FOOTNOTES:

Ah, yes. Unfolding now before my eyesThe views I know: the Forest, River, SeaAnd Mist—the scenes of Ono now expand.

Ah, yes. Unfolding now before my eyes

The views I know: the Forest, River, Sea

And Mist—the scenes of Ono now expand.

I have often heard objections raised to this theory by teachers dealing with children whose knowledge of objects outside their own little limited circle is so scanty that words we use without a suspicion that theyare unfamiliar are really foreign expressions to them. Such words as sea, woods, fields, mountains would mean nothing to them, unless some explanation were offered. To these objections I have replied that where we are dealing with objects that can actually be seen with the bodily eyes, then it is quite legitimate to show pictures of those objects before you begin the story, so that the distraction between the actual and mental presentation may not cause confusion; but, as the foregoing example shows, we should endeavour to accustom the children to seeing much more than the mere objects themselves, and in dealing with abstract qualities we must rely solely on the power and choice of words and dramatic qualities of presentation, nor need we feel anxious if the response is not immediate, or even if it is not quick and eager.[9]

VII.—The danger of obscuring the point of the story with too many details.This is not peculiar to teachers, nor is it only shown in the narrative form. I have often heard really brilliant after-dinner stories marred by this defect. One remembers the attempt made by Sancho Panza to tell a story to Don Quixote, and I have always felt a keen sympathy with the latter in his impatience over the recital.

“‘In a village of Estramadura there was a shepherd—no, I mean a goatherd—which shepherd—or goatherd—as my story says, was called Lope Ruiz—and this Lope Ruiz was in love with a shepherdess called Torralva, who was daughter to a rich herdsman, and this rich herdsman——’‘If this be thy story, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote,‘thou wilt not have done these two days. Tell it concisely like a man of sense, or else say no more.’‘I tell it in the manner they tell all stories in my country,’ answered Sancho, ‘and I cannot tell it otherwise, nor ought your Worship to require me to make new customs.’‘Tell it as thou wilt, then,’ said Don Quixote; ‘since it is the will of fate that I should hear it, go on.’Sancho continued:‘He looked about him until he espied a fisherman with a boat near him, but so small that it could only hold one person and one goat. The fisherman got into the boat and carried over one goat; he returned and carried another; he came back again and carried another. Pray, sir, keep an account of the goats which the fisherman is carrying over, for if you lose count of a single one, the story ends, and it will be impossible to tell a word more.... I go on, then.... He returned for another goat, and another, and another and another——’‘Supposethem all carried over,’ said Don Quixote, ‘or thou wilt not have finished carrying them this twelve months.’‘Tell me, how many have passed already?’ said Sancho.‘How should I know?’ answered Don Quixote.‘See there, now! Did I not tell thee to keep an exact account? There is an end of the story. I can go no further.’‘How can this be?’ said Don Quixote. ‘Is it so essential to the story to know the exact number of goats that passed over, that if one error be made the story can proceed no further?’‘Even so,’ said Sancho Panza.”

‘If this be thy story, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote,‘thou wilt not have done these two days. Tell it concisely like a man of sense, or else say no more.’

‘I tell it in the manner they tell all stories in my country,’ answered Sancho, ‘and I cannot tell it otherwise, nor ought your Worship to require me to make new customs.’

‘Tell it as thou wilt, then,’ said Don Quixote; ‘since it is the will of fate that I should hear it, go on.’

Sancho continued:

‘He looked about him until he espied a fisherman with a boat near him, but so small that it could only hold one person and one goat. The fisherman got into the boat and carried over one goat; he returned and carried another; he came back again and carried another. Pray, sir, keep an account of the goats which the fisherman is carrying over, for if you lose count of a single one, the story ends, and it will be impossible to tell a word more.... I go on, then.... He returned for another goat, and another, and another and another——’

‘Supposethem all carried over,’ said Don Quixote, ‘or thou wilt not have finished carrying them this twelve months.’

‘Tell me, how many have passed already?’ said Sancho.

‘How should I know?’ answered Don Quixote.

‘See there, now! Did I not tell thee to keep an exact account? There is an end of the story. I can go no further.’

‘How can this be?’ said Don Quixote. ‘Is it so essential to the story to know the exact number of goats that passed over, that if one error be made the story can proceed no further?’

‘Even so,’ said Sancho Panza.”

VIII.—The danger of over-explanation.Again, another danger lurks in the temptation to offer over much explanation of the story, which is common to most story-tellers. This is fatal to the artistic success of any story, but it is even more serious in connection with stories told from an educational point of view, because it hampers the imagination of the listener; and since the development of that faculty is one of our chief aims in telling these stories, we must let it have free play, nor must we test the effect, as I have said before, by the material method of asking questions. My own experience is that the fewer explanations you offer (provided you have been careful with the choice of your material and artistic in the presentation) the more readily the child will supplement by his own thinking power what is necessary for the understanding of the story.

