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THE ART OF STORY-TELLING




                                THE ART
                           OF STORY-TELLING

                         BY MARIE L. SHEDLOCK

                           WITH A PREFACE BY
                         PROFESSOR JOHN ADAMS
               CHAIR OF EDUCATION, UNIVERSITY OF LONDON

                                LONDON
                   JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.
                                 1915




ALL RIGHTS RESERVED




CONTENTS.


                                                                    PAGE

  PREFACE                                                            vii

  INTRODUCTION                                                         1

  Chapter I. THE DIFFICULTIES OF STORY-TELLING CONNECTED WITH LIBRARIES
    AND CLUBS                                                          6

  ” II. THE ESSENTIALS OF STORY-TELLING                               25

  ” III. THE ARTIFICES OF STORY-TELLING                               32

  ” IV. ELEMENTS TO AVOID                                             42

  ” V. ELEMENTS TO SEEK                                               61

  ” VI. HOW TO OBTAIN AND MAINTAIN THE EFFECT                         89

  ” VII. QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS                                       117

  ” VIII. LIST OF STORIES TOLD IN FULL                               138

  LIST OF TITLES OF INDIVIDUAL STORIES AND OF COLLECTIONS OF STORIES 210

  INDEX                                                              235




PREFACE.

By PROFESSOR JOHN ADAMS,

_Chair of Education, University of London_.


THOSE who do not love schoolmasters tell us that the man who can do
something supremely well contents himself with doing it, while the man
who cannot do it very well must needs set about showing other people
how it should be done. The masters in any craft are prone to magnify
their gifts by maintaining that the poet--or the stove-pipe maker--is
born, not made. Teachers will accordingly be gratified to find in the
following pages the work of a lady who is at the same time a brilliant
executant and an admirable expositor. Miss Shedlock stands in the very
first rank of story-tellers. No one can claim with greater justice that
the gift of Scheherazade is hers by birthright. Yet she has recognised
that even the highest natural gifts may be well or ill manipulated:
that in short the poet, not to speak of the stove-pipe maker, must take
a little more trouble than to be merely born.

It is well when the master of a craft begins to take thought and to
discover what underlies his method. It does not, of course, happen
that every master is able to analyse the processes that secure him
success in his art. For after all the expositor has to be born as well
as the executant; and it is perhaps one of the main causes of the
popularity of the born-not-made theory that so few people are born both
good artists and good expositors. Miss Shedlock has had this rare
good fortune, as all those who have both read her book and heard her
exemplify her principles on the platform will readily admit.

Let no one who lacks the gift of story-telling hope that the following
pages will confer it. Like Comenius and like the schoolmaster in
Shakespeare, Miss Shedlock is entitled to claim a certain capacity or
ingenuity in her pupils, before she can promise effective help. But
on the other hand let no successful story-teller form the impression
that he has nothing to learn from the exposition here given. The best
craftsmen are those who are not only most able but most willing to
learn from a fellow master. The most inexperienced story-teller who has
the love of the art in his soul will gather a full harvest from Miss
Shedlock's teaching, while the most experienced and skilful will not go
empty away.

The reader will discover that the authoress is first and last an
artist. “Dramatic joy” is put in the forefront when she is enumerating
the aims of the story-teller. But her innate gifts as a teacher will
not be suppressed. She objects to “didactic emphasis” and yet cannot
say too much in favour of the moral effect that may be produced by the
use of the story. She raises here the whole problem of direct _versus_
indirect moral instruction, and decides in no uncertain sound in
favour of the indirect form. There is a great deal to be said on the
other side, but this is not the place to say it. On the wide question
Miss Shedlock has on her side the great body of public opinion among
professional teachers. The orthodox master proclaims that he is, of
course, a moral instructor, but adds that in the schoolroom the less
_said_ about the matter the better. Like the authoress, the orthodox
teacher has much greater faith in example than in precept: so much
faith indeed that in many schools precept does not get the place it
deserves. But in the matter of story-telling the artistic element
introduces something that is not necessarily involved in ordinary
school work. For better or for worse modern opinion is against the
explicitly stated lesson to be drawn from any tale that is told. Most
people agree with Mark Twain's condemnation of “the moral that wags its
crippled tail at the end of most school-girls' essays.”

The justification of the old-fashioned “moral” was not artistic but
didactic. It embodied the determination of the story-teller to see
that his pupils got the full benefit of the lesson involved. If the
moral is to be cut out, the story-teller must be sure that the lesson
is so clearly conveyed in the text that any further elaboration would
be felt as an impertinent addition. Whately assures us that men
prefer metaphors to similes because in the simile the point is baldly
stated, whereas in the metaphor the reader or hearer has to be his own
interpreter. All education is in the last resort self-education, and
Miss Shedlock sees to it that her stories compel her hearers to make
the application she desires.

In two other points modern opinion is prepared to give our authoress
rein where our forefathers would have been inclined to restrain
her. The sense of humour has come to its proper place in our
schoolrooms--pupils' humour, be it understood, for there always was
scope enough claimed for the humour of the teacher. So with the
imagination. The time is past when this “mode of being conscious” was
looked at askance in school. Parents and teachers no longer speak
contemptuously about “the busy faculty,” and quote Genesis in its
condemnation.

Miss Shedlock has been well advised to keep to her legitimate subject
instead of wandering afield in a Teutonic excursion into the realms of
folk-lore. What parents and teachers want is the story as here and now
existing and an account of how best to manipulate it. This want the
book now before us admirably meets.

                                                            JOHN ADAMS.




INTRODUCTION.


STORY-TELLING is almost the oldest Art in the world--the first
conscious form of literary communication. In the East it still
survives, and it is not an uncommon thing to see a crowd at a
street-corner held by the simple narration of a story. There are signs
in the West of a growing interest in this ancient art, and we may yet
live to see the renaissance of the troubadours and the minstrels whose
appeal will then rival that of the mob orator or itinerant politician.
One of the surest signs of a belief in the educational power of the
story is its introduction into the curriculum of the Training-College
and the classes of the Elementary and Secondary Schools. It is just at
the time when the imagination is most keen--the mind being unhampered
by accumulation of facts--that stories appeal most vividly and are
retained for all time.

It is to be hoped that some day stories will only be told to school
groups by experts who have devoted special time and preparation
to the art of telling them. It is a great fallacy to suppose that
the systematic study of story-telling destroys the spontaneity of
narrative. After a long experience, I find the exact converse to be
true, namely, that it is only when one has overcome the mechanical
difficulties that one can “let oneself go” in the dramatic interest of
the story.

By the expert story-teller I do not mean the professional elocutionist.
The name--wrongly enough--has become associated in the mind of the
public with persons who beat their breast, tear their hair, and
declaim blood-curdling episodes. A decade or more ago, the drawing-room
reciter was of this type, and was rapidly becoming the bugbear of
social gatherings. The difference between the stilted reciter and
the simple story-teller is perhaps best illustrated by an episode in
Hans C. Andersen's immortal story of the Nightingale.[1] The real
Nightingale and the artificial Nightingale have been bidden by the
Emperor to unite their forces and to sing a duet at a Court function.
The duet turns out most disastrously, and whilst the artificial
Nightingale is singing his one solo for the thirty-third time, the
real Nightingale flies out of the window back to the green wood--a
true artist, instinctively choosing his right atmosphere. But the
bandmaster--symbol of the pompous pedagogue--in trying to soothe
the outraged feelings of the courtiers, says, “Because, you see,
Ladies and Gentlemen, and, above all, Your Imperial Majesty, with the
real nightingale you never can tell what you will hear, but in the
artificial nightingale everything is decided beforehand. So it is, and
so it must remain. It cannot be otherwise.”

