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Thursday, December 23, 2021

Alden - Why the Chimes Rang - Keeping the Public in Public Domain

When a story is included in various anthologies or told by many storytellers, it's a good bet the story deserves its status as a classic.  Raymond Macdonald Alden had more than one successful book and stories, but "Why the Chimes Rang" was anthologized, also made into a play, and even after Alden died the 1906 story lived on in various editions with the copyright maintained by its publisher, Bobbs-Merrill.  Fortunately even the 1924 illustrations by Katharine Sturges can now be safely enjoyed.  I have that edition and plan to insert her frontispiece illustration within the story's text where it occurs.  

The book was published many times over the years beyond its original publisher and today's story was often referenced or included in other anthologies.  The jacket copy on the 1945 edition calls the book "One of the childhood classics of our time, Why the Chimes Rang and Other Stories, has gained a place on the bookshelves of almost every nursery as well as in almost every public library and school."  About the title story it goes on to say:

The title story, "Why the Chimes Rang," attracted immediate attention when it first appeared in 1906. Since then it and the stories that accompany it in this volume have been accorded the critical and popular recognition that is granted only to real literature, to the true classic. The collection is a favorite in countless homes. Its stories are told and retold in Sunday schools, in children’s rooms of public libraries and on the air at Christmas. With the passing of time its freshness and simple beauty have been ever more widely recognized. Indeed, so completely are these tales known and accepted that many people now mistake them for old legends, instead of being the imaginative creations of one man of our time.

I love the comment about this story (and maybe others in the book) being so well "known and accepted that many people mistake them for old legends."

As usual I'll add a bit at the end including one family's story of how it came to be an important tradition in their family.



There was once in a faraway country where few people have ever travelled, a wonderful church. It stood on a high hill in the midst of a great city; and every Sunday, as well as on sacred days like Christmas, thousands of people climbed the hill to its great archways, looking like lines of ants all moving in the same direction.

When you came to the building itself, you found stone columns and dark passages, and a grand entrance leading to the main room of the church. This room was so long that one standing at the doorway could scarcely see to the other end, where the choir stood by the marble altar. In the farthest corner was the organ; and this organ was so loud, that sometimes when it played, the people for miles around would close their shutters and prepare for a great thunderstorm. Altogether, no such church as this was ever seen before, especially when it was lighted up for some festival, and crowded with people, young and old. But the strangest thing about the whole building was the wonderful chime of bells.

At one corner of the church was a great gray tower, with ivy growing over it as far up as one could see. I say as far as one could see, because the tower was quite great enough to fit the great church, and it rose so far into the sky that it was only in very fair weather that any one claimed to be able to see the top. Even then one could not be certain that it was in sight. Up, and up, and up climbed the stones and the ivy; and as the men who built the church had been dead for hundreds of years, every one had forgotten how high the tower was supposed to be.

Now all the people knew that at the top of the tower was a chime of Christmas bells. They had hung there ever since the church had been built, and were the most beautiful bells in the world. Some thought it was because a great musician had cast them and arranged them in their place; others said it was because of the great height, which reached up where the air was clearest and purest; however that might be no one who had ever heard the chimes denied that they were the sweetest in the world. Some described them as sounding like angels far up in the sky; others as sounding like strange winds singing through the trees.

But the fact was that no one had heard them for years and years. There was an old man living not far from the church who said that his mother had spoken of hearing them when she was a little girl, and he was the only one who was sure of as much as that. They were Christmas chimes, you see, and were not meant to be played by men or on common days. It was the custom on Christmas Eve for all the people to bring to the church their offerings to the Christ-Child; and when the greatest and best offering was laid on the altar there used to come sounding through the music of the choir the Christmas chimes far up in the tower. Some said that the wind rang them, and others, that they were so high that the angels could set them swinging. But for many long years they had never been heard. It was said that people had been growing less careful of their gifts for the Christ-Child, and that no offering was brought great enough to deserve the music of the chimes.

