Now these World Stories of Helma’s were wonderful stories, but all true.  They began way back when the Earth was young.  There were stories about the Earth itself, how it hung in space and turned, making day and night.  When the strange, great animals that by-and-by appeared on the Earth and have since gone from it first came into the stories, and then, later, the floods and glaciers, and at last the first man,—­any child might have listened with delight and wonder.  Ivra had listened so ever since she was a tiny girl, old enough to understand at all.  And with man, and the wonderful happenings that came along with him, Ivra had begged for the stories day and night, and never could have enough of them.  For then in a great procession came the stories of cities and nations, of great men and women, of explorations and adventures.  They led in turn to stories of languages and writing, of painting and geometry, of music and of life.  The names of these things may not promise good stories to you, but that is only because you do not know them as stories.  If you could listen to Helma telling them, by the fire, or out in the starlight, deep in the wood, or swinging in a tree-top,—­then no other stories you might ever hear would satisfy you quite.  So perhaps it is as well you do not know now just where Helma’s little house is standing deep in the wood under the snow.

Ivra always said that the nicest thing about the stories was the interruptions.  Helma never minded them, and she answered all the questions Ivra asked.  She answered them by making things that Ivra could see with her own eyes, by drawing pictures on the ground or in the ashes, building with earth or snow, playing with wind and water, and in a hundred other ways.  Sometimes the answer to a question would take up the playtime of a whole day.

But now Eric was to hear his first story, World Story or any other kind.  Can you imagine how it would feel if to-day you were to hear the first story of your life?

“All ready?” asked Helma.

The silence in the room said plainer than words that all was ready for the World Story.  This time it was a story about a man named Saint Francis, and a story after Eric’s own heart.

Almost as fast as the story went the work of Helma’s fingers.  But Ivra was neither so swift nor so skilled, and the leggins were dropped many times from forgetful hands because all her thoughts were gone away following the story.

Yet somehow the leggins got done, and the jacket and trousers got done, and even a little round cap, and all before dusk.  For a finishing touch Helma sewed two soft little brown feathers she had picked up in the snow one on either side of the cap,—­which gave Eric, small as they were and soft as they were, a look of flying.

Then nothing remained but the sandals, and because Eric was well rested by then, he was allowed to help at them.  They were cut from the strip of brown leather, and Helma showed Eric how to shape them and sew them himself.  So after supper he stood attired, all in brown, a pale, happy child, ready for his first party.