Shakespeare's Stories for Young Readers by E. Nesbit

INTRODUCTION
    I T was evening. The fire burned brightly in the inn parlor. We had been that day to see Shakespeare’s house, and I had told the children all that I could about him and his work. Now they were sitting by the table, poring over a big volume of the Master’s plays, lent them by the landlord. And I, with eyes fixed on the fire, was wandering happily in the immortal dreamland peopled by Rosalind and Imogen, Lear and Hamlet. A small sigh roused me—
    â€œI can’t understand a word of it,” said Iris.
    â€œAnd you said it was so beautiful,” Rosamund added, reproachfully. “What does it all mean?”
    â€œYes,” Iris went on, “you said it was a fairy tale, and we’ve read three pages, and there’s nothing about fairies, not even a dwarf, or a fairy god-mother.”
    â€œAnd what does ‘misgraffed’ mean?”
    â€œAnd ‘vantage,’ and ‘austerity,’ and ‘belike,’ and ‘edict,’ and—”
    â€œStop, stop,” I cried; “I will tell you the story.”
    In a moment they were nestling beside me, cooing with the pleasure that the promise of a story always brings them.
    â€œBut you must be quiet a moment, and let me think.”
    In truth it was not easy to arrange the story simply. Even with the recollection of Lamb’s tales to help me I found it hard to tell the “Midsummer Night’s Dream” in words that these little ones could understand. But presently I began the tale, and then the words came fast enough. When the story was ended, Iris drew a long breath.
    â€œIt is a lovely story,” he said; “but it doesn’t look at all like that in the book.”
    â€œIt is only put differently,” I answered. “You will understand when you grow up that the stories are the least part of Shakespeare.”
    â€œBut it’s the stories we like,” said Rosamund.
    â€œYou see he did not write for children.”
    â€œNo, but you might,” cried Iris, flushed with a sudden idea. “Why don’t you write the stories for us so that we can understand them, just as you told us that, and then, when we are grown up, we shall understand the plays so much better. Do! do!”
    â€œAh, do! You will, won’t you? You must! ”
    â€œOh, well, if I must, I must,” I said.
    So they settled it for me, and for them these tales were written.

ROMEO AND JULIET
    O NCE upon a time there lived in Verona two great families named Montagu and Capulet. They were both rich, and I suppose they were as sensible, in most things, as other rich people. But in one thing they were extremely silly. There was an old, old quarrel between the two families, and instead of making it up like reasonable folks, they made a sort of a pet of their quarrel, and would not let it die out. So that a Montagu wouldn’t speak to a Capulet if he met one in the street—nor a Capulet to a Montagu—or if they did speak, it was to say rude and unpleasant things, which often ended in a fight. And their relations and servants were just as foolish, so that street fights and duels and uncomfortablenesses of that kind were always growing out of the Montagu-and-Capulet quarrel.
    Now Lord Capulet, the head of that family, gave a party—a grand supper and dance—and he was so hospitable that he said anyone might come to it— except (of course) the Montagues. But there was a young Montagu named Romeo, who very much wanted to be there, because Rosaline, the lady he loved, had been asked. This lady had never been at all kind to him, and he had no reason to love her; but the fact was that he wanted to love somebody, and as he hadn’t seen the right lady, he was obliged to love the wrong one. So to the Capulets’ grand party he came, with his friends Mercutio and Benvolio.
    Old Capulet welcomed him and his two friends very kindly—and young Romeo moved about among the crowd of