Queyrat says: “A child has no need of seizing on the exact meaning of words; on the contrary, a certain lack of precision seems to stimulate his imagination only the more vigorously, since it gives it a broader liberty and firmer independence.”[10]

IX.—One special danger lies in thelowering of the standard of the storyin order to cater to the undeveloped taste of the child. I am alluding here only to the story which is presented from the educational point of view. There are moments of relaxation in a child's life, as in that of an adult, when a lighter taste can be gratified. I am alluding now to the standard of story for school purposes.

There is one development of the subject which seems to have been very little considered either in the United States or in our own country, namely, thetelling of stories tooldpeople, and that not only in institutions or in quiet country villages, but in the heart of the busy cities and in the homes of these old people. How often, when the young people are able to enjoy outside amusements, the old people, necessarily confined to the chimney-corner and many unable to read much for themselves, might return to the joy of their childhood by hearing some of the old stories told them in dramatic form. Here is a delightful occupation for those of the leisured class who have the gift, and a much more effective way of capturing attention than the more usual form of reading aloud.

Lady Gregory, in talking to the workhouse folk in Ireland, was moved by the strange contrast between the poverty of the tellers and the splendours of the tale.

She says: “The stories they love are of quite visionary things; of swans that turn into kings' daughters, and of castles with crowns over the doors, and of lovers' flight on the backs of eagles, and music-loving witches, and journeys to the other world, and sleeps that last for 700 years.”

I fear it is only the Celtic imagination that will glory in such romantic material; but I am sure the men and women of the poorhouse are much more interested than we are apt to think in stories outside the small circle of their lives.

FOOTNOTES:[2]With regard to the right moment for choosing this kind of story, I shall return to the subject in a later chapter.[3]I venture to hope (at this long distance of years) that my language in telling the story was more simple than appears from this account.[4]This difference of spelling in the same essay will be much appreciated by those who know how gladly children offer an orthographical alternative, in hopes that one if not the other may satisfy the exigency of the situation.[5]I refer, of course, to the Irish in their native atmosphere.[6]SeeList of Stories.[7]This was at the Congressional Library at Washington.[8]Page55.[9]In further illustration of this point see “When Burbage played” (Austin Dobson) and “In the Nursery” (Hans C. Andersen).[10]From “Les Jeux des Enfants,” page 16.

[2]With regard to the right moment for choosing this kind of story, I shall return to the subject in a later chapter.

[3]I venture to hope (at this long distance of years) that my language in telling the story was more simple than appears from this account.

[4]This difference of spelling in the same essay will be much appreciated by those who know how gladly children offer an orthographical alternative, in hopes that one if not the other may satisfy the exigency of the situation.

[5]I refer, of course, to the Irish in their native atmosphere.

[6]SeeList of Stories.

[7]This was at the Congressional Library at Washington.

[8]Page55.

[9]In further illustration of this point see “When Burbage played” (Austin Dobson) and “In the Nursery” (Hans C. Andersen).

[10]From “Les Jeux des Enfants,” page 16.

The Essentials of the Story.

Itwould be a truism to suggest that dramatic instinct and dramatic power of expression are naturally the first essentials for success in the Art of Story-telling, and that, without these, no story-teller would go very far; but I maintain that, even with these gifts, no high standard of performance will be reached without certain other qualities—among the first of which I placeapparentsimplicity, which is really theartofconcealingthe art.

I am speaking here of the public story-teller, or of the teachers with a group of children—not the spontaneous (and most rare) power of telling stories at the fireside by some gifted village grandmother, such as Béranger gives us in his poem,Souvenirs du Peuple:

Mes enfants, dans ce village,Suivi de rois, il passa;Voilà bien longtemps de ça;Je venais d'entrer en ménage.A pied grimpant le côteau,Où pour voir je m'étais mise.Il avait petit chapeauAvec redingote grise.Près de lui je me troublai!Il me dit: Bonjour, ma chère,Bonjour, ma chère.Il vous a parlé, grand'mère?Il vous a parlé?

Mes enfants, dans ce village,

Suivi de rois, il passa;

Voilà bien longtemps de ça;

Je venais d'entrer en ménage.

A pied grimpant le côteau,

Où pour voir je m'étais mise.

Il avait petit chapeau

Avec redingote grise.

Près de lui je me troublai!

Il me dit: Bonjour, ma chère,

Bonjour, ma chère.

Il vous a parlé, grand'mère?

Il vous a parlé?

I am sceptical enough to think that it is not the spontaneity of the grandmother but the art of Béranger which enhances the effect of the story told in the poem.

This intimate form of narration, which is delightful in its special surroundings, would fail toreach, much lesshold, a large audience,notbecause of its simplicity but often because of the want of skill in arranging material and of the artistic sense of selection which brings the interest to a focus and arranges the sidelights. In short, the simplicity we need for the ordinary purpose is that which comes from ease and produces a sense of being able to let ourselves go, because we have thought out our effects: it is when we translate our instinct into art that the story becomes finished and complete.

