You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘prince’ tag.
Herein are 119 satirical cartoons published in Punch between 1890 and 1915 which focus on the growing threat of war in the years preceding and during the first two years of the GREAT WAR.
The cartoons are grouped into the following categories:
- The Days Preceding the War
- The Struggle
- Uncle Sam
- The Comedies of the Great Tragedy
- Women and Children First
- The New Rake’s Progress—Unser Kaiser
- The Raider
- The Unspeakable Turk
- Italia!
The cartoons encompass all the Allied nations and most of those aligned with the Central Powers. The sea war also features the antics of both navies and of course the sinking of non-military liners.
During the war the media swung into action in effect becoming an Allied propaganda machine. In addition to Punch, Dutchman Louis Raemakers was also proactive in this media. Raemakers cartoons were so effective that he and his family had to flee the Netherlands when the German High Command offered a reward for his capture.
Working in London he continued to publish his cartoons mainly in The Times and even went on a promotional tour of the USA. It was thought that his many works, which can be seen in the eBooks Raemakers Cartoons of WWI – vols. 1 & 2, was partly instrumental in changing the opinion of the American public towards involvement in the “European” war.
The effect of these cartoons on rallying public opinion before and during the Great War was incalculable and the propaganda machine continued to play a major role in the conflicts following the Great War.
Format: eBook – ePub, Kindle/Mobi, PDF
Download Link: https://folklore-fairy-tales-myths-legends-and-other-stories.stores.streetlib.com/en/various/punch-cartoons-of-the-great-war-119-great-war-cartoons-published-in-punch/
Advertisements
Herein are 25 famous stories from The Greek, German, English, Spanish Scandinavian, Danish, French, Russian, Bohemian, Italian and other sources. These stories are further brought to life by 24 full colour plates
The myths and legends gathered here have appealed and will continue to appeal to every age. Nowhere in the realm of fiction are there stories to compare with those which took form centuries ago when the human race was in its childhood—stories so intimately connected with the life and history and religion of the great peoples of antiquity that they have become an integral part of our own civilization. These are a heritage of wealth to every child that is born into the world. Myths and legends like:
Prometheus The Friend Of Man, The Labors Of Hercules, The Gorgon’s Head, The Golden Fleece, The Cyclops, The Sack Of Troy, Beowulf And Grendel, The Good King Arthur and many, many more.
This volume is sure to keep you and your young ones enchanted for hours, if not because of the content, then because of their quality.
Format: eBook – Mobi/Kindle, ePub, PDF
Story of Ahuula (Polynesian) – Cover
ISSN: 2397-9607 Issue 082
In Issue 82 of the Baba Indaba Children’s Stories, Baba Indaba narrates the tale of how the first feather cloak came to be created. Eleio was a kukini, or runner, in the service of Kakaalaneo, King of Maui. On one of his journeys he comes across a spirit in the form of a beautiful women. She gives him instructions and directs him to a house. What happened next? Well, you’ll just have to download and read the story to find out.
BUY ANY 4 BABA INDABA CHILDREN’S STORIES FOR ONLY US$1
33% of the profit from the sale of this book will be donated to charities.
INCLUDES LINKS TO 8 FREE STORIES TO DOWNLOADS
Each issue also has a “WHERE IN THE WORLD – LOOK IT UP” section, where young readers are challenged to look up a place on a map somewhere in the world. The place, town or city is relevant to the story, on map. HINT – use Google maps.
Baba Indaba is a fictitious Zulu storyteller who narrates children’s stories from around the world. Baba Indaba translates as “Father of Stories”.
The Fugitive Prince
ISSN: 2397-9607 Issue 80
In Issue 80 of the Baba Indaba Children’s Stories, Baba Indaba narrates the ancient tale of Nezahualcoyotl, Prince Regent of Tezcuco. Long ago and far, far away in the ancient land of Anahuac, that is modern day Mexico, the Tecpanecs overcame the Acolhuans of Tezcuco and slew their king. Nezahualcoyotl (Fasting Coyote), the heir to the Tezcucan throne, saw his father laid low from the shelter of a tree close by, and succeeded in making his escape from the invaders. This is the story of his subsequent thrilling adventures, escapades, scrapes and escapes and eventual ascension to the Tezcuco throne.