Every Christmas Eve the rich people still crowded to the altar, each one trying to bring some better gift than any other, without giving anything that he wanted for himself, and the church was crowded with those who thought that perhaps the wonderful bells might be heard again. But although the service was splendid, and the offerings plenty, only the roar of the wind could be heard, far up in the stone tower.

Now, a number of miles from the city, in a little country village, where nothing could be seen of the great church but glimpses of the tower when the weather was fine, lived a boy named Pedro, and his little brother. They knew very little about the Christmas chimes, but they had heard of the service in the church on Christmas Eve, and had a secret plan which they had often talked over when by themselves, to go to see the beautiful celebration.

"Nobody can guess, Little Brother," Pedro would say; "all the fine things there are to see and hear; and I have even heard it said that the Christ-Child sometimes comes down to bless the service. What if we could see Him?"

The day before Christmas was bitterly cold, with a few lonely snowflakes flying in the air, and a hard white crust on the ground. Sure enough Pedro and Little Brother were able to slip quietly away early in the afternoon; and although the walking was hard in the frosty air, before nightfall they had trudged so far, hand in hand, that they saw the lights of the big city just ahead of them. Indeed they were about to enter one of the great gates in the wall that surrounded it, when they saw something dark on the snow near their path, and stepped aside to look at it.

It was a poor woman, who had fallen just outside the city, too sick and tired to get in where she might have found shelter. The soft snow made of a drift a sort of pillow for her, and she would soon be so sound asleep, in the wintry air, that no one could ever waken her again. All this Pedro saw in a moment and he knelt down beside her and tried to rouse her, even tugging at her arm a little, as though he would have tried to carry her away. He turned her face toward him, so that he could rub some of the snow on it, and when he had looked at her silently a moment he stood up again, and said:

"It's no use, Little Brother. You will have to go on alone."

"Alone?" cried Little Brother. "And you not see the Christmas festival?"

"No," said Pedro, and he could not keep back a bit of a choking sound in his throat. "See this poor woman. Her face looks like the Madonna in the chapel window, and she will freeze to death if nobody cares for her. Every one has gone to the church now, but when you come back you can bring some one to help her. I will rub her to keep her from freezing, and perhaps get her to eat the bun that is left in my pocket."

"But I cannot bear to leave you, and go on alone," said Little Brother.

"Both of us need not miss the service," said Pedro, "and it had better be I than you. You can easily find your way to church; and you must see and hear everything twice, Little Brother—once for you and once for me. I am sure the Christ-Child must know how I should love to come with you and worship Him; and oh! if you get a chance, Little Brother, to slip up to the altar without getting in any one's way, take this little silver piece of mine, and lay it down for my offering, when no one is looking. Do not forget where you have left me, and forgive me for not going with you."

In this way he hurried Little Brother off to the city and winked hard to keep back the tears, as he heard the crunching footsteps sounding farther and farther away in the twilight. It was pretty hard to lose the music and splendour of the Christmas celebration that he had been planning for so long, and spend the time instead in that lonely place in the snow.

The great church was a wonderful place that night. Every one said that it had never looked so bright and beautiful before. When the organ played and the thousands of people sang, the walls shook with the sound, and little Pedro, away outside the city wall, felt the earth tremble around them.

At the close of the service came the procession with the offerings to be laid on the altar. Rich men and great men marched proudly up to lay down their gifts to the Christ-Child. Some brought wonderful jewels, some baskets of gold so heavy that they could scarcely carry them down the aisle. A great writer laid down a book that he had been making for years and years. And last of all walked the king of the country, hoping with all the rest to win for himself the chime of the Christmas bells. There went a great murmur through the church as the people saw the king take from his head the royal crown, all set with precious stones, and lay it gleaming on the altar, as his offering to the Holy Child. "Surely," every one said, "we shall hear the bells now, for nothing like this has ever happened before."

But still only the cold old wind was heard in the tower and the people shook their heads; and some of them said, as they had before, that they never really believed the story of the chimes, and doubted if they ever rang at all.