I find it necessary to emphasise this point because people are apt to confuse simplicity of delivery with carelessness of utterance, loose stringing of sentences of which the only connections seem to be the ever-recurring use of “and” and “so,” and “er ...”—this latter inarticulate sound has done more to ruin a story and distract the audience than many more glaring errors of dramatic form.

The real simplicity holds the audience because the lack of apparent effort in the artist has the most comforting effect upon the listener. It is like turning from the whirring machinery of process to the finished article, bearing no trace of manufacture except in the harmony and beauty of the whole, from which we realise that the individual parts have received all proper attention.

And what really brings about this apparent simplicity which ensures the success of the story? It has been admirably expressed in a passage from Henry James's lecture on Balzac:

“The fault in the Artist which amounts most completely to a failure of dignity is the absence ofsaturation with his idea. When saturation fails, noother real presence avails, as when, on the other hand, it operates, no failure of method fatally interferes.”

I now offer two illustrations of the effect of this saturation, one to show that the failure of method does not prevent successful effect, the other to show that when it is combined with the necessary secondary qualities the perfection of art is reached.

In illustration of the first point, I recall an experience in the North of England when the Head Mistress of an elementary school asked me to hear a young, inexperienced girl tell a story to a group of very small children.

When she began, I felt somewhat hopeless, because of the complete failure of method. She seemed to have all the faults most damaging to the success of a speaker. Her voice was harsh, her gestures awkward, her manner was restless and melodramatic; but as she went on, I soon began to discount all these faults and, in truth, I soon forgot about them, for so absorbed was she in her story, so saturated with her subject, that she quickly communicated her own interest to her audience, and the children were absolutely spellbound.

The other illustration is connected with a memorable peep behind the stage, when the late M. Coquelin had invited me to see him in the green-room between the first and second Acts of “L'Abbé Constantin,” one of the plays given during his last season in London, the year before his death. The last time I had met M. Coquelin was at a dinner-party, where I had been dazzled by the brilliant conversation of this great artist in the rôle of a man of the world. But on this occasion, I met the simple, kindly priest, so absorbed in his rôle that he inspired me with the wish to offer a donation for his poor, and on taking leave to askfor his blessing for myself. Whilst talking to him, I had felt puzzled: it was only when I had left him that I realised what had happened—namely, that he was too thoroughly saturated with his subject to be able to drop his rôle during the interval, in order to assume the more ordinary one of host and man of the world.

Now, it is this spirit I would wish to inculcate into the would-be story-tellers. If they would apply themselves in this manner to their work, it would bring about a revolution in the art of presentation, that is, in the art of teaching. The difficulty of the practical application of this theory is the constant plea, on the part of the teachers, that there is not the time to work for such a standard in an art which is so apparently simple that the work expended on it would never be appreciated.

My answer to this objection is that, though the counsel of perfection would be to devote a great deal of time to the story, so as to prepare the atmosphere quite as much as the mere action of the little drama (just as photographers use time exposure to obtain sky effects, as well as the more definite objects in the picture), yet it is not so much a question of time as concentration on the subject which is one of the chief factors in the preparation of the story.

So many story-tellers are satisfied with cheap results, and most audiences are not critical enough to encourage a high standard.[11]The method of “showing the machinery” has more immediate results, and it is easy to become discouraged over the drudgery whichis not necessary to secure the approbation of the largest number. But, since I am dealing with the essentials of really good story-telling, I may be pardoned for suggesting the highest standard and the means for reaching it.

Therefore I maintain that capacity for work, and even drudgery, is among the essentials of story work. Personally I know of nothing more interesting than to watch the story grow gradually from mere outline into a dramatic whole. It is the same pleasure, I imagine, which is felt over the gradual development of a beautiful design on a loom. I do not mean machine-made work, which has to be done under adverse conditions, in a certain time, and is similar to thousands of other pieces of work; but that work upon which we can bestow unlimited time and concentrated thought.

The special joy in the slowly-prepared story comes in the exciting moment when the persons, or even the inanimate objects, become alive and move as of themselves.

I remember spending two or three discouraging weeks with Andersen's story of the “Adventures of a Beetle.” I passed through times of great depression, because all the little creatures—beetles, earwigs, frogs, etc.—behaved in such a conventional, stilted way (instead of displaying the strong individuality which Andersen had bestowed upon them) that I began to despair of presenting a live company at all.

But one day the Beetle, so to speak, “took the stage,” and at once there was life and animation among the minor characters. Then the main work was done, and there remained only the comparatively easy task of guiding the movement of the little drama, suggesting side issues and polishing the details,always keeping a careful eye on the Beetle, that he might “gang his ain gait” and preserve to the full his own individuality.

