Librivox Children's Book Favorites

All of these free Librivox recordings are delightful books read by solo readers with clear voices. For a continuous-play version, click on the Internet Archive Page link on the lower left of each book catalog page.

The Tale of Miss Kitty Cat by Arthur Scott Bailey

The Coral Island by R. M. Ballantyne

The Dog Crusoe and His Master by R. M. Ballantyne 

Bowser the Hound by Thornton Burgess

Mother West Wind's Children by Thornton Burgess

The Adventures of Jimmy Skunk by Thornton Burgess

A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett

The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett

The Adventures of Odysseus and the Tale of Troy by Pádraic Colum

A Little Country Girl by Susan Coolidge

What Katy Did by Susan Coolidge

The Story of Dr. Dolittle by Hugh Lofting

Anne of Green Gables by L. M. Montgomery

The Book of Dragons by E. Nesbit

The Railway Children by E. Nesbit

The Counterpane Fairy by Katharine Pyle 

Dandelion Cottage by Carroll Watson Rankin

Kayray's Storytime (A favorite reader's collection of favorite stories)

A Fairy Tale by Harrington Mann

Definite Love

I've been on a George MacDonald spree lately - audio book listening through Thomas Wingfold, Curate, The Wise Woman, and now The Day Boy and the Night Girl. Oh, how I love his stories! MacDonald's writing is exquisite, transporting and thought-provoking - all the loveliness of a fantasy escape sobered by wise meditations. With all that he understands and beautifully describes about the nature of God, people, and the world, MacDonald's theology has a great flaw - that is, he fails to grasp the God-centeredness of the love of the triune God.

Writing in the midst of a nation and church decayed in formal religion and starved for a glimpse of intimate, divine love, George MacDonald tried beautifully to give hungry souls what they lacked - pictures of a kind, compassionate Heavenly Father whose heart was open to true communion with those who would seek Him. But he forgot, or never really saw, that God's love begins and ends with God, and not with creatures. Over and over, MacDonald's portraits of divine love portray a brooding, yearning being whose chief desire is the transformation of the beloved creature, and a heart unwilling to leave any finally ruined. This is so close to being perfectly right, because God's love for His people is deep, passionate and transforming - but close is only close, and a tiny gap in one's view of God can lead to chasms of error. God's love for His people is aimed at His final glorification in them. (Eph. 1:4-6) A deity whose heart's passion is all for his creatures may look nice, but such a God could never condemn anyone to final, eternal punishment. From the innocent-appearing blossoms of man-focused love in MacDonald's stories, can grow (and has in some cases, grown) the dangerous fruit of universalism - the teaching that all creatures will finally be saved, even if they must pass through judgments (i.e. hell may be real, but not eternal), for they are God's beloved creations and He could not bear to see any finally lost.

This is one of the reasons I like to read multiple books at a time - blending fiction, history, practices, and theology reading throughout my days. Solid, straightforward theology writing sheds light on the more obscure philosophies one encounters in fiction and other reading. For instance, Jonathan Leeman's The Church and The Surprising Offense of God's Love is the perfect counterbalance to my recent fiction spree. Here's a quote that grasps so clearly what George MacDonald did not:

Insofar as God's affections uphold something as most precious, he will evaluate or judge all things by whether they, too, ascribe proper value and worth to that thing. He intends for us to call 'good' what he calls 'good' and to call 'evil' what he calls 'evil' (Mal. 2:17). If, therefore, God love his glory more than anything, upholding it as most precious, everything in the world that redounds to his glory would be called 'good'. Anything opposed to his glory would be called 'evil,' the law of God would be that which upholds the standards of his glory, and the judgment of God would be rendered according to these glory-promoting laws. On the other hand, if God loves us more than anything - if his greatest affections are bent toward our glory - God's law and judgments would be in precisely the same direction.
All God's judgments serve the God-centeredness of his love. His love evaluates and assesses in accordance with his God-centeredness. His love expects, it demands, and it enacts penalties in accordance with his God-centeredness.