And as in the case of the two nightingales, so it is with the stilted
reciter and the simple narrator: one is busy displaying the machinery,
showing “how the tunes go”--the other is anxious to conceal the art.
Simplicity should be the keynote of story-telling, but (and here the
comparison with the Nightingale breaks down) it is a simplicity which
comes after much training in self-control, and much hard work in
overcoming the difficulties which beset the presentation.

I do not mean that there are not born story-tellers who _could_ hold
an audience without preparation, but they are so rare in number that
we can afford to neglect them in our general consideration; for this
work is dedicated to the average story-tellers anxious to make the
best use of their dramatic ability, and it is to them that I present
my plea for special study and preparation before telling a story to a
group of children--that is, if they wish for the far-reaching effects
I shall speak of later on. Only the preparation must be of a much less
stereotyped nature than that by which the ordinary reciters are trained
for their career.

Some years ago, when I was in the States, I was asked to put into
the form of lectures my views upon the educational value of telling
stories. A sudden inspiration seized me. I began to cherish a dream of
long hours to be spent in the British Museum, the Congressional Library
in Washington and the Public Library at Boston--and this is the only
portion of the dream which has been realized. I planned an elaborate
scheme of research work which was to result in a magnificent (if musty)
philological treatise. I thought of trying to discover by long and
patient researches what species of lullaby were crooned by Egyptian
mothers to their babes, and what were the elementary dramatic poems in
vogue among Assyrian nursemaids which were the prototypes of “Little
Jack Horner,” “Dickory, Dickory Dock,” and other nursery classics. I
intended to follow up the study of these ancient documents by making
an appendix of modern variants, showing what progress we had made--if
any--among modern nations.

But there came to me suddenly one day the remembrance of a scene from
Racine's “Plaideurs” in which the counsel for the defence, eager to
show how fundamental is his knowledge, begins his speech:--

“Before the Creation of the World”--And the Judge (with a touch of
weariness tempered by humour) suggests:--

“Let us pass on to the Deluge.”

And thus I, too, have “passed on to the Deluge.” I have abandoned an
account of the origin and past of stories which at the best would
only have displayed a little recently-acquired book-knowledge. When
I thought of the number of scholars who could treat this part of the
question so infinitely better than myself, I realized how much wiser
it would be--though the task is much more humdrum--to deal with the
present possibilities of story-telling for our generation of parents
and teachers, and, leaving out the folk-lore side, devote myself to the
story itself.

My objects in urging the use of stories in the education of children
are at least five-fold:

_First_, to give them dramatic joy, for which they have a natural
craving. _Secondly_, to develop a sense of humour, which is really
a sense of proportion. _Thirdly_, to correct certain tendencies by
showing the consequences in the career of the hero in the story. (Of
this motive the children must be quite unconscious, and there must be
no didactic emphasis.) _Fourthly_, by means of example, not precept,
to present such ideals as will sooner or later (I care not which) be
translated into action. _Fifthly_, to develop the imagination, which
really takes in all the other points.

So much for the purely educational side of the book. But the art of
story-telling, quite apart from the subject, appeals not only to the
educational world or to parents as parents, but also to a wider outside
public, who may be interested in the purely human point of view.

In great contrast to the lofty scheme I had originally proposed to
myself, I now simply place before all those who are interested in
the Art of Story-telling in any form the practical experience I have
had in my travels across the United States and through England; and,
because I am confining myself to personal experience which must of
necessity be limited, I am very anxious not to appear dogmatic or to
give the impression that I wish to lay down the law on the subject. But
I hope my readers may profit by my errors, improve on my methods, and
thus help to bring about the revival of an almost lost art--one which
appeals more directly and more stirringly than any other method to the
majority of listeners.

In Sir Philip Sidney's “Defence of Poesy” we find these words:

    “Forsooth he cometh to you with a tale, which holdeth children from
    play, and old men from the chimney-corner, and pretending no more,
    doth intend the winning of the mind from wickedness to virtue even
    as the child is often brought to take most wholesome things by
    hiding them in such other as have a pleasant taste.”

                                                     MARIE L. SHEDLOCK.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] See p. 138.




CHAPTER I.

THE DIFFICULTIES OF THE STORY.


I PROPOSE to deal in this chapter with the difficulties or dangers
which beset the path of the Story-teller, because, until we have
overcome these, we cannot hope for the finished and artistic
presentation which is to bring out the full value of the story.

The difficulties are many, and yet they ought not to discourage the
would-be narrators, but only show them how all-important is the
preparation for the story, if it is to have the desired effect.

I propose to illustrate by concrete examples, thereby hoping to achieve
a two-fold result: one to fix the subject more clearly in the mind
of the student--the other to use the Art of Story-telling to explain
itself.

I have chosen one or two instances from my own personal experience. The
grave mistakes made in my own case may serve as a warning to others,
who will find, however, that experience is the best teacher. For
positive work, in the long run, we generally find out our own method.
On the negative side, however, it is useful to have certain pitfalls
pointed out to us, in order that we may save time by avoiding them: it
is for this reason that I sound a note of warning. These are:--

I.--_The danger of side issues._ An inexperienced story-teller is
exposed to the temptation of breaking off from the main dramatic
interest in a short exciting story, in order to introduce a side issue,
which is often interesting and helpful, but should be reserved for a
longer and less dramatic story. If the interest turns on some dramatic
moment, the action must be quick and uninterrupted, or it will lose
half its effect.

I had been telling a class of young children the story of Polyphemus
and Ulysses, and, just at the most dramatic moment in it, some impulse
prompted me to go off on a side issue to describe the personal
appearance of Ulysses.

The children were visibly bored, but with polite indifference they
listened to my elaborate description of the hero. If I had given them
an actual description from Homer, I believe that the strength of
the language would have appealed to their imagination (all the more
strongly because they might not have understood the individual words)
and have lessened their disappointment at the dramatic issue being
postponed; but I trusted to my own lame verbal efforts, and signally
failed. Attention flagged, fidgeting began, the atmosphere was rapidly
becoming spoiled, in spite of the patience and toleration still shown
by the children. At last, however, one little girl in the front row, as
spokeswoman for the class, suddenly said: “If you please, before you go
any further, do you mind telling us whether, after all, that Poly ...
(slight pause) that (final attempt) _Polyanthus_ died?”

Now, the remembrance of this question has been of extreme use to me in
my career as a story-teller. I have realized that in a short dramatic
story the mind of the listeners must be set at ease with regard to the
ultimate fate of the special “Polyanthus” who takes the centre of the
stage.

I remember too the despair of a little boy at a dramatic representation
of “Little Red Riding-Hood,” when that little person delayed the
thrilling catastrophe with the Wolf, by singing a pleasant song on her
way through the wood. “Oh, why,” said the little boy, “does she not
get on?” And I quite shared his impatience.