There is a tendency in preparing stories to begin with detail work (often a gesture or side issue which one has remembered from hearing a story told), but if this is done before the contemplative period, only scrappy, jerky and ineffective results are obtained, on which one cannot count for dramatic effects. This kind of preparation reminds one of a young peasant woman who was taken to see a performance ofWilhelm Tell, and when questioned as to the plot, could only sum it up by saying, “I know some fruit was shot at.”[12]

I realise the extreme difficulty for teachers to devote the necessary time to the perfecting of the stories they tell in school, because this is only one of the subjects they have to take in an already over-crowded curriculum. To them I would offer this practical advice:Do not be afraid to repeat your stories.[13]If you did not undertake more than seven stories a year (chosen with infinite care), and if you repeated these stories six times during the year of forty-two weeks, you would be able to do artistic (and therefore lasting) work; you would give a very great deal of pleasure to the children, who delight in hearing a story many times. You would be able to avoid the direct moral application (to which subject I shall return later on); for each time a child hears a story artistically told, a little more of the meaning underlying the simple storywill come to him without any explanation on your part. The habit of doing one's best, instead of one's second-best, means, in the long run, that one has no interest except in the preparation of the best, and the stories, few in number, polished and finished in style, will have an effect of which one can scarcely over-state the importance.

In the story of the Swineherd,[14]Hans Andersen says:

“On the grave of the Prince's father there grew a rose-tree. It only bloomed once in five years, and only bore one rose. But what a rose! Its perfume was so exquisite that whoever smelt it forgot at once all his cares and sorrows.”

Lafcadio Hearn says: “Time weeds out the errors and stupidities of cheap success, and presents the Truth. It takes, like the aloe, a long time to flower, but the blossom is all the more precious when it appears.”

FOOTNOTES:[11]A noted Greek gymnast struck his pupil, though he was applauded by the whole assembly. “You did it clumsily, and not as you ought, for these people would never have praised you for anything really artistic.”[12]For further details on the question of preparation of the story, see chapter on “Questions asked by Teachers.”[13]Sully says that children love exact repetition because of the intense enjoyment bound up with the process of imaginative realisation.[14]See p.150.

[11]A noted Greek gymnast struck his pupil, though he was applauded by the whole assembly. “You did it clumsily, and not as you ought, for these people would never have praised you for anything really artistic.”

[12]For further details on the question of preparation of the story, see chapter on “Questions asked by Teachers.”

[13]Sully says that children love exact repetition because of the intense enjoyment bound up with the process of imaginative realisation.

[14]See p.150.

The Artifices of Story-telling.

Bythis term I do not mean anything against the gospel of simplicity which I am so constantly preaching, but, for want of a better term, I use the word “artifice” to express the mechanical devices by which we endeavour to attract and hold the attention of the audience. The art of telling stories is, in truth, much more difficult than acting a part on the stage: first, because the narrator is responsible for the whole drama and the whole atmosphere which surrounds it. He has to live the life of each character and understand the relation which each bears to the whole. Secondly, because the stage is a miniature one, gestures and movements must all be so adjusted as not to destroy the sense of proportion. I have often noticed that actors, accustomed to the more roomy public stage, are apt to be too broad in their gestures and movements when they tell a story. The special training for the Story-teller should consist not only in the training of the voice and in choice of language, but above all in power ofdelicatesuggestion, which cannot always be used on the stage because this is hampered by the presence ofactual things. The Story-teller has to present these things to the more delicate organism of the “inward eye.”

So deeply convinced am I of the miniature character of the Story-telling Art that I do not believe you can ever get a perfectly artistic presentation of this kind in a very large hall or before a very large audience.

I have made experiments along this line, having twice told a story to an audience exceeding five thousand, in the States,[15]but on both occasions, though the dramatic reaction upon oneself from the response of so large an audience was both gratifying and stimulating, I was forced to sacrifice the delicacy of the story and to take from its artistic value by the necessity of emphasis, in order to be heard by all present.

Emphasis is the bane of all story-telling, for it destroys the delicacy, and the whole performance suggests a struggle in conveying the message; the indecision of the victory leaves the audience restless and unsatisfied.

Then, again, as compared with acting on the stage, in telling a story you miss the help of effective entrances and exits, the footlights, the costume, the facial expression of your fellow-actor which interprets so much of what you yourself say without further elaboration on your part; for, in the story, in case of a dialogue which necessitates great subtlety and quickness in facial expression and gesture, you have to be both speaker and listener.

Now, of what artifices can we make use to take the place of all the extraneous help offered to actors on the stage?

First and foremost, as a means of suddenly pulling up the attention of the audience, is the judicious Art of Pausing.

For those who have not actually had experience in the matter, this advice will seem trite and unnecessary, but those who have even a little experience will realise with me the extraordinary efficacy of this very simplemeans. It is really what Coquelin spoke of as a “high light,” where the interest is focussed, as it were, to a point.