The procession was over, and the choir began the closing hymn. Suddenly the organist stopped playing; and every one looked at the old minister, who was standing by the altar, holding up his hand for silence. Not a sound could be heard from any one in the church, but as all the people strained their ears to listen, there came softly, but distinctly, swinging through the air, the sound of the chimes in the tower. So far away, and yet so clear the music seemed—so much sweeter were the notes than anything that had been heard before, rising and falling away up there in the sky, that the people in the church sat for a moment as still as though something held each of them by the shoulders. Then they all stood up together and stared straight at the altar, to see what great gift had awakened the long silent bells.

But all that the nearest of them saw was the childish figure of Little Brother, who had crept softly down the aisle when no one was looking, and had laid Pedro's little piece of silver on the altar.


I hesitated, but felt I had to include a link to the author at the beginning, yet hope you didn't notice this before reading the story: 

The story is a sort of variation on the Jongleur de Notre Dame and Little Drummer Boy themes.

Of course it's fine to realize it after the fact, but I imagine experienced storytellers and listeners saw it coming.  Quite by accident, while looking for more about the Sturges illustrations, I discovered an interesting story about its telling making the tale a very special family traditon since 1946.  From Faith Episcopal Church in Poulsbo, Washington I can just picture: 

My stewardship story is different, and it began when I was a child with a story that you may know. Since 1946 and continuing to this day, my dad’s side of the family gathers to celebrate Christmas Eve and to give thanks that he and his brothers returned safely from fighting in WW2. My dad, a dynamic storyteller, sat us kids down on the living room floor, me, my brothers and sister and numerous nieces and nephews, and told the tale, “Why the Chimes Rang,” written by Raymond Macdonald Alden in 1909.

The story was written in 1906, but the 1909 book has been reprinted many times, both by its original publisher and reprint editions.  In fact a search of the Internet Archive shows both the story and the play were standard knowledge for anyone growing up in the early 20th century (and beyond, although it wouldn't be available there for more than a loan if you want to see one of the later editions not yet in public domain).  One of those loans might be from William J. Bennett, who included it in The Moral Compass: Stories for a Life's Journey, the sequel to his popular The Book of Virtues.  Both books aim to present "intriguing but forgotten tales from centuries past, the stories . . . are literary and evocative, designed to inspire as well as instruct."  Bennett has an excellent understanding of character education found in the public domain that still is needed today.  While he adapts the story, shortening it a bit, Bennett's introductory comment points the storyteller to its "Little acts of kindness do not go unnoticed above, even if they go unseen by the crowd below."

While looking on Internet Archive at the 2,756 times the title shows up either as a book, play, or the story is mentioned or included in a periodical or book, I found something about its value in character education.  I plan to explore the topic of character education further next week for a "New Year's Resolution", but will note even before next week the importance of not letting the story's purpose be revealed by the storyteller.  We've all been subjected to "preachy" stories.  Making obvious the intent, either in talking about a story or in the style of delivery, backfires.  Let the story itself speak and be enjoyed, just as I noted its being a variation on familiar themes was best left for the audience to discover.  That particular resource "graded" the story for 5th grade.  That means 10 year-olds and up should be able to follow it as well as adults.  I found yet another resource that didn't limit the story even to that old, so it requires judging your audience (and possibly tailoring it a bit so it's both understood and matches their attention span.)

Other stories in Alden's anthology are also understandably popular, so if you want your own copy  you will be looking for a reputable publisher of reprints.  One I can recommend is anything from Dodo Press.  Sometimes other publishers' reprints -- especially if OCR (Optical Character Recognition) -- are too often poor quality.

Dodo Press was founded by Andrew Crawford and, if you have any difficulty finding it in the U.S., I've had excellent results ordering it from Book Depository with free shipping from the U.K.  This is even with shipping in a time when shipping is notoriously problematic.  Amazon acquired Dodo Press in 2011 so I'm not sure if the Dodo Press work continues, but it's worth searching as they, too, do a reputable job.  Crawford also was the founder and CEO of Book Depository.  I would love to be sure of a reprint's quality in advance.  This is why I applaud the Dodo Press for its standards in Keeping the Public in Public Domain. 

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