INCLUDES LINKS TO 8 FREE STORIES TO DOWNLOADS
Each issue also has a “WHERE IN THE WORLD – LOOK IT UP” section, where young readers are challenged to look up a place on a map somewhere in the world. The place, town or city is relevant to the story, on map. HINT – use Google maps.
Baba Indaba is a fictitious Zulu storyteller who narrates children’s stories from around the world. Baba Indaba translates as “Father of Stories”.
A Lesson for Kings – An Indian Hindu Tale narrated by Baba Indaba
ISSN: 2397-9607 Issue 68
In Issue 68 of the Baba Indaba Children’s Stories, Baba Indaba narrates the Buddhist tale of Brahma-datta who ruled the Indian kingdom of Benares. The king sets out to find how he can be a better ruler – with surprising results. Download and read the story to find out how he did this.
Each issue also has a “Where in the World – Look it Up” section, where young readers are challenged to look up a place on a map somewhere in the world. The place, town or city is relevant to the story, on map. HINT – use Google maps.
eBook Link: https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Anon_E_Mouse_A_LESSON_FOR_KINGS_An_Indian_Buddhist?id=G2cODAAAQBAJ
INCLUDES LINKS TO 8 FREE DOWNLOADS
Baba Indaba is a fictitious Zulu storyteller who narrates children’s stories from around the world. Baba Indaba translates as “Father of Stories”.
ISSN: 2397-9607 Issue 48
In Issue 48 of the Baba Indaba Children’s Stories, Baba Indaba narrates the legend about the Death of Tupac, King of the Inca and the subsequent events. Following King Tupac’s death his appointed heir took the throne, but as in so many transfers of power, a younger brother thought he should have been appointed. This follows a period of civil war which was only brought to an end by another cataclysmic event which brought the mighty Inca age to a close.
This issue also has a “Where in the World – Look it Up” section, where young readers are challenged to look up a place on a map somewhere in the world. The place, town or city is relevant to the story, on map. HINT – use Google maps.
Baba Indaba is a fictitious Zulu storyteller who narrates children’s stories from around the world. Baba Indaba translates as “Father of Stories”.
The Death of Tupac King of the Inca – Baba Indaba Children’s Stories
ISSN: 2397-9607 Issue 36
In Issue 54 of the Baba Indaba Children’s Stories, Baba Indaba narrates the story of a clever lass which also teaches that when solving a problem, brains are better than brawn. The young maiden’s mind is so keen that even the king heard of her and asked her for an audience.
It is believed that folklore and tales are believed to have originated in India and made their way overland along the Silk and Spice routes and through Central Asia before arriving in Europe. Even so, this does not cover all folklore from all four corners of the world. Indeed folklore, legends and myths from Africa, Australia, Polynesia, and some from Asia too, are altogether quite different and seem to have originated on the whole from separate reservoirs of lore, legend and culture.
This book also has a “Where in the World – Look it Up” section, where young readers are challenged to look up a place on a map somewhere in the world. The place, town or city is relevant to the story, on map. HINT – use Google maps.
Baba Indaba is a fictitious Zulu storyteller who narrates children’s stories from around the world. Baba Indaba translates as “Father of Stories”.
FOLLOW THIS LINK: https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Anon_E_Mouse_THE_CLEVER_LASS?id=drv_CwAAQBAJ
A Clever Lass – Cover
THE Leprechaun–that flash from elf-land–was perched comfortably upon the west window ledge, high up in Ardmore Tower. Dawn was just beginning to send misty, gray lights over the rolling land. Winds that have blown since the world began were blowing around the old Irish tower. It was the south wind, this morning, that was blowing the strongest–the wind from the good sea that washed the coast of Ardmore and the high-lands of Ireland. The strong, stone tower, tapering skyward, stood, as it stands today, like a silent sentinel on the “hill of the sheep”–the “great hill.” Below its conical top, two windows, east and west, looked out, and it’s on the ledge of the west one–mind you–that the Leprechaun was sitting. He had been sitting there since sundown. An iron bar, inside the tower, goes from the top of the west window to the top of the east window, and once, no one knows how long ago, seven small bells hung from this bar under the pinnacle. They are gone now, but in the old days they used to ring often.