A theological system that presents a God who loves his creatures more than anything is a system that will probably tend over time toward universalism...any doctrine of eternal judgment or damnation will dry up. Man-centered systems might inconsistently keep such a doctrine for a time because the doctrine can easily be found on the pages of Scripture, but the inevitable logic of the system will eventually determine that , if humanity is most precious and if God loves man more than himself, there is no higher law that constrains God to do anything other than grant all humanity eternal bliss." (Chapter 2, "The Nature of Love")

God's love for His people is mighty, sweet, transformative (MacDonald pictures this beautifully in some places) and it has nothing to do with us. It is as free and unconstrained as His freedom to not love us. He loves Himself, His Son, His glory first, because He is best and first. That is right and good. That would have made George MacDonald and many of his contemporaries uncomfortable. But that is what ultimately makes the intimate fatherliness of divine love even more breathtaking than the loveliest word picture a human author could paint. He didn't have to have us at all, but if we love Him, He first loved us - and the God that first loved us, loved God first, and calls us to love Him first. From Him and through Him and to Him are all things.

Illustration from MacDonald's The Princess and the Goblin, Jessie Wilcox Smith, 1920

What I Thought of Harry Potter

I've heard of the Harry Potter books by J.K. Rowling for years, in contexts of widely-varying opinion. Many praised them highly. Many judged them severely. I just ignored them, having better things to do - until I realized that, as they were becoming somewhat of a 'classic', the boy child we are expecting might want to read them someday. I felt a need to see for myself what this much-loved wizard boy story was made of. So I read the first book in the series - Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. I felt that reading one book entirely was sufficient to form my judgment of the spirit and quality of the series, if not sufficient to make a comprehensive literary judgment of Rowling's plot.

Since the Harry Potter books are frequently lumped with the Narnia series by C.S. Lewis as well-crafted magic literature for children, I found myself comparing and contrasting Harry Potter's world with Lewis's Narnia as I read. The differences were striking, especially at points where the story elements seemed most similar. While my critique is not a thorough comparison/contrast between the two series (I haven't read the one entirely, after all), I have made a few comparisons throughout. My critique is mainly a criticism, since I was largely displeased with the spirit of the book, but I think each of the criticisms are significant.

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone was not a chore to read. Rowling knows how to craft a good story. The plot skeleton of the first book is actually similar to many classic kid's adventure/ mystery stories, but the clever layers of fantastical elements - goblins, flying brooms, wands, spells, etc. -  over the classic plot make it uniquely fascinating. Harry Potter himself is very ordinary, human and likable for being so extraordinary, and in my opinion, his boyish, courageous character is the chief appeal of the book.

Rowling seems to have attempted to portray in Harry Potter the classic battle between good and evil that parents and educators love to find in children's books. However, I believe the book is a marked failure in this respect. There is a definite evil - referred to as the 'dark side', but the good opposing is not defined biblically, as is Lewis's good against evil in the Narnia series. Narnia's 'good magic' is a holy power, used in submission to authority, and is made of entirely different 'stuff' than the 'bad magic' of the evil side.  The 'good guys' use of magic in Harry Potter is sometimes just as self-directed and unsubmissive to authority as that of the 'dark side'.  Characters repeatedly take supernatural matters into their own hands and use magic to do what they want -which is specifically what Scripture condemns when it forbids witchcraft and sorcery. (1 Chron 10:13, 1 Sam 15:23)  The Pevensie children in the Narnia series learned to love and submit to Aslan's magic - it was not given to them to use as they pleased, but only worked rightly when they obeyed him.  Harry Potter's magic skills are his own and echo every sinful child's desire to be able to do what they please and be their own authority. Potter's lovable, courageous character does not atone for this flaw to make him a hero I would set before my children. "To obey is better than sacrifice" seems to be the last lesson on Rowling's mind.

Hogwarts, the school where Potter learns wizardry is populated not only by students and professors (some of whom are witches), but by ghosts (are they good or evil?) and a demonic creature called Peeves who is simply allowed to exist there. I was impressed by a sense of the unholy as I followed Harry Potter and his friends through the halls of Hogwarts. Imaginary beings that children are taught to regard as evil are portrayed as tolerable, sensible authority figures, or normal (though irritating) companions. I couldn't help but think that the old hag killed by the brave Narnians in the mound of Prince Caspian would have probably been a respected professor at Hogwarts.  In the Narnia books, witches, ghosts and other ugly/demonic spirit-like creatures are always on the dark side, but the lines between holy and unholy in Harry Potter are muddy. Defining good vs. evil as 'brave and generous vs. selfish and cruel' is nice, but not sufficient if there is no  'pure and obedient vs. impure and disobedient'. It is the good and evil of humanism, but not of Scripture.