This warning is only necessary in connection with the short dramatic
narrative. There are occasions when we can well afford to offer short
descriptions for the sake of literary style, and for the purpose of
enlarging the vocabulary of the child. I have found, however, in these
cases, it is well to take the children into your confidence--warning
them that they are to expect nothing particularly exciting in the way
of dramatic event: they will then settle down with a freer mind (though
the mood may include a touch of resignation) to the description you are
about to offer them.[2]

II.--_The danger of altering the story to suit special occasions._
This is done sometimes from extreme conscientiousness, sometimes from
sheer ignorance of the ways of children; it is the desire to protect
them from knowledge which they already possess and with which they
(equally conscientious) are apt to “turn and rend” the narrator. I
remember once when I was telling the story of the siege of Troy to
very young children, I suddenly felt anxious lest there should be
anything in the story of the Rape of Helen not altogether suitable for
the average age of the class--namely, nine years. I threw therefore, a
domestic colouring over the whole subject, and presented an imaginary
conversation between Paris and Helen, in which Paris tried to persuade
Helen that she was a strong-minded woman, thrown away on a limited
society in Sparta, and that she should come away and visit some of
the institutions of the world with him, which would doubtless prove
a mutually instructive journey.[3] I then gave the children the view
taken by Herodotus that Helen never went to Troy, but was detained in
Egypt. The children were much thrilled by the story, and responded most
eagerly when, in my inexperience, I invited them to reproduce for the
next day the tale I had just told them.

A small child in the class presented me, as you will see, with the
ethical problem from which I had so laboriously protected _her_. The
essay ran:

    “Once upon a time the King of Troy's son was called Paris. And he
    went over to _Greace_ to see what it was like. And here he saw the
    beautiful Helen_er_, and likewise her husband Menela_yus_. And
    one day, Menelayus went out hunting, and left Paris and Helener
    alone, and Paris said: ‘Do you not feel _dul_ in this _palis_?’ And
    Helener said: ‘I feel very dull in this _pallice_,[4] and Paris
    said: 'Come away and see the world with me.’ So they _sliped_ off
    together, and they came to the King of Egypt, and _he_ said: ‘Who
    _is_ the young lady?’ So Paris told him. ‘But,’ said the King, ‘it
    is not _propper_ for you to go off with other people's _wifes_. So
    _Helener_ shall stop here.’ Paris stamped his foot. When Menelayus
    got home, _he_ stamped his foot. And he called round him all his
    soldiers, and they stood round Troy for eleven years. At last they
    thought it was no use _standing_ any longer, so they built a wooden
    horse in memory of Helener and the Trojans and it was taken into
    the town.”

Now the mistake I made in my presentation was to lay particular stress
on the reason for elopement by my careful readjustment, which really
called more attention to the episode than was necessary for the age of
my audience; and evidently caused confusion in the minds of some of the
children who knew the story in its more accurate original form.

Whilst travelling in the States, I was provided with a delightful
appendix to this story. I had been telling Miss Longfellow and her
sister the little girl's version of the Siege of Troy, and Mrs. Thorpe
made the following comment, with the American humour whose dryness adds
so much to its value:

“I never realised before,” she said, “how glad the Greeks must have
been to sit down even inside a horse, when they had been _standing_ for
eleven years.”

III.--_The danger of introducing unfamiliar words._ This is the very
opposite danger of the one to which I have just alluded; it is the
taking for granted that children are acquainted with the meaning of
certain words upon which turns some important point in the story. We
must not introduce (without at least a passing explanation) words
which, if not rightly understood, would entirely alter the picture we
wish to present.

I had once promised to tell stories to an audience of Irish peasants,
and I should like to state here that, though my travels have brought
me into touch with almost every kind of audience, I have never found
one where the atmosphere is so “self-prepared” as in that of a group
of Irish peasants. To speak to them (especially on the subject of
Fairy-tales) is like playing on a delicate harp: the response is so
quick and the sympathy is so keen. Of course the subject of Fairy-tales
is one which is completely familiar to them and comes into their
every-day life. They have a feeling of awe with regard to fairies,
which in some parts of Ireland is very deep.[5]

On this particular occasion I had been warned by an artist friend
who had kindly promised to sing songs between the stories, that my
audience would be of varying age and almost entirely illiterate. Many
of the older men and women, who could neither read nor write, had
never been beyond their native village. I was warned to be very simple
in my language and to explain any difficult words which might occur
in the particular Indian story I had chosen for that night, namely,
“The Tiger, The Jackal and the Brahman.”[6] It happened that the older
portion of the audience had scarcely ever seen even the picture of wild
animals. I profited by the advice, and offered a word of explanation
with regard to the Tiger and the Jackal. I also explained the meaning
of the word Brahman--at a proper distance, however, lest the audience
should class him with wild animals. I then went on with my story, in
the course of which I mentioned the Buffalo. In spite of the warning
I had received, I found it impossible not to believe that the name of
this animal would be familiar to any audience. I therefore went on with
the sentence containing this word, and ended it thus: “And then the
Brahman went a little further and met an old Buffalo turning a wheel.”

The next day, whilst walking down the village street, I entered into
conversation with a thirteen-year-old girl who had been in my audience
the night before, and who began at once to repeat in her own words the
Indian story in question. When she came to the particular sentence I
have just quoted, I was greatly startled to hear _her_ version, which
ran thus: “And the priest went on a little further, and he met another
old gentleman pushing a wheelbarrow.” I stopped her at once, and not
being able to identify the sentence as part of the story I had told, I
questioned her a little more closely. I found that the word Buffalo had
evidently conveyed to her mind an old “_buffer_” whose name was “Lo”
(probably taken to be an Indian form of appellation, to be treated with
tolerance though it might not be Irish in sound). Then, not knowing of
any wheel more familiarly than that attached to a barrow, the young
narrator completed the picture in her own mind--which, doubtless, was a
vivid one--but one must admit that it had lost something of the Indian
atmosphere which I had intended to gather about it.

IV.--_The danger of claiming the co-operation of the class by means of
questions._ The danger in this case is more serious for the teacher
than the child, who rather enjoys the process and displays a fatal
readiness to give any sort of answer if only he can play a part in the
conversation. If we could depend on the children giving the kind of
answer we expect, all might go well, and the danger would be lessened;
but children have a perpetual way of frustrating our hopes in this
direction, and of landing us in unexpected bypaths from which it is not
always easy to return to the main road without a very violent reaction.
As illustrative of this, I quote from “The Madness of Philip,” by
Josephine Dodge Daskam Bacon, a truly delightful essay on Child
Psychology, in the guise of the lightest of stories.

The scene takes place in a Kindergarten--where a bold and fearless
visitor has undertaken to tell a story on the spur of the moment to a
group of restless children.

She opens thus: “Yesterday, children, as I came out of my yard, what do
you think I saw?”

The elaborately concealed surprise in store was so obvious that
Marantha rose to the occasion and suggested “an el'phunt.”

“Why, no. Why should I see an elephant in my yard? It was not _nearly_
so big as that--it was a little thing.”

“A fish,” ventured Eddy Brown, whose eye fell upon the aquarium in the
corner. The raconteuse smiled patiently.

“Now, how could a fish, a live fish, get into my front yard?”

“A dead fish,” says Eddy. He had never been known to relinquish
voluntarily an idea.

“No; it was a little kitten,” said the story-teller decidedly. “A
little white kitten. She was standing right near a big puddle of water.
Now, what else do you think I saw?”

“Another kitten,” suggests Marantha, conservatively.

“No; it was a big Newfoundland dog. He saw the little kitten near the
water. Now, cats don't like water, do they? What do they like?”

“Mice,” said Joseph Zukoffsky abruptly.

“Well, yes, they do; but there were no mice in my yard. I'm sure you
know what I mean. If they don't like _water_, _what_ do they like?”

“Milk,” cried Sarah Fuller confidently.

“They like a dry place,” said Mrs. R. B. Smith. “Now, what do you
suppose the dog did?”

It may be that successive failures had disheartened the listeners. It
may be that the very range of choice presented to them and the dog
alike dazzled their imagination. At all events, they made no answer.

