But each held some lesson, suggested
some truth, which, strangely enough,
the child herself did not seem to see;
at least, she never admitted that she saw
or intended any hidden meaning.
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Story-Tell Lib

I often questioned her as to this after
we became friends. After listening to
some tale in which I could discern just
the lovely truth which would best help
some troubled soul in her audience, I
have questioned her as to its meaning.
I can see now, in memory, the short-
sighted, expressionless eyes of faded
blue which met mine as she said,
" Don't mean anything, — it don't. It 's
jest a story. Stories don't have to
mean things; they're stories, and I
tells 'em." That was all she would
say, and the mystery remained. What
did it mean? Whence came that
strange power of giving to the people
who came to her something to help
and cheer, both help and cheer hidden
in a simple little story? Was it, as I
like to think, God-given, a treasure
sent from above? Or would you rather
think it an inheritance from some an-
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Story-Tell Lib

cestor, a writer, a teller of tales? Or
perhaps you believe in the transmigra-
tion of souls, and think that the spirit
of some iEsop of old, who spoke in
parables, had entered the frail crippled
body of our little Lib, and spoke
through her pinched pale lips. I leave
you your theories, I keep my own.
But one thing which I find I have
omitted thus far may seem to you to
throw a little light on this matter. It
does not help me much. Lib was a
wonderful listener, as well as a narrator.