Another major flaw I found in the characters of Harry Potter was their un-rebuked sinful attitudes. Obviously, no children's book is good with polly-plum-perfect characters, but the hero's flaws need to be seen as flaws and not as acceptable qualities. Lying to authorities to get out of trouble, repeatedly breaking rules for one's own ends, and maintaining hateful, vengeful attitudes towards troublesome people are sins Potter and his friends commit in their heroic adventures, but these are all seen as normal young people's behavior, atoned for by the good they end up achieving in the end. Again, Harry Potter's version of "To obey is better than sacrifice" is "To sacrifice is better than to obey", and the story is constructed in such a way that it works. There is no sober, holy Aslan to confront Harry with his heart at the end, but only the prospect of Harry's summer holiday, rich with opportunities to torment his beastly cousin with newly-learned magic skills.

A last criticism of Harry Potter is one that seems less important, but is still weighty - that is the emphasis on ugliness rather than beauty. Humorous, droll, awe-inspiring or creepy descriptions of ugliness or weirdness fill the pages, but descriptions of genuine beauty are sparse and mostly limited to descriptions of the wizard's grand buildings or meals. Glimpses of appreciation for natural beauty, which are usually sprinkled throughout good children's books, are remarkably absent in the first volume of the Harry Potter series. This is merely a reflection of the growing focus on ugliness in children's literature as a whole, and the accompanying avoidance of real, heart-touching beauty. Ugliness can be funny or exciting or scary. It doesn't demand the observer to grow up. Real beauty demands our sobriety It makes one mindful of God and holiness. Lewis knew how to express beauty to children in his Narnia series. Rowling seems to write for children who don't care about that stuff anymore. Power, thrills and action, humor and horror - yes, but beauty and holiness - no. We're more comfortable with ghosts and goblins, actually.

So why is this book popular? My prudish-sounding answer is that it appeals to sinful human nature, especially that of young people. We all desire to be better than other people, to have special powers that others don't have, to be admired and intelligent, and to do what we want and be heroes in the end, without needing to repent of our sinful desires. Harry Potter lets us live in a world with a boy like that, and watch him succeed despite great opposition. It's a fun escape, but unlike better book-journeys, it is not an exalting one. It left me just as base, greedy and earthy as when I picked it up, but with just enough inspiration to heroism to feel good.

I did reap one benefit from this book though. I was able to critically compare myself throughout the book to Hermione, Potter's annoyingly task-driven, nosy, mothery and overbearing fellow student. The evening after finishing it, I stopped myself mid-nag in a conversation with my husband (who has also read Harry Potter) and apologized for being Hermione. It made him laugh and I was glad I read the book.

That evening, however, our Bible reading was Psalm 101. That finalized my decision that I wouldn't choose to read any more Harry Potter books or recommend them to my children. Read it. Holiness is more important than entertainment. I won't deny I was entertained by Harry Potter, but I need holiness more, and thankfully there are other places (like Narnia) to find a bit of both.

What Happened to Margalo - Part 3

On Sunday morning the Summer’s awoke to an odd goldy-gray half light glowing at the windows. Mr. Summer pulled up the blinds and declared that there was a storm brewing if he’d ever seen one. Leona who loved thunderstorms, had climbed up the leg of Mr. Summer’s trousers to sit on the window sill and was gazing intently at the sky. “A storm is a beautiful thing, a beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful thing!” she chanted while turning cartwheels along the windowsill.

Mother turned from the stove where she presided over two sizzling pans of eggs and sausages. “Oh, Leona, dear - don’t! You’ll fall!”she exclaimed. Leona landed her final cartwheel, scampered to her father’s hand on the windowsill and ascended to his shoulder by way of his his shirt sleeve for a better view out the window.

“A storm,” said Mr. Summer, “is a beautiful thing when you are looking out on it from a safe place.  It is not always beautiful when you are caught in it.” He pointed out the window. “That sparrow up there, hurrying across the sky, might not think the storm so beautiful unless he finds a suitable shelter.”