“Nobody knows what the dog did?” repeated the story-teller
encouragingly. “What would you do if you saw a little kitten like that?”

And Philip remarked gloomily:

“I'd pull its tail.”

“And what do the rest of you think? I hope you are not as cruel as that
little boy.”

A jealous desire to share Philip's success prompted the quick response:

“I'd pull it too.”

Now, the reason of the total failure of this story was the inability
to draw any real response from the children, partly because of the
hopeless vagueness of the questions, partly because, there being no
time for reflection, the children said the first thing that comes into
their head without any reference to their real thoughts on the subject.

I cannot imagine anything less like the enlightened methods of the best
Kindergarten teaching. Had Mrs. R. B. Smith been a real, and not a
fictional, person, it would certainly have been her last appearance as
a _raconteuse_ in this educational institution.

V.--_The difficulty of gauging the effect of a story upon the
audience._ This rises from lack of observation and experience; it
is the want of these qualities which leads to the adoption of such
a method as I have just presented. We learn in time that want of
expression on the faces of the audience and want of any kind of
external response does not always mean either lack of interest or
attention. There is often real interest deep down, but no power, or
perhaps no wish, to display that interest, which is deliberately
concealed at times so as to protect oneself from questions which may be
put.

I was speaking on one occasion in Davenport in the State of Iowa. I had
been engaged to deliver a lecture to adults on the “Fun and Philosophy”
of Hans C. Andersen's Fairy Tales. When I arrived at the Hall, I was
surprised and somewhat annoyed to find four small boys sitting in
the front row. They seemed to be about ten years old, and, knowing
pretty well from experience what boys of that age usually like, I felt
rather anxious as to what would happen, and I must confess that for
once I wished children had the useful faculty, developed in adults,
of successfully concealing their feelings. Any hopes I had conceived
on this point were speedily shattered. After listening to the first
few sentences, two of the boys evidently recognised the futility of
bestowing any further attention on the subject, and consoled themselves
for the dulness of the occasion by starting a “scrap.” I watched this
proceeding for a minute with great interest, but soon recalled the
fact that I had not been engaged in the capacity of spectator, so,
addressing the antagonists in as severe a manner as I could assume, I
said: “Boys, I shall have to ask you to go to the back of the hall.”
They responded with much alacrity, and evident gratitude, and even
exceeded my instructions by leaving the hall altogether.

My sympathy was now transferred to the two remaining boys, who sat
motionless, and one of them never took his eyes off me during the whole
lecture. I feared lest they might be simply cowed by the treatment
meted out to their companions, whose joy in their release had been
somewhat tempered by the disgrace of ejection. I felt sorry that I
could not provide these model boys with a less ignominious retreat,
and I cast about in my mind how I could make it up to them. At the end
of the lecture, I addressed them personally and, congratulating them
on their quiet behaviour, said that, as I feared the main part of the
lecture could scarcely have interested them, I should conclude, not
with the story I had intended for the adults, but with a special story
for them, as a reward for their good behaviour. I then told Hans C.
Andersen's “Jack the Dullard,” which I have always found to be a great
favourite with boys. These particular youths smiled very faintly, and
left any expression of enthusiasm to the adult portion of the audience.
My hostess, who was eager to know what the boys thought, enquired of
them how they liked the lecture. The elder one said guardedly: “I liked
it very well, but I was _piqued_ at her underrating my appreciation of
Hans Andersen.”

I was struck with the entirely erroneous impression I had received of
the effect I was producing upon the boys. I was thankful at least that
a passing allusion to Schopenhauer in my lecture possibly provided some
interest for this “young old” child.

I felt somewhat in the position of a Doctor of Divinity in Canada to
whom a small child confided the fact that she had written a parody on
“The Three Fishers,” but that it had dropped into the fire. The Doctor
made some facetious rejoinder about the impertinence of the flames in
consuming her manuscript. The child reproved him in these grave words:
“Nature, you know, _is_ Nature, and her laws are inviolable.”

VI.--_The danger of over illustration._ After long experience, and
after considering the effect produced on children when pictures are
shown to them during the narration, I have come to the conclusion
that the appeal to the eye and the ear at the same time is of
doubtful value, and has, generally speaking, a distracting effect;
the concentration on one channel of communication attracts and holds
the attention more completely. I was confirmed in this theory when I
addressed an audience of blind people for the first time, and noticed
how closely they attended, and how much easier it seemed to them,
because they were so completely “undistracted by the sights around
them.”[7]

I have often suggested to young teachers two experiments in support
of this theory. They are not practical experiments, nor could they
be repeated often with the same audience, but they are intensely
interesting and they serve to show the _actual_ effect of appealing to
one sense at a time. The first of these experiments is to take a small
group of children and suggest that they should close their eyes whilst
you tell them a story. You will then notice how much more attention
is given to the intonation and inflection of the voice. The reason
is obvious: because there is nothing to distract the attention, it
is concentrated on the only thing offered to the listeners (that is,
sound), to enable them to seize the dramatic interest of the story.

We find an example of the dramatic power of the voice in its appeal
to the imagination, in one of the tributes brought by an old pupil to
Thomas Edward Brown (Master at Clifton College):

    “My earliest recollection is that his was the most vivid teaching I
    ever received: great width of view and poetical, almost passionate,
    power of presentment. We were reading Froude's History, and I shall
    never forget how it was Brown's words, Brown's voice, not the
    historian's, that made me feel the great democratic function which
    the monasteries performed in England: the view became alive in his
    mouth.”

And in another passage:

    “All set forth with such dramatic force and aided by such a
    splendid voice, left an indelible impression on my mind.” (_Letters
    of T. E. Brown_, p. 55.)

A second experiment, and a much more subtle and difficult one, is to
take the same group of children on another occasion, telling them a
story in pantomime form, giving them first the briefest outline of
it. In this case this must be of the simplest construction, until
the children are able (if you continue the experiment) to look for
something more subtle.

I have never forgotten the marvellous performance of a play given
in London, many years ago, entirely in pantomime form. The play was
called _L'Enfant Prodigue_, and was presented by a company of French
artists. It would be almost impossible to exaggerate the strength of
that “silent appeal” to the public. One was so unaccustomed to reading
meaning and development of character into gesture and facial expression
that it was really a revelation to most present--certainly to all
Anglo-Saxons.

I cannot touch on this subject without admitting the enormous dramatic
value connected with the kinematograph. Though it can never take
the place of an actual performance, whether in story form or on
the stage, it has a real educational value in its possibilities of
representation which it is difficult to over-estimate, and I believe
that its introduction into the school curriculum, under the strictest
supervision, will be of extraordinary benefit. The movement, in its
present chaotic condition, and in the hands of a commercial management,
is more likely to stifle than to awaken or stimulate the imagination,
but the educational world is fully alive to the danger, and I am
convinced that in the future of the movement good will predominate.

The real value of the cinematograph in connection with stories is that
it provides the background that is wanting to the inner vision of the
average child, and does not prevent its imagination from filling in
the details later. For instance, it would be quite impossible for the
average child to get an idea from mere word-painting of the atmosphere
of the Polar regions, as represented lately on the film in connection
with Captain Scott's expedition; but any stories told later on about
these regions would have an infinitely greater interest.

There is, however, a real danger in using pictures to illustrate the
story--especially if it be one which contains a direct appeal to the
imagination of the child (as quite distinct from the stories which deal
with facts)--which is that you force the whole audience of children
to see the same picture, instead of giving each individual child the
chance of making his own mental picture, which is of far greater joy,
and of much greater educational value, since by this process the child
co-operates with you instead of having all the work done for it.

