It will be long before the chief of the Little Red Riding Hoods fades from my memory.  She had a dark, foreign little face, with a good deal of darker hair tied back from it, and brown, expressive hands.  Her eyes were so full of dancing lights that when they met mine unexpectedly it was as if a chance reflection had dazzled me.  When she was told that she might play, she came up for her riding hood like an embodied delight, almost dancing as she moved. (Her teacher used a few simple elements of stage-setting for her stories, such as bowls for the Bears, a cape for Riding Hood, and so on.)

[Illustration:  “The Piper piped and the children danced, ... all but one little lame boy, who could not keep up with the rest.”]

The game began at once.  Riding Hood started from the rear corner of the room, basket on arm; her mother gave her strict injunctions as to lingering on the way, and she returned a respectful “Yes, mother.”  Then she trotted round the aisle, greeting the woodchopper on the way, to the deep wood which lay close by the teacher’s desk.  There master wolf was waiting, and there the two held converse,—­master wolf very crafty indeed, Red Riding Hood extremely polite.  The wolf then darted on ahead and crouched down in the corner which represented grandmother’s bed.  Riding Hood tripped sedately to the imaginary door, and knocked.  The familiar dialogue followed, and with the words “the better to eat you with, my dear!” the wolf clutched Red Riding Hood, to eat her up.  But we were not forced to undergo the threatened scene of horrid carnage, as the woodchopper opportunely arrived, and stated calmly, “I will not let you kill Little Red Riding Hood.”

All was now happily culminated, and with the chopper’s grave injunction as to future conduct in her ears, the rescued heroine tiptoed out of the woods, to her seat.

I wanted to applaud, but I realised in the nick of time that we were all playing, and held my peace.

[Illustration:  HIAWATHA PICTURES]

The Fox and the Grapes was more dramatically done, but was given by a single child.  He was the chosen “fox” of another primary room, and had the fair colouring and sturdy frame which matched his Swedish name.  He was naturally dramatic.  It was easy to see that he instinctively visualised everything, and this he did so strongly that he suggested to the onlooker every detail of the scene.

He chose for his grape-trellis the rear wall of the room.

Standing there, he looked longingly up at the invisible bunch of grapes. 
“My gracious,” he said, “what fine grapes!  I will have some.”

Then he jumped for them.

“Didn’t get them,” he muttered, “I’ll try again,” and he jumped higher.

“Didn’t get them this time,” he said disgustedly, and hopped up once more.  Then he stood still, looked up, shrugged his shoulders, and remarked in an absurdly worldly-wise tone, “Those grapes are sour!” After which he walked away.