paul, "I am dying of hunger."

But Peter, who hardly glanced at the boy, said harshly: "Be on your way, I have no bread for you."

Almost a year later, Peter went as far as the mountains the search for a lost goat. He was tired after his walking through the unfamiliar ground and the sun was scorching. In vain he sought a spring where he could quench his thirst. At last he saw a boy who was guarding his flock and at his side hung a jar of water. It was Paul; and Peter said to him: "Give me some water to drink. I am dying of thirst." But Paul answered: "Go away; I have nothing to give you!"

Peter was mortified and recalled that this was the same boy to whom he had refused a morsel of bread. He turned to the boy again and with tears in his eyes he asked forgiveness. Paul was kindhearted and gave him the bottle and he watched Peter drink his full. Peter said to him: "May God bless and reward you in this life and in the next."

Love your enemies and do good to them that hate you.

 

Blue Bike

It was the most beautiful bike and it belonged to Ranjan’s Uncle. A magic, kingfisher-blue with a matching pannier and two smart rear-view mirrors...

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It was the most beautiful bike and it belonged to Ranjan’s Uncle. A magic, kingfisher-blue with a matching pannier and two smart rear-view mirrors. A real beauty of bike and the first of its kind in the neighborhood. Overnight, Ranjan had become a prince among us boys.

We clustered around him in class the next day, eager for details.

“Eighty kilometers to a litre and rides like a dream,” said Ranjan, swinging his lanky legs over the back of his chair. “Vrooooom… Such power Friend.

Ranjan’s uncle had come down from Bombay, riding the new motorbike. He was staying for three weeks. Three glorious weeks, and every afternoon when he slept, we could ogle at the blue wonder to our hearts content. Sometimes Ranjan managed to sneak out his uncle’s red helmet. We would wear it in turn and sit on the bike, hands itching to turn on the ignition and be off. In the evenings, we watch Ranjan go out for a spin with his uncle and our stomachs churned with envy.

Ranjan had always been a stylist, now he began to walk around like the world’s greatest. When we cycled home from school, he would crouch over the handlebars, squinting his eyes and you knew he dreamed of the blue bike.

One Monday morning I was struggling with the map of Australia when Ranjan whispered in my ear, “I am learning to ride it, friend.”

“Hah!” I scoffed. “Your Uncle’s not such a mutton head that he will trust you with his bike.”

“Want to bet?” Ranjan challenged, leaning across the desk. “I will show you on Sunday. You watch.”

Ranjan, like the rest of us, knew everything about the bike. Every screw and nut and pin. Butt to ride it, actually ride it, was another story. Like all grown-ups, his uncle had this belief that fourteen-year olds could not handle things like motorbikes. It is unfair really. They make you feel very small.

Ranjan could daydream all he wanted just like the rest of us. But ride the bike-never.

Come Sunday and after lunch I remembered Ranjan’s bragging. Having nothing special to do all afternoon, I decided to go and needle him about the bike. I gave my famous thumb and iindex finger ‘ring’ whistle outside his window. His head bobbed out and he held up the keys, grinning. Then he disappeared, to appear at the gate seconds later, wearing the red helmet and his yellow leather jerkin, although it was a warm afternoon.

Noiselessly, he wheeled the bike out of the gate. He looked around warily, turning with his whole body because his neck was stiff with the weight of the helmet. He pushed it down the road, three houses away. He swung onto the seat, inserted the key, turned on the ignition and the petrol tap. He kicked the starter and the engine throbbed to life. He turned around stiffly and signalledme to get on. I felt a daredevil flutter of excitement as I climbed onto the pillion but still could not believe that he would ride it.

“Ready?” Ranjan yelled over the roar of the engine.

“Yeah. What are you waiting for?”

We were off. The road was nearly empty and after a wobbly start, the bike steadied and we were moving smoothly. We reached the corner house and swerved right onto Crescent Road. I leaned forward, hand on my knee and peered at the speedometer-30 kmph, 40, 60. Super!

We neared the traffic lights which had changed to yellow but Ranjan was in no mood to slow down. The light had already changed to red when he cleared the crossing. I heard a shrill police whistle but was too scared to turn around and look. We sped on full speed and I heard Ranjan laugh aloud.

Ranjan raced down the Crescent Road, and turned at the corner. He saw, seconds too late, the old woman in his  path. He stepped on the brakes and bike screeched to a halt. In a daze I saw the old woman sprawled on the road, her bag of onions, potatoes and tomatoes scattered about.

Ranjan panicked. He opened the throttle and in seconds we were speeding along. It took me a few minutes to realize what was happening.

“Hey, Ranjan, stop!” I yelled, gripping his shoulders.

He shrugged off my hands. “Don’t be a mutt,” he said. “I don’t want to end up in jail.”

“But the lady….”

“She is all right. She wasn’t badly hurt or anything.”

I was furious. “We have got to stop and help,” I said angrily. “It was a lousy thing to do, to hit and run.”

But Ranjan raced on regardless. I was getting angrier. We were a good two kilometers away from the scene of the accident when I forced him to stop.

“I am going back,” I said, getting off the bike. I was angry, frightened, and feeling guilty.

“Suit yourself, but don’t drag me into it,” Ranjan said sourly.

“You are lousy coward,” I cried out to him. Then turning around, I sprinted across the road to the bus stop.

I was the last to get on to the waiting bus. When the conductor finally reached me, I felt in my pockets and realized I had no money.

“I am sorry, I will pay you tomorrow,” I said. “It is really urgent that I go to Crescent Road.”

“Out!” said the conductor sharply. He rapped the roof of the bus and it jerked to halt. “You have some cheek getting on without money for the ticket. OUT!”

“Please. There has been an accident,” I explained. “I have got to get there….”

“Shut up and get out.”

I felt helpless. If I did not get out, he would throw me out.

That was when an elderly lady came to my rescue. “Don’t drive him out, I will pay for the ticket,” she said, opening her purse. “He is worried about something.”

“Thank you” I said gratefully, shame flaming my cheeks.

It seemed ages before we reached Crescent Road. A crowd had gathered at the scene. A young man had bandaged the old lady’s wrist and was helping her into an autorickshaw.

“A blue bike,” I heard someone say. “Two young boys.”

“The rogues. They should be whipped,” the police officer said. “Anyone noted the number?” he asked above the din.

I stepped forward. “Sir I can explain. You see, I was the pillion rider….”

“Vroooom….” I whirled around and saw the blue bike drive up and halt near the crowd. Ranjan got off the bike. He looked me squarely in the eye, and then walked up to the police officer. “I will explain,” he said. “It was all my fault….”

I took a deep breath and went and stood by his side.

 

Big Cabbage

Italian Moral Story - European stories for preschool kids, Bed time 

story, lesson stories for children...

Two shop boys, Joe and Henry, one day passed by one of the village gardens.

"Look at that," said Joe, "what a beautiful big cabbage."

"That's nothing," said Henry, who was something of a boaster. "In my travels in foreign lands I once saw a cabbage bigger than this garden."

Joe, who was a coppersmith, commented: "It must have been some cabbage. But once upon a time I remember I had to help build a copper that was even bigger than the church."

"My goodness," said Henry, "what on earth was it to be used for?

Joe replied: "To boil your cabbage."

Henry became very mortified and said: "Now I understand what you mean. Usually you always tell the truth and if you have spoken to me in this manner I realize that it is for my good and that you want me to overcome the habit of exaggerating and of telling lies."

An honest man's the noblest work of God.