Queyrat, in his work on “La Logique chez l'Enfant” quotes Madame
Necker de Saussure:[8] “To children and animals actual objects present
themselves, not the terms of their manifestations. For them thinking
is seeing over again, it is going through the sensations that the real
object would have produced. Everything which goes on within them is
in the form of pictures, or rather, inanimate scenes in which Life is
partially reproduced.... Since the child has, as yet, no capacity for
abstraction, he finds a stimulating power in words and a suggestive
inspiration which holds him enchanted. They awaken vividly-coloured
images, pictures far more brilliant than would be called into being by
the objects themselves.”

Surely, if this be true, we are taking from children that rare power of
mental visualisation by offering to their outward vision an _actual_
picture.

I was struck with the following note by a critic of the “Outlook,”
referring to a Japanese play but bearing directly on the subject in
hand.

“First, we should be inclined to put insistence upon appeal by
_imagination_. Nothing is built up by lath and canvas; everything has
to be created by the poet's speech.”

He alludes to the decoration of one of the scenes, which consists
of three pines, showing what can be conjured up in the mind of the
spectator.

    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
they are 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----’

    ‘_Suppose_ them 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 the _lowering of the standard of the
story_ in 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, the telling of stories to _old_ people, 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] See List of Stories.

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

[8] Page 55.

[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.




CHAPTER II

THE ESSENTIALS OF THE STORY.


IT would 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 place _apparent_ simplicity,
which is really the _art_ of _concealing_ the 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 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 to _reach_, much less _hold_, a large
audience, _not_ because 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 of _saturation with his idea_. When saturation
fails, no other 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 ask for 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 which is 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 of _Wilhelm
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 story will 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.




CHAPTER III.

THE ARTIFICES OF STORY-TELLING.


BY this 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 of _delicate_ suggestion,
which cannot always be used on the stage because this is hampered by
the presence of _actual 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 simple means. 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 of _pausing_ with 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, to _feel_, though not
to _formulate_, 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 against
_abuse_ of 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: ‘Tell
_us_ your stories. _We_ will 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, _very_ much like that little boy I see
sitting in the front row, stopped me, saying: ‘Oh! I know _that_ old
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 to _win_ the attention of
an audience but to _keep_ it, 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; you can 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 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 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.

    “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.

    “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._

    “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._

Now, some of these beginnings are, of course, for very young children,
but they all have the same advantage, that of plunging _in 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.

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.

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.

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.


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.




CHAPTER IV.

ELEMENTS TO AVOID IN SELECTION OF MATERIAL.


I AM confronted, 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 or _not_ presented 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:

“I _know_ I 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 had forgotten 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 his eye, 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 American _Outlook_ on 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 of the 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 in _his_ being sillier than _she_ was, to
show her _she_ was 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, if _she_
had 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 have included 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 a
_bear_ eating 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 bear _really_ eat 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:--

    A man was sitting underneath a tree
    Outside the village, and he asked me
    What name was upon this place, and said he
    Was never here before. He told a
    Lot of stories to me too. His nose was flat.
    I asked him how it happened, and he said,
    The first mate of the  “Mary Ann”  done that,
    With a marling-spike one day, but he was dead,
    And a jolly job too, but he'd have gone a long way to have
      killed him.
    A gold ring in one ear, and the other was bit off by a crocodile,
      bedad,
    That's what he said: He taught me how to chew.
    He was a real nice man. He liked me too.

The taste that is fed by the sensational contents of the newspapers
and the dramatic excitement of street life, and some of the lurid
representations of the Kinematograph, is so much stimulated that the
interest in normal stories is difficult to rouse. I will not here dwell
on the deleterious effects of over dramatic stimulation, which has been
known to lead to crime, since I am keener to prevent the telling of too
many sensational stories than to suggest a cure when the mischief is
done. Kate Douglas Wiggin has said:

“Let us be realistic, by all means, but beware, O Story-teller, of
being too realistic. Avoid the shuddering tale of ‘the wicked boy who
stoned the birds,’ lest some hearer should be inspired to try the
dreadful experiment and see if it really does kill.”

I must emphasise the fact, however, that it is only the excess of
this dramatic element which I deplore. A certain amount of excitement
is necessary; but this question belongs to the positive side of the
subject, and I shall deal with it later on.

V.--_Stories presenting matters quite outside the plane of the child_
(unless they are wrapped in mystery, which is of great educational
value).

The element I wish to eliminate is the one which would make children
world-wise and old before their time.

A small American child who had entertained a guest in her mother's
absence, when questioned as to whether she had shown all the
hospitality the mother would have considered necessary, said: “Oh! yes.
And I talked to her in the kind of ‘dressy’ tone _you_ use on your ‘At
Home’ days.”

On one occasion I was lecturing in the town of Cleveland, and was to
stay in the house of a lady whom I had met only once, in New York, but
with true American hospitality she had begged me to make her house my
home during the whole of my stay in Cleveland. In writing to invite
me, she mentioned the pleasure it would afford her little ten-year-old
daughter to make my acquaintance, and added this somewhat enigmatic
sentence: “Mignon has asked permission to dedicate her _last_ work to
you.” I was alarmed at the word _last_, given the age of the author,
and felt sorry that the literary faculty had developed quite so early,
lest the unfettered and irresponsible years of childhood should have
been sacrificed. I was still more troubled when, upon my arrival,
I learned that the title of the book which was to be dedicated to
me was “The Two Army Girls,” and contained the elaborate history of
a double courtship. But, as the story was read to me, I was soon
disarmed. A more innocent recital I never heard--and it was all the
quainter because of certain little grown-up sentences gathered from the
conversation of elders in unguarded moments, which evidently conveyed
but slight meaning to the youthful authoress. The final scene between
two of the lovers is so characteristic that I cannot refrain from
quoting the actual words. Said John: “I love you, and I wish you to be
my wife.” “That I will,” said Mary, without any hesitation. “That's all
right,” said John. “And now let us _get back to the Golf Links_.”

Oh, that modern writers of fiction would “get back to the Golf Links”
sooner than they do, realising with this little unconscious philosopher
that there are some reactions from love-making which show a healthy and
balanced constitution.

Experience with children ought to teach us to avoid stories which
contain too much _allusion_ to matters of which the hearers are
entirely ignorant; but, judging from the written stories of to-day,
supposed to be for children, it is still a matter of difficulty to
realise that this form of allusion to “foreign” matters, or making a
joke the appreciation of which depends solely on a special and “inside”
knowledge, is always bewildering and fatal to sustained dramatic
interest.

It is a matter of intense regret that so very few people have
sufficiently clear remembrance of their own childhood to help them to
understand the taste and point of view of the _normal_ child. There
is a passage in the “Brownies” (by Mrs. Ewing) which illustrates the
confusion created in the child mind by a facetious allusion in a
dramatic moment which needed a more direct treatment.

When the nursery toys have all gone astray, one little child exclaims
joyfully:

“Why, the old Rocking-Horse's nose has turned up in the oven!”

“It couldn't” remarks a tiresome, facetious doctor, far more anxious
to be funny than to sympathise with the joy of the child; “it was the
purest Grecian, modelled from the Elgin marbles.”

Now, for grown-up people this is an excellent joke, but for a child
who has not yet become acquainted with these Grecian masterpieces, the
whole remark is pointless and hampering.[20]

VI.--_Stories which appeal to fear or priggishness._ This is a class of
story to be avoided which scarcely counts to-day and against which the
teacher does not need a warning; but I wish to make a passing allusion
to it, partly to round off my subject and partly to show that we have
made some improvement in choice of subject.