I have tried this simple art ofpausingwith every kind of audience, and I have very rarely known it to fail. It is very difficult to offer a concrete example of this, unless one is giving a “live” representation; but I shall make an attempt, and at least I shall hope to make myself understood by those who have heard me tell stories.

In Hans C. Andersen's “Princess and the Pea,”[16]the King goes down to open the door himself. Now, you may make this point in two ways. You may either say: “And then the King went to the door, and at the door there stood a real Princess,” or, “And then the King went to the door, and at the door there stood—(pause)—a real Princess.”

It is difficult to exaggerate the difference of effect produced by so slight a cause.[17]With children it means an unconscious curiosity which expresses itself in a sudden muscular tension—there is just time, during that instant's pause, tofeel, though not toformulate, the question: “What is standing at the door?” By this means half your work of holding the attention is accomplished. It is not necessary for me to enter into the psychological reason of this, but I strongly recommend those who are interested in the question to read the chapter in Ribot's work on this subject,Essai sur l'Imagination créatrice, as well as Mr. Keatinge's work on “Suggestion.”

I would advise all teachers to revise their stories with a view to introducing the judicious Pause, and to vary its use according to the age, the number and,above all, the mood of the audience. Experience alone can ensure success in this matter. It has taken me many years to realise the importance of this artifice.

Among other means of holding the attention of the audience and helping to bring out the points of the story is the use of gesture. I consider, however, it must be a sparing use, and not of a broad or definite character. We shall never improve on the advice given by Hamlet to the actors on this subject: “See that ye o'erstep not the modesty of Nature.”

And yet, perhaps, it is not necessary to warn Story-tellers againstabuseof gesture: it is more helpful to encourage them in the use of it, especially in Anglo-Saxon countries, where we are fearful of expressing ourselves in this way, and, when we do, the gesture often lacks subtlety. The Anglo-Saxon, when he does move at all, moves in solid blocks—a whole arm, a whole leg, the whole body—but if you watch a Frenchman or an Italian in conversation, you suddenly realise how varied and subtle are the things which can be suggested by the mere turn of the wrist or the movement of a finger. The power of the hand has been so wonderfully summed up in a passage from Quintilian that I am justified in offering it to all those who wish to realise what can be done by gesture:

“As to the hands, without the aid of which all delivery would be deficient and weak, it can scarcely be told of what a variety of motions they are susceptible, since they almost equal in expression the power of language itself. For other parts of the body assist the speaker, but these, I may almost say, speak themselves. With our hands we ask, promise, call persons to us and send them away, threaten, supplicate,intimate dislike or fear; with our hands we signify joy, grief, doubt, acknowledgment, penitence, and indicate measure, quantity, number and time. Have not our hands the power of inciting, of restraining, or beseeching, of testifying approbation.... So that amidst the great diversity of tongues pervading all nations and peoples, the language of the hands appears to be a language common to all men.” (From “Education of an Orator,” Book II, Chap. 3.)

One of the most effective artifices in telling stories to young children is the use of mimicry—the imitation of animals' voices and sounds in general is of never-ending joy to the listeners. Only, I should wish to introduce a note of grave warning in connection with this subject. This special artifice can only be used by such narrators as have special aptitude and gifts in this direction. There are many people with good imaginative power but wholly lacking in the power of mimicry, whose efforts in this direction, however painstaking, would remain grotesque and therefore ineffective. When listening to such performances (of which children are strangely critical) one is reminded of the French story in which the amateur animal painter is showing her picture to an undiscriminating friend:

“Ah!” says the friend, “this is surely meant for a lion?”

“No,” says the artist, with some slight show of temper; “it is my little lap-dog.”

Another artifice which is particularly successful with very small children is to ensure their attention by inviting their co-operation before you actually begin the story. The following has proved quite effective as a short introduction to my stories when I was addressing large audiences of children:

“Do you know that last night I had a very strange dream, which I am going to tell you before I begin the stories. I dreamed that I was walking along the streets of—— (here would follow the town in which I happened to be speaking), with a large bundle on my shoulders, and this bundle was full of stories which I had been collecting all over the world in different countries; and I was shouting at the top of my voice: ‘Stories! Stories! Stories! Who will listen to my stories?’ And the children came flocking round me in my dream, saying: ‘Tellusyour stories.Wewill listen to your stories.’ So I pulled out a story from my big bundle and I began in a most excited way, ‘Once upon a time there lived a King and a Queen who had no children, and they——’ Here a little boy,verymuch like that little boy I see sitting in the front row, stopped me, saying: ‘Oh! I knowthatold story; it's Sleeping Beauty.’

“So I pulled out a second story, and began: ‘Once upon a time there was a little girl who was sent by her mother to visit her grandmother——’ Then a little girl, so much like the one sitting at the end of the second row, said: 'Oh! everybody knows that story! It's——’”

Here I would make a judicious pause, and then the children in the audience would shout in chorus, with joyful superiority: “Little Red Riding-Hood!” (before I had time to explain that the children in my dream had done the same).