(“That’s so,” said the Leprechaun. He was always saying “That’s so,” to agree with himself or other people–himself oftenest.)
This little elf, in red jacket and green breeches who spends most of his days and some of his nights making shoes for the fairy folk, has been working the past night on a pair of riding boots for the fairy prince who wants the boots by sunrise. Tap, tap, tap–goes the Leprechaun’s tiny hammer. Whish, whish, go his swift fingers. Hum, hum-m-m-m-, goes his little singing tune, for the Leprechaun could no more work without singing than you could sleep without shutting your eyes.
(“That’s so!” said the Leprechaun.)
He is only six inches high, and harder to catch than a will-o’-the-wisp. If one could ever succeed in catching him, and then could keep looking at him, he might tell–though not a bit willingly–where a wonderful crock of gold is. But do you think you could keep looking at him and at him alone? Why, just as you think you are looking at nothing else, he, somehow, makes you look away from him, and, ochone, he is gone! He’s that clever.
(“That’s so,” said the Leprechaun.)
Many an enchantment the Leprechaun can perform, for all he appears so simple as he pegs away at the riding boots. Yes, himself it is that can blight the corn or snip off hair most unexpectedly.
When he sits, cross-legged at his work, whether on a cornice of a roof or on a twig of the low bushes, it’s just as well not to let him know you are watching him. The Irish fairy folk are all like that, and draw magic out of earth and sea and sky, or else draw it out of nothing at all.
(“Do you hear that?” said the Leprechaun.)
Now this misty, windy dawn of a morning, thousands of days and nights ago, as the Leprechaun, up there on the gray, stone tower, tapped, tapped with his hammer, to finish the prince’s boots, promised by sunrise, his elfin mind capered around with many thoughts. The mists were beginning to shine in the dim light of early morning, and the Leprechaun’s thoughts, freshened by the south wind, were wafted over the whole land of Erin that stretched beyond the bogs and swamps, beyond the mounds and cromlechs, beyond the hills. He could tell you the colours of all the winds of Ireland. This south wind was white; the north wind, full of blackness; the west wind pale yellow, and the east wind was always a stirring, purple wind. The lesser winds, too, had their colours–yellow of furze, red of fire, gray of fog, green of meadow, brown of autumn leaves, and three more colours that mortals could not see. The Leprechaun, whenever he wished, could travel lightly on whatever wind was blowing and sing a tune as loud as any of them. This morning, in the misty dawn, it was his heart that did the travelling and it was his thoughts that sang tunes to match. When his eyes glanced from his work, toward the sea, his thoughts flew to Manannan Mac Lir, the old sea-god, riding along in his chariot, with thousands of his steeds shaking their manes as they galloped with him. For many a century, the great, slender, round tower had watched these steeds and the spirited charioteer. On many a moonlit night, it had seen invading bands crawl quietly to shore and stealthily march right up to the base of the tower with bad plans to surprise the unprotected people. Again and again the men of Ardmore had gathered their families, with provisions, safely, into the tall tower, barring the narrow door that was many feet high above the ground. There the weak ones and the women and children had lived, for days, until the invaders had been driven away. The Leprechaun laughed aloud as he thought of one stormy day when the old sea-god, Manannan Mac Lir, had bidden his horses keep the invaders from reaching the shore and the tower. The lively horses shook their manes and obeyed–ochone, but they obeyed!