When I study the evolution of the story from the crude recitals
offered to our children within the last hundred years, I feel that,
though our progress in intelligent mental catering may be slow, it
is real and sure. One has only to take some examples from the Chap
Books of the beginning of last century to realise the difference of
appeal. Everything offered then was either an appeal to fear or to
priggishness, and one wonders how it is that our grandparents and their
parents ever recovered from the effects of such stories as were offered
to them. But there is the consoling thought that no lasting impression
was made upon them, such as I believe _may_ be possible by the right
kind of story.

I offer a few examples of the old type of story:

Here is an encouraging address offered by a certain Mr. Janeway to
children about the year 1828:

“Dare you do anything which your parents forbid you, and neglect to
do what they command? Dare you to run up and down on the Lord's Day,
or do you keep in to read your book, and learn what your good parents
command?”

Such an address would have almost tempted children to envy the lot of
orphans, except that the guardians and less close relations might have
been equally, if not more, severe.

From “The Curious Girl,” published about 1809: “Oh! papa, I hope you
will have no reason to be dissatisfied with me, for I love my studies
very much, and I am never so happy at my play as when I have been
assiduous at my lessons all day.”

“Adolphus: How strange it is, papa, you should believe it possible for
me to act so like a child, now that I am twelve years old!”

Here is a specimen taken from a Chap-book about 1825:

Edward refuses hot bread at breakfast. His hostess asks whether he
likes it. “Yes, I am extremely fond of it.” “Why did you refuse it?”
“Because I know that my papa does not approve of my eating it. Am I to
disobey a Father and Mother I love so well, and forget my duty, because
they are a long way off? I would not touch the cake, were I sure nobody
could see me. I myself should know it, and that would be sufficient.”

“Nobly replied!” exclaimed Mrs. C. “Act always thus, and you must be
happy, for although the whole world should refuse the praise that is
due, you must enjoy the approbation of your conscience, which is beyond
anything else.”

Here is a quotation of the same kind from Mrs. Sherwood:

“Tender-souled little creatures, desolated by a sense of sin, if
they did but eat a spoonful of cupboard jam without Mamma's express
permission.... Would a modern Lucy, jealous of her sister Emily's doll,
break out thus easily into tearful apology for her guilt?--‘I know
it is wicked in me to be sorry that Emily is happy, but I feel that
I cannot help it.’ And would a modern mother retort with heartfelt
joy?--'My dear child, I am glad you have confessed. Now I shall tell
you why you feel this wicked sorrow'--proceeding to an account of the
depravity of human nature so unredeemed by comfort for a childish mind
of common intelligence that one can scarcely imagine the interview
ending in anything less tragic than a fit of juvenile hysteria.”

Description of a Good Boy. “A good boy is dutiful to his Father and
Mother, obedient to his master and loving to his playfellows. He is
diligent in learning his book, and takes a pleasure in improving
himself in everything that is worthy of praise. He rises early in
the morning, makes himself clean and decent, and says his prayers.
He loves to hear good advice, is thankful to those who give it and
always follows it. He never swears[21] or calls names or uses ill words
to companions. He is never peevish and fretful, always cheerful and
good-tempered.”

VII.--_Stories of exaggerated and coarse fun._ In the chapter on the
positive side of this subject I shall speak more in detail of the
educational value of robust and virile representation of fun and of
sheer nonsense, but as a representation to these statements, I should
like to strike a note of warning about the element of exaggerated and
coarse fun being encouraged in our school stories, partly because of
the lack of humour in such presentations--a natural product of stifling
imagination--and partly because the train of the abnormal has the same
effect as the too frequent use of the melodramatic.

You have only to read the adventures of Buster Brown, which for years
formed the Sunday reading of millions of children in the United States,
to realise what would be the effect of coarse fun and entire absence
of humour upon the normal child in its everyday experience, an effect
all the greater because of the real skill with which the illustrations
are drawn. It is only fair to state that this series was not originally
prepared or intended for the young, but it is a matter of regret
(shared by most educationists in the States) that they should ever have
been given to children at all.

In an article in _Macmillan's Magazine_, Dec. 1869, Miss Yonge writes:
“A taste for buffoonery is much to be discouraged, an exclusive taste
for extravagance most unwholesome and even perverting. It becomes
destructive of reverence and soon degenerates into coarseness. It
permits nothing poetical or imaginative, nothing sweet or pathetic to
exist, and there is a certain self-satisfaction and superiority in
making game of what others regard with enthusiasm and sentiment which
absolutely bars the way against a higher or softer tone.”

Although these words were written nearly half a century ago, they are
so specially applicable to-day that they seem quite “up-to-date”:
indeed, I think they will hold equally good fifty years hence.

In spite of a strong taste on the part of children for what is ugly
and brutal, I am sure that we ought to eliminate this element as far
as possible from the school stories--especially among poor children.
Not because I think children should be protected from all knowledge
of evil, but because so much of this knowledge comes into their life
outside school that we can well afford to ignore it during school
hours. At the same time, however, as I shall show by example when I
come to the positive side, it would be well to show children by story
illustration the difference between brute ugliness without anything
to redeem it and surface ugliness, which may be only a veil over the
beauty that lies underneath. It might be possible, for instance, to
show children the difference between the real ugliness of a brutal
story of crime and an illustration of it in the sensational papers,
and the apparent ugliness in the priest's face of the “Laocoon” group,
because of the motive of courage and endurance behind the suffering.
Many stories in everyday life could be found to illustrate this.

VIII.--_Stories of infant piety and death-bed scenes._ The stories
for children forty years ago contained much of this element, and the
following examples will illustrate this point:

Notes from poems written by a child between six and eight years of age,
by name Philip Freeman, afterwards Archdeacon of Exeter:

    Poor Robin, thou canst fly no more,
    Thy joys and sorrows all are o'er.
    Through Life's tempestuous storms thou'st trod,
    But now art sunk beneath the sod.
    Here lost and gone poor Robin lies,
    He trembles, lingers, falls and dies.
    He's gone, he's gone, forever lost,
    No more of him they now can boast.
    Poor Robin's dangers all are past,
    He struggled to the very last.
    Perhaps he spent a happy Life,
    Without much struggle and much strife.

            _Published by John Loder, bookseller, Woodbridge, in 1829._

The prolonged gloom of the main theme is somewhat lightened by the
speculative optimism of the last verse.

    Life, transient Life, is but a dream,
    Like Sleep which short doth lengthened seem
    Till dawn of day, when the bird's lay
    Doth charm the soul's first peeping gleam.

    Then farewell to the parting year,
    Another's come to Nature dear.
    In every place, thy brightening face
    Does welcome winter's snowy drear.

    Alas! our time is much mis-spent.
    Then we must haste and now repent.
    We have a book in which to look,
    For we on Wisdom should be bent.

    Should God, the Almighty, King of all,
    Before His judgment-seat now call
    Us to that place of Joy and Grace
    Prepared for us since Adam's fall.

I think there is no doubt that we have made considerable progress in
this matter. Not only do we refrain from telling these highly moral
(_sic_) stories but we have reached the point of parodying them,
in sign of ridicule, as, for instance, in such writing as Belloc's
“Cautionary Tales.” These would be a trifle too grim for a timid child,
but excellent fun for adults.

It should be our study to-day to prove to children that the immediate
importance to them is not to think of dying and going to Heaven, but
of living and--shall we say?--going to College, which is a far better
preparation for a life to come than the morbid dwelling upon the
possibility of an early death.