This method I repeated two or three times, being careful to choose very well-known stories. By this time the children were all encouraged and stimulated. I usually finished with congratulations on the number of stories they knew, expressing a hope that some of those I was going to tell that afternoon would be new to them.

I have rarely found this plan fail for establishing a friendly relation between oneself and the juvenile audience.

It is often a matter of great difficulty, not towinthe attention of an audience but tokeepit, and one of the most subtle artifices is to let the audience down (without their perceiving it) after a dramatic situation, so that the reaction may prepare them for the interest of the next situation.

An excellent instance of this is to be found in Rudyard Kipling's story of “The Cat that walked ...” where the repetition of words acts as a sort of sedative until you realise the beginning of a fresh situation.

The great point is never to let the audience quite down, that is, in stories which depend on dramatic situations. It is just a question of shade and colour in the language. If you are telling a story in sections, and spread over two or three occasions, you should always stop at an exciting moment. It encourages speculation between whiles in the children's minds, which increases their interest when the story is taken up again.

Another very necessary quality in the mere artifice of story-telling is to watch your audience, so as to be able to know whether its mood is for action or reaction, and to alter your story accordingly. The moods of reaction are rarer, and you must use them for presenting a different kind of material. Here is your opportunity for introducing a piece of poetic description, given in beautiful language, to which the children cannot listen when they are eager for action and dramatic excitement.

Perhaps one of the greatest artifices is to take a quick hold of your audience by a striking beginning which will enlist their attention from the start; youcan then relax somewhat, but you must be careful also of the end, because that is what remains most vivid for the children. If you question them as to which story they like best in a programme, you will constantly find it to be the last one you have told, which has for the moment blurred out the others.

Here are a few specimens of beginnings which seldom fail to arrest the attention of the child:

“There was once a giant ogre, and he lived in a cave by himself.”—From“The Giant and the Jackstraws,” Starr Jordan.

“There was once a giant ogre, and he lived in a cave by himself.”

—From“The Giant and the Jackstraws,” Starr Jordan.

“There were once twenty-five tin soldiers, who were all brothers, for they had been made out of the same old tin spoon.”—From“The Tin Soldier,” Hans C. Andersen.

“There were once twenty-five tin soldiers, who were all brothers, for they had been made out of the same old tin spoon.”

—From“The Tin Soldier,” Hans C. Andersen.

“There was once an Emperor who had a horse shod with gold.”—From“The Beetle,” Hans C. Andersen.

“There was once an Emperor who had a horse shod with gold.”

—From“The Beetle,” Hans C. Andersen.

“There was once a merchant who was so rich that he could have paved the whole street with gold, and even then he would have had enough for a small alley.”—From“The Flying Trunk,” Hans C. Andersen.

“There was once a merchant who was so rich that he could have paved the whole street with gold, and even then he would have had enough for a small alley.”

—From“The Flying Trunk,” Hans C. Andersen.

“There was once a shilling which came forth from the mint springing and shouting, 'Hurrah! Now I am going out into the wide world.'”—From“The Silver Shilling,” Hans C. Andersen.

“There was once a shilling which came forth from the mint springing and shouting, 'Hurrah! Now I am going out into the wide world.'”

—From“The Silver Shilling,” Hans C. Andersen.

“In the High and Far Off Times the Elephant, O Best Beloved, had no trunk.”—From“The Elephant's Child”:Just So Stories, Rudyard Kipling.

“In the High and Far Off Times the Elephant, O Best Beloved, had no trunk.”

—From“The Elephant's Child”:Just So Stories, Rudyard Kipling.

“Not always was the Kangaroo as now we behold him, but a Different Animal with four short legs.”—From“Old Man Kangaroo”:Just So Stories, Rudyard Kipling.

“Not always was the Kangaroo as now we behold him, but a Different Animal with four short legs.”

—From“Old Man Kangaroo”:Just So Stories, Rudyard Kipling.

“Whichever way I turn,” said the weather-cock on a high steeple, “no one is satisfied.”—From“Fireside Fables,” Edwin Barrow.

“Whichever way I turn,” said the weather-cock on a high steeple, “no one is satisfied.”

—From“Fireside Fables,” Edwin Barrow.

“A set of chessmen, left standing on their board, resolved to alter the rules of the game.”—From the same source.

“A set of chessmen, left standing on their board, resolved to alter the rules of the game.”

—From the same source.

“The Pink Parasol had tender whalebone ribs and a slender stick of cherry-wood.”—From“Very Short Stories,” Mrs. W. K. Clifford.

“The Pink Parasol had tender whalebone ribs and a slender stick of cherry-wood.”

—From“Very Short Stories,” Mrs. W. K. Clifford.