Tap, tap, tap! The south wind, thought the Leprechaun, will be a strong one, this day! And the wind will draw music from the harps of all the Little Good Folk throughout Erin. As the Leprechaun, between his taps, looked westward, there was a break in the light morning vapor, like the gay snatch of song a maiden sings in the midst of her work; and, through the break, the elf’s long gaze swept across the river Blackwater, and beside Watergrasshill, over the moor-land to the Bochragh Mountains, and even as far as Mt. Mish. There was a tale about Mt. Mish that rushed in now upon his thinking–a tale about his ancestors, the Tuatha-de-Danann “the folk of the god whose mother is Dana.”
On a day, in the early age of the world, when gray moor-land and steep mountains began to blaze brilliant with purple heather and yellow furze, the Danaans, covering themselves with a fog, crept along the east coast to possess the country near Mt. Mish. Fiercely they fought with the inhabitants, the Firbolgs, and won. For a thousand years they held sway–these tall, fair-haired men of Greek descent who had come from the North. After the thousand years and one day more, new invaders, the Milesians, entering along the bank of the Inverskena River, swept up into the land, like the knowing conquerors that they were, to overcome the Danaans.
The Leprechaun now sang, with a little humming chant, the words that Amergin, chief druid of the Milesians, sang when he set his right foot on the soil of Erin:
I am the Wind that blows over the sea,
I am the Wave of the ocean;
I am the Murmur of the billows;
I am the Ox of the seven combats;
I am the Vulture upon the rock;
I am a Ray of the Sun;
I am the fairest of Plants;
. . . . . . . . . . .
When the Danaans had been conquered by the Milesians, they promised that they would dwell inside the hills or under the lakes, and that they would be invisible to mortals, except on rare occasions. This promise they had kept.
(“That’s so,” said the Leprechaun.)
The Leprechaun liked what the Danaans, his ancestors, had done next. The chief druid of the Danaans had raised his golden harp in the dazzling sunlight, the other druids had lifted their silver harps in the glittering morning air, and all the druids had played such deliciously enchanting melodies that the Danaans, in a long procession that seemed like a living green, had followed their leaders, laughing as they went, and singing like merry brooks or happy children. Into the mountains they had gone, disappearing before the very eyes of the Milesians. Forever afterwards they lived within the mountains and became the Ever-Living Living Ones in the Land of Youth.
The Leprechaun knew well that he, and all his elf kin, were descendants of those very Danaans, who still lived in their underground palaces that blazed with light and laughter. Hadn’t the drean–the wise, small wren–that druid of birds, often told him what was going on down there? Hadn’t he himself been below the tower of Ardmore, where, in a glorious hall that belonged to the Ever-Living Living Ones, the Danaans held many a gay carousal? Didn’t he hear, at times, their bells ringing under the bog, on a quiet evening? And hadn’t he, more times than once, rung the sweet bells of Ardmore–these bells which never had been rung except by one whose real home was in the Land of Youth? In the Land of Youth was the Leprechaun’s home. (Ochone, I should say!) There it had been since the day that Oisin, son of Finn, journeyed to that land. For, on the same day, without Oisin’s knowledge, the Leprechaun had sped from the green hills of Erin, through a golden haze, to the country of the Ever-Living Living Ones. Oisin was his hero, his great hero, whom he had helped, invisibly, more than he had helped anyone else. The most valiant Danaan of all was Oisin, and Oisin he would follow to the world’s end.
(“That’s so,” said the Leprechaun, as he began the fancy stitching on the prince’s riding boots.)
Now, for the thousandth time, he told himself the story of Oisin, for he liked this tale best of all: how Oisin, when hunting, met the maiden, Niam of the Golden Hair, riding her snow-white steed; how, after she sang to him a song of the enchanting “land beyond dreams,” Oisin had ridden with her to the Land of Youth (and the Leprechaun, in the shape of a butterfly, had perched on the horse’s mane); how, in the realm of her father, the king, fearless Oisin had had brave adventures.