In an article signed “Muriel Harris,” I think, from a copy of the
_Tribune_, appeared a delightful article on Sunday Books, from which I
quote the following:

“All very good little children died young in the story-books, so that
unusual goodness must have been the source of considerable anxiety to
affectionate parents. I came across a little old book the other day
called ‘Examples for Youth.’ On the yellow fly-leaf was written in
childish, carefully sloping hand: ‘Presented to Mary Palmer Junior, by
her sister, to be read on Sundays,’ and was dated 1828. The accounts
are taken from a work on _Piety Promoted_, and all of them begin with
unusual piety in early youth and end with the death-bed of the little
paragon, and his or her dying words.”

IX.--_Stories containing a mixture of Fairy Tale and Science._ By this
combination you lose what is essential to each, namely, the fantastic
on the one side, and accuracy on the other. The true Fairy Tale should
be unhampered by any compromise of probability even--the scientific
representation should be sufficiently marvellous along its own lines to
need no supernatural aid. Both appeal to the imagination in different
ways.

As an exception to this kind of mixture, I should quote “The Honey Bee,
and Other Stories,” translated from the Danish of Evald by C. G. Moore
Smith. There is a certain robustness in these stories dealing with the
inexorable laws of Nature, though some of them will appear hard to the
child; but they will be of interest to all teachers.

Perhaps the worst element in choice of stories is that which insists
upon the moral detaching itself and explaining the story. In “Alice in
Wonderland” the Duchess says, “‘And the moral of _that_ is: Take care
of the sense and the sounds will take care of themselves.’ ‘How fond
she is of finding morals in things,’ thought Alice to herself.” (This
gives the point of view of the child.)

The following is a case in point, found in a rare old print in the
British Museum:

“Jane S. came home with her clothes soiled and hands badly torn. ‘Where
have you been?’ asked her mother. ‘I fell down the bank near the mill,’
said Jane, ‘and I should have been drowned if Mr. M. had not seen me
and pulled me out.’ 'Why did you go so near the edge of the brink?‘
'There was a pretty flower there that I wanted, and I only meant to
take one step, but I slipped and fell down.’ Moral: Young people often
take but one step in sinful indulgence (Poor Jane!), but they fall
into soul-destroying sins. There is a sinful pleasure which they wish
to enjoy. They can do it by a single act of sin (the heinous act of
picking a flower!). They do it; but that act leads to another, and they
fall into the Gulf of Perdition, unless God interposes.”

Now, apart from the folly of this story, we must condemn it on moral
grounds. Could we imagine a lower standard of a Deity than that
presented here to the child?

To-day the teacher would commend Jane for a laudable interest in
botany, but might add a word of caution about choosing inclined planes
as a hunting-ground for specimens and a popular, lucid explanation of
the inexorable law of gravity.

Here we have an instance of applying a moral when we have finished our
story, but there are many stories where nothing is left to chance in
this matter, and where there is no means for the child to use ingenuity
or imagination in making out the meaning for himself.

Henry Morley has condemned the use of this method as applied to Fairy
Stories. He says: “Moralising in a Fairy Story is like the snoring of
Bottom in Titania's lap.”

But I think this applies to all stories, and most especially to those
by which we do wish to teach something.

John Burroughs says in his article,[22] “Thou shalt not preach”:

“Didactic fiction can never rank high. Thou shalt not preach or teach;
though shalt pourtray and create, and have ends as universal as
nature.... What Art demands is that the Artist's personal convictions
and notions, his likes and dislikes, do not obtrude themselves at all;
that good and evil stand judged in his work by the logic of events,
as they do in nature, and not by any special pleading on his part. He
does not hold a brief for either side; he exemplifies the working of
the creative energy.... The great artist works _in_ and _through_ and
_from_ moral ideas; his works are indirectly a criticism of life. He
is moral without having a moral. The moment a moral obtrudes itself,
that moment he begins to fall from grace as an artist.... The great
distinction of Art is that it aims to see life steadily and to see it
whole.... It affords the one point of view whence the world appears
harmonious and complete.”

It would seem, then, from this passage, that it is of _moral_
importance to put things dramatically.

In Froebel's “Mother Play” he demonstrates the educational value of
stories, emphasising that their highest use consists in their ability
to enable the child, through _suggestion_, to form a pure and noble
idea of what a man may be or do. The sensitiveness of a child's mind
is offended if the moral is forced upon him, but if he absorbs it
unconsciously, he has received its influence for all time.

To me the idea of pointing out the moral of the story has always seemed
as futile as tying a flower on to a stalk instead of letting the flower
_grow out_ of the stalk, as Nature intended. In the first case, the
flower, showy and bright for the moment, soon fades away. In the second
instance, it develops slowly, coming to perfection in fulness of time
because of the life within.

X.--Lastly, the element to avoid is _that which rouses emotions which
cannot be translated into action_.

Mr. Earl Barnes, to whom all teachers owe a debt of gratitude for the
inspiration of his education views, insists strongly on this point.
The sole effect of such stories is to produce a form of hysteria,
fortunately short-lived, but a waste of force which might be directed
into a better channel.[23] Such stories are so easy to recognise that
it would be useless to make a formal list, but I shall make further
allusion to this in dealing with stories from the lives of the saints.

These, then, are the main elements to avoid in the selection of
material suitable for normal children. Much might be added in the way
of detail, and the special tendency of the day may make it necessary to
avoid one class of story more than another; but this care belongs to
another generation of teachers and parents.


FOOTNOTES:

[18] Such works as “Ministering Children,” “The Wide, Wide World,”
“The Fairchild Family,” are instances of the kind of story I mean, as
containing too much analysis of emotion.

[19] One child's favourite book bore the exciting title of “Birth, Life
and Death of Crazy Jane.”

[20] This does not imply that the child would not appreciate in the
right context the thrilling and romantic story in connection with the
finding of the Elgin marbles.

[21] One is almost inclined to prefer Marjorie Fleming's little
innocent oaths. “But she was more than usual calm. She did not give a
single dam.”

[22] From “Literary Values.”

[23] A story is told of Confucius, that having attended a funeral he
presented his horse to the chief mourner. When asked why he bestowed
this gift, he replied: “I wept with the man, so I feel I ought to _do_
something for him.”




CHAPTER V.

ELEMENTS TO SEEK IN CHOICE OF MATERIAL.


IN “The Choice of Books” Frederic Harrison has said: “The most useful
help to reading is to know what we shall _not_ read, ... what we
shall keep from that small cleared spot in the overgrown jungle of
information which we can call our ordered patch of fruit-bearing
knowledge.”[24]

Now, the same statement applies to our stories, and, having busied
myself, during the last chapter, with “clearing my small spot” by
cutting away a mass of unfruitful growth, I am now going to suggest
what would be the best kind of seed to sow in the patch which I have
“reclaimed from the Jungle.”

Again I repeat that I have no wish to be dogmatic, and that in offering
suggestions as to the stories to be told, I am only catering for a
group of normal school-children. My list of subjects does not pretend
to cover the whole ground of children's needs, and just as I exclude
the abnormal or unusual child from the scope of my warning in subjects
to avoid, so do I also exclude that child from the limitation in choice
of subjects to be sought, because you can offer almost any subject to
the unusual child, especially if you stand in close relation to him and
know his powers of apprehension. In this matter, _age_ has very little
to say: it is a question of the stage of development.