“There was once a poor little Donkey on Wheels; it had never wagged its tail, or tossed its head, or said ‘Hee-haw,’ or tasted a tender thistle.”—From the same source.

“There was once a poor little Donkey on Wheels; it had never wagged its tail, or tossed its head, or said ‘Hee-haw,’ or tasted a tender thistle.”

—From the same source.

Now, some of these beginnings are, of course, for very young children, but they all have the same advantage, that of plungingin medias res, and therefore are able to arrest attention at once, as distinct from the stories which open on a leisurely note of description.

In the same way we must be careful about the endings of the stories; in some way or other they must impress themselves either in a very dramatic climax to which the whole story has worked up, such as we have in the following:

“Then he goes out to the Wet Wild Woods, or up the Wet Wild Trees, or on the Wet Wild Roofs, waving his Wild Tail, and walking by his Wild Lone.”—From“Just So Stories,” Rudyard Kipling.

“Then he goes out to the Wet Wild Woods, or up the Wet Wild Trees, or on the Wet Wild Roofs, waving his Wild Tail, and walking by his Wild Lone.”

—From“Just So Stories,” Rudyard Kipling.

Or by an anti-climax for effect:

“We have all this straight out of the alderman's newspaper, but it is not to be depended on.”—From“Jack the Dullard,” Hans C. Andersen.

“We have all this straight out of the alderman's newspaper, but it is not to be depended on.”

—From“Jack the Dullard,” Hans C. Andersen.

Or by evading the point:

“Whoever does not believe this must buy shares in the Tanner's yard.”—From“A Great Grief,” Hans C. Andersen.

“Whoever does not believe this must buy shares in the Tanner's yard.”

—From“A Great Grief,” Hans C. Andersen.

Or by some striking general comment:

“He has never caught up with the three days he missed at the beginning of the world, and he has never learnt how to behave.”—From“How the Camel got his Hump”:Just So Stories, Rudyard Kipling.

“He has never caught up with the three days he missed at the beginning of the world, and he has never learnt how to behave.”

—From“How the Camel got his Hump”:Just So Stories, Rudyard Kipling.

FOOTNOTES:[15]Once at the Summer School at Chatauqua, New York, and once in Lincoln Park, Chicago.[16]See p.156.[17]There must be no more emphasis in the second manner than the first.

[15]Once at the Summer School at Chatauqua, New York, and once in Lincoln Park, Chicago.

[16]See p.156.

[17]There must be no more emphasis in the second manner than the first.

Elements to Avoid in Selection of Material.

Iamconfronted, in this portion of my work, with a great difficulty, because I cannot afford to be as catholic as I could wish (this rejection or selection of material being primarily intended for those story-tellers dealing with normal children); but I wish from the outset to distinguish between a story told to an individual child in the home circle or by a personal friend, and a story told to a group of children as part of the school curriculum. And if I seem to reiterate this difference, it is because I wish to show very clearly that the recital of parents and friends may be quite separate in content and manner from that offered by the teaching world. In the former case, almost any subject can be treated, because, knowing the individual temperament of the child, a wise parent or friend knows also what can be presented ornotpresented to the child; but in dealing with a group of normal children in school, much has to be eliminated that could be given fearlessly to the abnormal child: I mean the child who, by circumstances or temperament, is developed beyond its years.

I shall now mention some of the elements which experience has shown me to be unsuitable for class stories.

I.—Stories dealing with analysis of motive and feeling.

This warning is specially necessary to-day, because this is above all an age of introspection and analysis. We have only to glance at the principal novels and plays during the last quarter of a century—most especially during the last ten years—to see how this spirit has crept into our literature and life.

Now, this tendency to analyse is obviously more dangerous for children than for adults, because, from lack of experience and knowledge of psychology, the child's analysis is incomplete. He cannot see all the causes of the action, nor can he make that philosophical allowance for mood which brings the adult to truer conclusions.

Therefore we should discourage children who show a tendency to analyse too closely the motives of their actions, and refrain from presenting in our stories any example which might encourage them to persist in this course.

I remember, on one occasion, when I went to say good-night to a little girl of my acquaintance, I found her sitting up in bed, very wide awake. Her eyes were shining, her cheeks were flushed, and when I asked her what had excited her so much, she said:

“IknowI have done something wrong to-day, but I cannot quite remember what it was.”

I said: “But Phyllis, if you put your hand, which is really quite small, in front of your eyes, you could not see the shape of anything else, however large it might be. Now, what you have done to-day appears very large because it is so close, but when it is a little further off, you will be able to see better and know more about it. So let us wait till to-morrow morning.”