He rescued a princess from a giant; subdued the three Hounds of Erin (helped by the Leprechaun who confused the hounds), and found the magic harp–a harp next in wonder to the Dagda’s harp whose strings, when touched, would sing the story of the one who last touched them. He had even tilted with the king’s cupbearer to win a gold-hilted sword, and had done other worthy deeds. No time at all, it seemed to Oisin, that magical time, in the Land of Youth, but, at last, his heart longed to see his old home. So Niam of the Golden Hair gave him her snow-white steed to ride, but charged him three times that, when he should reach the familiar places of Erin, he must not, once, set foot upon the ground or he would never be able to return to the Land of Youth. Oisin bade her farewell and, with the Leprechaun as a butterfly still on the horse’s mane, he began his homeward journey.
As he was riding along, once more, through a beautiful vale of Erin, he saw men, much smaller than himself, trying in vain to push aside a huge boulder that had rolled from the hillside down upon their tilled land. In pity for these weaklings, he instantly jumped from his saddle to the ground (not heeding the Leprechaun who, in his own form, clung with all his might, to remind him of Niam’s warning) and, with one push, he sent the boulder out of the way. Alas! Even as the men were shouting praises to their god-like helper, it seemed to Oisin that darkness bore him to the earth. When he opened his eyes, lo, he was an old man, feeble, gray-headed, gray-bearded! The men whom he had helped, had with one accord run away; but the Leprechaun, astride a twig close by, whispered words of cheer and sang part of the song of the Danaans when they went into the mountains. Oisin then roused himself and said faintly, “I hear the voice of bells.” Then he added in a resolute tone, “Whenever I shall hear sweet bells ring, young will be my heart.” Since that day, the Leprechaun had often rung bells, especially the bells of Ardmore Tower, because he knew that Oisin would hear them and feel young again.
Tap, tap, tap,–and the Leprechaun’s work is done. It’s little that anyone can tell about him making shoes, or about Ireland’s heroes, or about its grassy mounds of mystery. He stands up now and stretches himself. If he felt like it, he could blow a blast on the tiny, curved horn, hanging at his side, and call, from the Underland, as many merry-hearted Danaans as he chose. He could cast spells, too, on the sea, beyond the ninth wave from shore. Instead, he whisks from the west window into the tower and out again, through the east window. There he stands for a few moments–his feet braced on the highest circular cornice, his back leaning against the sloping roof top–watching the rim of the sun rise over a mountainous cloud.
The sky of gold is changing to the pink of a wild rose. The gray mists, over moorland and mound, are scattering as quickly as the men whom Oisin helped.
The Round Tower of Ardmore again greeted the sun, as the Leprechaun, hugging tightly the riding boots promised to the fairy prince at sunrise, swiftly slid down a sunbeam to the top of the oak tree, where the prince was waiting.
“Here they are, Your Highness,” said the elf, with a bow.
The prince smiled, as he took the boots, and gave the Leprechaun a piece of gold. “You’ve kept your promise,” he said.
“That’s so,” answered the Leprechaun. Then he sprang up on the rollicking south wind and flew away.
From: Tower Legends
ISBN: 9781907256349
ONCE long ago there lived a king who had a stupid son. His father sent him to school for many years hoping that he might learn something there. His teachers all gave him up as hopelessly stupid, and with one accord they said, It is no use trying to teach this lad out of books. It is just a waste of our valuable time.
At length the king called together all the wisest men of his kingdom to consult with them as to the best way to make the prince wise and clever. They talked the matter over for a year and a day. It was the unanimous opinion of the wise men of the kingdom that the lad should be sent on a journey through many lands. In this way he might learn many of the things which his teachers had not been able to teach him out of books.
Accordingly the prince was equipped for his journey. He was given fine raiment, a splendid black horse upon which to ride, and a great bag full of money. Thus prepared, he started forth from the palace one bright morning with the blessing of the king, his father, and of all the wise men of the kingdom.
The prince journeyed through many lands. In one country he learned one thing, and in another country he learned another thing. There was no country or kingdom so small or poor that it did not have something to teach the prince. And the prince, though he had been so insufferably stupid at his books, learned the lessons of his journey with an open mind.
After long wanderings the prince arrived at a city where there was an auction going on. A singing bird was being offered for sale. What is the special advantage of this singing bird? asked the prince.
This bird, at the command of its owner, will sing a song which will put to sleep anyone who listens to it, was the reply.