Ralph was still in his room, watching the morning stand-off between the sun and the storm clouds from his window. The storm clouds glowered, dark and threatening in the west. The sun glared back from the east, shooting yellow rays of light over the housetops and treetops and bruising the storm clouds blue and green. The trees and buildings pointed their long black shadows at the clouds and stood very still while the wind waited its turn to begin blowing.  It was a solemn moment. Ralph wondered what the river looked like right now. But then Dad called from the bottom of the stairs, “Breakfast, Ralph!”

At breakfast, Ralph talked about his encounter with Ned and Eric the evening before. “I never know just what to do when things like that happen,” he said. “I’m not a ranger, or a police officer, or their parents, but sometimes it just seems like someone needs to do something or say something and there’s no one else to do it.”

“I’d just like to see them try to throw things at me!” squeaked Leona, waving her toothpick fork above her head.

“There would be no question of what to do then, Leona” said Dad, with a troubled expression on his face. “Ralph, I think you did well. It’s always tricky to know when to talk to people about what they are doing. Pray for wisdom.”

The thunderstorm began during church. Ralph had heard it rumbling outside during the sermon. When church let out, people hurried to their cars as large drops of rain began to go splat on the ground, leaving wet marks as big as nickels. Leona wanted to play her favorite game, Dodge the Raindrops, but Mrs. Summer was afraid someone would step on her in the general hurry to the cars, so Leona contented herself with looking on from the security of Mrs. Summer’s handbag.  (Mrs. Summer had sewn into her handbag a special pocket for Leona that was positioned at the just the right distance from the top so Leona’s head could reach above the top when she stood. It had a pleated bottom with a tiny padded board that she could stand or lie down on, and Leona liked it quite well.)

By the time the Summers got home, the full scale splattering had begun. The storm was on. Rain drops attacked the ground like bullets from a million rain guns, thunder rumbled and lightning flashed.  Ralph hoped the storm would blow over by the afternoon so he could take the Merry Marmot out on the river.  But it did not. The thunder rolled away to the east, frightening all the boats off the river, and leaving the Summer’s home behind, but the rain poured on and on.

What Happened to Margalo, Chapter Two

Here is the next chapter of what happened to Margalo, in which the reader gains no further information about what happened to Margalo.

2.
Ralph and his family lived in a little town by the Susquehanna River. The river was a grand and exciting place and Ralph loved to go down to its banks whenever he had time to spare. Sometimes he would take his boat, the Merry Marmot, tied to a long string, and set her sailing in the swirling gray water of the river. Sometimes he would take Leona, who loved to ride the boat on fresh, breezy days when small brisk waves would send the Merry Marmot hopping along their little crests. Sometimes Ralph would just take himself to the river, and sit on a log or stump near the river bank  and watch the current flowing with broad and stately power, while the clouds looked down sedately from their fluffy height. He liked to look at the islands in the middle of the river when the day was clear and imagine what lived on them. He knew that white egrets, starlings and sparrows sometimes sheltered there. He liked to imagine that pirates did also. The state police patrolling the nearby city would never allow pirates on the river, and he never saw any pirate ships, but that made imagining that they were there all the more interesting.

If there were no pirate boats, there were still plenty of other boats buzzing past on the river, casting up shiny curls of water in their wakes and making the river edges go slap-slap-slap against the mud. Ralph liked to watch the fast ones – and the slow ones too. It was easier to read the names on the slow ones. He kept a list of the boat  names he saw on the river and he knew all of the familiar ones by heart. Every Sunday afternoon in summer, the Watson’s would go out on their Silver Schooner with different groups of friends. One time, Ralph had seen them with a family of six children on board, and all the children had waved at him, floating the Merry Marmot near the bank. He had waved back.

Now the sun was dropping low in the west as Ralph hopped off the edge of the last street at the edge of town and ran down the gravelly dirt slope to the river bank. Sunsets were later in the day now as spring stretched its larger, warmer days across the country, and Ralph enjoyed being able to go down to the river after supper once again. It was a still and quiet Saturday evening with hardly a ripple showing on the river. The gentle swell from a distant speedboat waved the surface momentarily and was gone. A flock of starlings was rising over the mirror-like surface of the water, curling upward, flashing black against hazy gold sky, then swooping downward to scatter themselves over a tree top on one of the river islands. Ralph could hear their squeaking chatter floating over the water. It was beautiful to watch the starlings in flight - sometimes hundreds of them would fly in a group, all pointing in the same direction, turning, dipping, rising and falling in perfect unity as if they were tied together by invisible strings. How did they know?