I am happy to say that she took my advice. She was soon fast asleep, and the next morning she hadforgotten the wrong over which she had been unhealthily brooding the night before.[18]

II.—Stories dealing too much with sarcasm and satire.These are weapons which are too sharply polished, and therefore too dangerous, to place in the hands of children. For here again, as in the case of analysis, they can only have a very incomplete conception of the case. They do not know the real cause which produces the apparently ridiculous situation: it is experience and knowledge which lead to the discovery of the pathos and sadness which often underlie the ridiculous appearance, and it is only the abnormally gifted child or grown-up person who discovers this by instinct. It takes a lifetime to arrive at the position described in Sterne's words: “I would not have let fallen an unseasonable pleasantry in the venerable presence of misery to be entitled to all the Wit which Rabelais has ever scattered.”

I will hasten to add that I should not wish children to have their sympathy too much drawn out, or their emotions kindled too much to pity, because this would be neither healthy nor helpful to themselves or others. I only want to protect the children from the dangerous critical attitude induced by the use of satire: it sacrifices too much of the atmosphere of trust and belief in human beings which ought to be an essential of child-life. If we indulge in satire, the sense of kindness in children tends to become perverted, their sympathy cramped, and they themselves to become old before their time. We have an excellent example of this in Hans C. Andersen's “Snow Queen.”

When Kay gets the piece of broken mirror into hiseye, he no longer sees the world from the normal child's point of view: he can no longer see anything but the foibles of those about him—a condition usually only reached by a course of pessimistic experience.

Andersen sums up the unnatural point of view in these words:

“When Kay tried to repeat the Lord's Prayer, he could only remember the multiplication table.” Now, without taking these words in any literal sense, we can admit that they represent the development of the head at the expense of the heart.

An example of this kind of story to avoid is Andersen's “Story of the Butterfly.” The bitterness of the Anemones, the sentimentality of the Violets, the schoolgirlishness of the Snowdrops, the domesticity of the Sweet-peas—all this tickles the palate of the adult, but does not belong to the plane of the normal child. Again I repeat that the unusual child may take all this in and even preserve its kindly attitude towards the world, but it is a dangerous atmosphere for the ordinary child.

III.—Stories of a sentimental kind.Strange to say, this element of sentimentality often appeals more to the young teachers than to the children themselves. It is difficult to define the difference between sentiment and sentimentality, but the healthy normal boy or girl of—let us say ten or eleven years old seems to feel it unconsciously, though the distinction is not so clear a few years later.

Mrs. Elizabeth McKracken contributed an excellent article some years ago to the AmericanOutlookon the subject of literature for the young, in which we find a good illustration of this power of discrimination on the part of a child.

A young teacher was telling her pupils the story ofthe emotional lady who, to put her lover to the test, bade him pick up the glove which she had thrown down into the arena between the tiger and the lion. The lover does her bidding, in order to vindicate his character as a brave knight. One boy, after hearing the story, at once states his contempt for the knight's acquiescence, which he declares to be unworthy.

“But,” says the teacher, “you see he really did it to show the lady how foolish she was.” The answer of the boy sums up what I have been trying to show: “There was no sense inhisbeing sillier thanshewas, to show hershewas silly.”

If the boy had stopped there, we might have concluded that he was lacking in imagination or romance, but his next remark proves what a balanced and discriminating person he was, for he added: “Now, ifshehad fallen in, and he had leapt after her to rescue her, that would have been splendid and of some use.” Given the character of the lady, we might, as adults, question the last part of the boy's statement, but this is pure cynicism and fortunately does not enter into the child's calculations.

In my own personal experience (and I have told this story often in the German ballad form to girls of ten and twelve in the High Schools in England) I have never found one girl who sympathised with the lady or who failed to appreciate the poetic justice meted out to her in the end by the dignified renunciation of the knight.

Chesterton defines sentimentality as “a tame, cold, or small and inadequate manner of speaking about certain matters which demand very large and beautiful expression.”

I would strongly urge upon young teachers to revise, by this definition, some of the stories they haveincluded in their repertory, and see whether they would stand the test or not.

IV.—Stories containing strong sensational episodes.The danger is all the greater because many children delight in it, and some crave for it in the abstract, but fear it in the concrete.[19]

An affectionate aunt, on one occasion, anxious to curry favour with a four-year-old nephew, was taxing her imagination to find a story suitable for his tender years. She was greatly startled when he suddenly said, in a most imperative tone: “Tell me the story of abeareating a small boy.” This was so remote from her own choice of subject that she hesitated at first, but coming to the conclusion that as the child had chosen the situation he would feel no terror in the working up of its details, she began a most thrilling and blood-curdling story, leading up to the final catastrophe. But just as she had reached the great dramatic moment, the child raised his hands in terror and said: “Oh! Auntie, don't let the bearreallyeat the boy!”

“Don't you know,” said an impatient boy who had been listening to a mild adventure story considered suitable to his years, “that I don't take any interest in the story until the decks are dripping with gore?” Here we have no opportunity of deciding whether or not the actual description demanded would be more alarming than the listener had realised.

Here is a poem of James Stephens, showing a child's taste for sensational things:—

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