The prince decided that the bird was worth purchasing. The next thing which was offered for sale was a beetle. What is the special advantage of this beetle? asked the prince.
This beetle will gnaw its way through any wall in the world, was the reply.
The prince purchased the beetle. Then a butterfly was offered for sale. What is the special advantage of owning this butterfly? asked the prince.
This butterfly is strong enough to bear upon its wings any weight which is put upon them, was the answer.
The prince bought the butterfly. With his bird and beetle and butterfly he travelled on and on until he became lost in the jungle. The foliage was so dense that he could not see his way, so he climbed to the top of the tallest tree he saw. From its summit he spied in the distance what looked like a mountain; but, when he had journeyed near to it, he saw that it was really the wall which surrounds the land of the giants.
A great giant whose head reached to the clouds stood on the wall as guard. A song from the singing bird put this guard to sleep immediately. The beetle soon had gnawed an entrance through the wall. Through this opening the prince entered the land of the giants.
The very first person whom the prince saw in the land of the giants was a lovely captive princess. The opening which the beetle had made in the wall led directly to the dungeon in which she was confined.
The prince had learned many things on his journey, and among the lessons he had learned was this one: Always rescue a fair maiden in distress. He immediately asked what he could do to rescue the beautiful captive princess.
You can never succeed in rescuing me, I fear, replied the princess. At the door of this palace there is a giant on guard who never sleeps.
Never mind, replied the prince. Ill put him to sleep.
Just at that moment the giant himself strode into the dungeon. He had heard voices there. Sing, my little bird, sing, commanded the prince to his singing bird.
At the first burst of melody the giant went to sleep there in the dungeon, though he had never before taken a wink of sleep in all his life.
This beetle of mine has gnawed an entrance through the great wall which surrounds the land of the giants, said the prince to the captive princess. To escape well not have to climb the high wall.
What of the guard who stands on top of the wall with his head reaching up to the clouds? asked the princess. Will he not spy us?
My singing bird has put him to sleep, too, replied the prince. If we hurry out he will not yet be awake.
I have been confined here in this dungeon so long that I fear I have forgotten how to walk, said the princess.
Never mind, replied the prince. My butterfly will bear you upon his wings.
With the lovely princess borne safely upon the butterflys wings the prince swiftly escaped from the land of the giants. The giant on the wall yawned in his sleep as they looked up at him. He is good for another hours nap, remarked the prince.
The prince returned to his fathers kingdom as soon as he could find the way back. He took with him the lovely princess, and the singing bird, and the gnawing beetle, and the strong-winged butterfly.
His father and all the people of the kingdom received him with great joy. Never again will the prince of our kingdom be called stupid, said the wise men when they heard the account of his adventures. With his singing bird and his gnawing beetle and his strong-winged butterfly he has become the cleverest youth in the land.
For more info and to buy: http://abelapublishing.com/30-brazilian-folk-and-fairy-tales–olympics-special-offer_p31485781.htm
In Issue 25 of the Baba Indaba Children’s Stories, Baba Indaba narrates the West African folktale about Miss Salt and Miss Pepper and their friends the Sauces and the Onion Leaves. They hear of a handsome youth and go off to see if they can win his attention. On the way poor little Onion Leaves is mocked and asked to walk elsewhere because she smells so much. Walking by herself Onion Leaves helps an old lady whom the others ignored – with surprising results. Look out for the moral of the tale.
INCLUDES LINKS TO DOWNLOAD 8 FREE STORIES
It is believed that folklore and tales are believed to have originated in India and made their way overland along the Silk and Spice routes and through Central Asia before arriving in Europe. But African folklore has altogether different origins.
This book also has a “Where in the World – Look it Up” section, where young readers are challenged to look up a place on a map somewhere in the world. The place, town or city is relevant to the story, on map. HINT – use Google maps.
Baba Indaba is a fictitious Zulu storyteller who narrates children’s stories from around the world. Baba Indaba translates as “Father of Stories”.
ISSN: 2397-9607 Issue 25