The sound of boys laughing echoed off of the buildings along the street above the river. It was not the nicest laughter - it sounded as if mischief were underway. Ralph heard the sound of feet running with the laughter nearer.

“Yiy! - almost got that one” shouted one.

“Almost? You missed by ten feet, at least” the other shouted back.

The running stopped and Ralph turned to see the two boys, several yards off, bending in the gravel bank to look for stones. He knew what they were doing - throwing stones at birds and squirrels again. The boys lived on the next block and had recently taken a fancy to testing their throwing abilities on wild animals . It was, perhaps, a good test of aim and skill, but they showed no pity to the few creatures they managed to hit down, leaving them to a crippled life or a slow death and it made Ralph angry to see them at it again. He couldn’t do anything about it just now, so he kept quiet and watched. Another group of starlings was heading out of town toward the river island and the boys began to throw stones, one after another, from their collected arsenals of gravel. The birds rose higher as they saw the stones flying toward them, but one tumbled back in the air, hit by a stone. It tried to fly on, limply, but coasted ever lower and lower until it fell helplessly in the river, flapping its wings and sending sorrowful little splashes outward. Ralph jumped up, wishing he could help the poor creature, but it was too far out in the deep water. He turned to the boys who were hooting and punching each other in the arms, and walked toward them. “What are you doing?” he said, trying to be calm. “You just ruined that bird’s life for no good reason.”

The boys looked at each other and laughed. “Ooh, it’s Mr. Forest Ranger, out to save the little animals.”
“You didn’t answer my question” Ralph replied, starting to feel hot by his ears.
“We’re practicing our aim” said one of them. “Moving targets, you know.”
“Don’t you think you’re going to answer to God for what you did with his animals?” Ralph said, his heart pounding. “I’d call that cruelty. You didn’t need that bird - just killed it for your own fun and made it suffer.”
“Whoa - okay, guy,” said the other boy. “It was just a starling.”
“I know,” said Ralph. “But it’s the principle of the thing. You know, principles are important. By the way, my name is Ralph.” He put out his hand.
“Ned” said the taller one, slowly reaching out to shake hands. The shorter, freckled one, shoved his hands in his pockets, “I’m Eric” he said.
“Glad to meet you,” said Ralph. “I like birds and animals, but I like people too. No hard feelings?”
“Sure” they said, looking rather relieved and turned to leave.
“See ya round” Ralph called after them.
Then they were gone, leaving Ralph to watch the sunset, which had by now dimmed to a dull yellowish gray, with only a hint of gold where the sun sat behind the clouds at the horizon. The starlings had begun to grow quiet and the smooth, shining river glowed like damp silver under the darkening sky. Tomorrow, Ralph thought, there would be rain.

What Happened to Margalo, Chapter One

Several weeks (or has it been months?) ago, I posted about my intention to write a children's book. I had bright aspirations of hiding it away until it came forth as a brilliant children's masterpiece and then publishing it  complete with lovely pencil illustrations. However, my aspirations have narrowed down to the meager goal of   completing a good story that comes to a good end. I might still try to publish it (though I don't know if the business of Stuart Little and others like him being in the story will pose some copyright hindrances), but a work of genius it is not, and therefore need not be secreted away until that time. I am going to begin posting the story on here in semi-regular installments for what I hope will be the enjoyment of my readers. I also welcome constructive criticism.

Without further comment, here is Chapter One of What Happened to Margalo

Tap-tap-tap. Ralph Summer stood at his father’s work table in the cool, dim basement carefully hammering the last nail into his birdhouse. The afternoon sunlight  cast a broad beam through the window well above him, and in the light, bits of stirred-up sawdust danced on their way to the floor. Ralph always wondered, when he saw the dust floating in the light, if the other 1300 cubic feet of air space in the basement (he had calculated it one time) also swirled with specks that you couldn’t see without the sunshine, or if really all the dust pieces flew to rays of sun just so they could dance in it. One could never really be sure about such things. He had tried once surprising the dust in the corner with a flashlight, and there they all were – the little specks twirling about in its beam. But perhaps they all came to it, as to the sunlight, and laid down again when he turned it off.  It would have to be a mystery. He turned back to his work. Tap, tap, tap until the silvery nail head came even with the grainy wood, and running a thumb across, you could scarcely feel the bump to tell you it was there – that was how you knew a nail was in good.

It was Saturday, and Ralph loved to spend his Saturdays building things. Several weeks ago, he had completed a boat, and it had taken him six Saturdays to finish. Now he was building a birdhouse from instructions that he had found in a book from the library. He had put in the last nail – there had been twenty-six tiny nails in all – four connecting each side wall to the floor, three connecting each of the roof panels to the walls, four connecting – well, anyway, it had been a good deal of nailing and he was satisfied that it was done. His little sister Leona had helped him count and line up the nails, and was now carrying an extra nail back to the open box of nails on the work table. Now, Leona, it must be explained, was not a normal little sister. She was quite, well -- miniature. Since her birth three years before, Leona had grown only half an inch, and now was two and three-quarters of an inch in height. She looked a bit like a mouse, some thought, but Ralph (whom you would consider a rather normal boy) was sure she was not a mouse, as she hadn’t any tail, except a little furry bit as short as a teddy bear’s tail, which Ralph had seen when she was born. He never saw it now because she kept it modestly concealed under the miniature doll’s dresses she wore. Now Leona was standing on tip-toe on top of the workbench to peer into the bird house opening. “May I go in?” she asked in her clear, tiny voice.

“Sure,” Ralph replied. "The glue isn't quite dry yet, but it's safe." He offered Leona his hand and lifted her to the entrance. Leona neatly dropped into the birdhouse feet first and disappeared. “Sit tight” said Ralph, as he turned the bird house so that the light from the window shone into the hole.

“Oh!” he heard Leona exclaim. “How pretty. I think I will just sit here for a bit”. Ralph began to clean up. He placed the hammer head on its pegs, put the wood glue bottle on the shelf next to the crinkly curled up caulk bottles and crusty, dusty cans of leftover paint, and he put the nail boxes on the shelf below the glue. Then he swept the sawdust from the work table into the trusty orange dustpan that always hung with its accompanying brush on a nail under the work table and brushed the dust into the trash bin.

Leona was coming out of the bird house. He saw her tiny brown forefeet appear once more in the opening, and soon her pink nose and bright eyes followed, and she hopped to the work table before Ralph could offer his hand. “Very nicely done,” she said, briskly wiping the sawdust from her paws. “I wouldn’t mind living in it myself, except that it would be hard to get my bed through the hole.”

“The birds are very clever about their beds” said Ralph. “They bring them into their house piece by piece and build it inside - thick twigs and thin grass, scraps of thread, dry leaves, dog’s fur and lost feathers- all sorts of things they bring to stack and weave together for their nests. Nearly the whole house can be stuffed with the accumulated materials, and the eggs and babies rest in a nice soft bed.”

Ralph walked over the to the old wooden high chair under the window-well. The high chair had been his when he was a baby, and now was kept in the basement to be handy for when the his grown married cousins, or the Hildens from church came for dinner and needed a high chair for their baby. But right now, its patient wood tray was holding the library book, lying open to “How to Build a House for Bluebirds and Sparrows” The birdhouse was ready to be painted, if he followed the instructions in the book from the library, but Ralph didn’t want to paint it. “ Why would a bird want to live in a painted house?” he said.

“It wouldn’t” said Leona. “If I were a bird, I would want to build a nest where no one would notice me, so my eggs would be safe.”

“Well, I’ve never seen a robin with a painted nest, or a woodpecker with a painted hole in an oak tree. A bird house should look natural, so the birds will know it’s a safe place to live.” said Ralph decidedly. 

He looked at his finished bird house, sitting new and empty on the work table and wondered what bird might find it and want to live in it. The world was such a large and beautiful place, full of shady trees and shadowy bushes, and tall grasses, and snug dry eaves and all manner of places for sensible birds to raise a family. Would one of them think his new little bird house a suitable home? He hoped so.