Experience has taught me that for the group of normal children, almost
irrespective of age, the first kind of story suitable will contain an
appeal to conditions to which they are accustomed. The reason of this
is obvious: the child, having limited experience, can only be reached
by this experience, until his imagination is awakened and he is enabled
to grasp through this faculty what he has not actually passed through.
Before this awakening has taken place he enters the realm of fiction
(represented in the story) by comparison with his personal experience.
Every story and every point in the story mean more as that experience
widens, and the interest varies, of course, with temperament, quickness
of perception, power of visualising and of concentration.

In “The Marsh King's Daughter,” H. C. Andersen says:

“The Storks have a great many stories which they tell their little
ones, all about the bogs and marshes. They suit them to their age and
capacity. The young ones are quite satisfied with Kribble, Krabble,
or some such nonsense, and find it charming; but the elder ones want
something with more meaning.”

One of the most interesting experiments to be made in connection with
this subject is to tell the same story at intervals of a year or six
months to some individual child.[25] The different incidents in the
story which appeal to it (and you must watch it closely, to be sure the
interest is real, and not artificially stimulated by any suggestion on
your part) will mark its mental development and the gradual awakening
of its imagination. This experiment is a very delicate one, and will
not be infallible, because children are secretive and the appreciation
is often (unconsciously) simulated, or concealed through shyness or
want of articulation. But it is, in spite of this, a deeply interesting
and helpful experiment.

To take a concrete example: let us suppose the story of Andersen's Tin
Soldier told to a child of five or six years. At the first recital, the
point which will interest the child most will be the setting up of the
tin soldiers on the table, because he can understand this by means of
his own experience, in his own nursery: it is an appeal to conditions
to which he is accustomed and for which no exercise of the imagination
is needed, unless we take the effect of memory to be, according to
Queyrat, retrospective imagination.

The next incident that appeals is the unfamiliar behaviour of the toys,
but still in familiar surroundings; that is to say, the _unusual_
activities are carried on in the safe precincts of the nursery--in the
_usual_ atmosphere of the child.

I quote from the text:

“Late in the evening the other soldiers were put in their box, and the
people of the house went to bed. Now was the time for the toys to play;
they amused themselves with paying visits, fighting battles and giving
balls. The tin soldiers rustled about in their box, for they wanted to
join the games, but they could not get the lid off. The nut-crackers
turned somersaults, and the pencil scribbled nonsense on the slate.”

Now, from this point onwards in the story, the events will be quite
outside the personal experience of the child, and there will have
to be a real stretch of imagination to appreciate the thrilling and
blood-curdling adventures of the little tin soldier, namely, the
terrible sailing down the gutter under the bridge, the meeting with
the fierce rat who demands the soldier's passport, the horrible
sensation in the fish's body, etc. Last of all, perhaps, will come
the appreciation of the best qualities of the hero: his modesty, his
dignity, his reticence, his courage and his constancy: he seems to
combine all the qualities of the best soldier with those of the best
civilian, without the more obvious qualities which generally attract
first. As for the love-story, we must not _expect_ any child to see
its tenderness and beauty, though the individual child may intuitively
appreciate these qualities, but it is not what we wish for or work for
at this period of child-life.

This method could be applied to various stories. I have chosen the _Tin
Soldier_ because of its dramatic qualities and because it is marked off
(probably quite unconsciously on the part of Andersen) into periods
which correspond to the child's development.

In Eugene Field's exquisite little poem of “The Dinkey Bird” we find
the objects familiar to the child in _unusual_ places, so that some
imagination is needed to realise that “big red sugar-plums are clinging
to the cliffs beside that sea”; but the introduction of the fantastic
bird and the soothing sound of the Amfalula Tree are new and delightful
sensations, quite out of the child's personal experience.

Another such instance is to be found in Mrs. W. K. Clifford's story of
Master Willie. The abnormal behaviour of familiar objects, such as a
doll, leads from the ordinary routine to the paths of adventure. This
story is to be found in a little book called “Very Short Stories,” a
most interesting collection for teachers and children.

We now come to the second element we should seek in material--namely,
the element of the unusual, which we have already anticipated in the
story of the Tin Soldier.

This element is necessary in response to the demand of the child who
expressed the needs of his fellow-playmates when he said: “I want to go
to the place where the shadows are real.” This is the true definition
of “Faerie” lands, and is the first sign of real mental development
in the child when he is no longer content with the stories of his own
little deeds and experiences, when his ear begins to appreciate sounds
different from the words in his own everyday language, and when he
begins to separate his own personality from the action of the story.

George Goschen says[26]:

“What I want for the young are books and stories which do not simply
deal with our daily life. I like the fancy (even) of little children
to have some larger food than images of their own little lives, and
I confess I am sorry for the children whose imaginations are not
sometimes stimulated by beautiful Fairy Tales which carry them to
worlds different from those in which their future will be passed....
I hold that what removes them more or less from their daily life is
better than what reminds them of it at every step.”

It is because of the great value of leading children to something
beyond the limited circle of their own lives that I deplore the
twaddling boarding-school stories written for girls and the
artificially-prepared Public School stories for boys. Why not give them
the dramatic interest of a larger stage? No account of a cricket match,
or a football triumph, could present a finer appeal to boys and girls
than the description of the Peacestead in the “Heroes of Asgaard”:

“This was the playground of the Æsir, where they practised trials of
skill one with another and held tournaments and sham fights. These last
were always conducted in the gentlest and most honourable manner; for
the strongest law of the Peacestead was, that no angry blow should be
struck, or spiteful word spoken upon the sacred field.”

For my part, I would unhesitatingly give to boys and girls an element
of strong romance in the stories which are told them even before they
are twelve. Miss Sewell says:

“The system that keeps girls in the schoolroom reading simple stories,
without reading Scott and Shakespeare and Spenser, and then hands them
over to the unexplored recesses of the Circulating Library, has been
shown to be the most frivolizing that can be devised.” She sets forward
the result of her experience that a good novel, especially a romantic
one, read at twelve or fourteen, is really a beneficial thing.

At present many of the children from the elementary schools get their
first idea of love (if one can give it such a name) from vulgar
pictures displayed in the shop windows, or jokes on marriage culled
from the lowest type of paper, or the proceedings of a divorce-court.

What an antidote to such representation might be found in the story of

  Hector and Andromache,
  Siegfreid and Brunhild,
  Dido and Æneas,
  Orpheus and Eurydice,
  St. Francis and St. Clare.

One of the strongest elements we should introduce into our stories for
children of all ages is that which calls forth love of beauty. And the
beauty should stand out, not necessarily only in delineation of noble
qualities in our heroes and heroines, but in beauty and strength of
language and form.

In this latter respect the Bible stories are of such inestimable
value--all the greater because a child is familiar with the subject,
and the stories gain fresh significance from the spoken or winged word
as compared with the mere reading. Whether we should keep to the actual
text is a matter of individual experience. Professor R. G. Moulton,
whose interpretations of the Bible Stories are so well known both in
England and the States, does not always confine himself to the actual
text, but draws the dramatic elements together, rejecting what seems to
him to break the narrative, but introducing the actual language where
it is the most effective. Those who have heard him will realise the
success of his method.

There is one Bible story which can be told with scarcely any deviation,
and that is the story of Nebuchadnezzar and the Golden Image. Thus, I
think it wise, if the children are to succeed in partially visualizing
the story, that they should have some idea of the dimensions of the
Golden Image as it would stand out in a vast plain. It might be well
to compare those dimensions with some building with which the child is
familiar. In London the matter is easy, as the height will compare,
roughly speaking, with that of Westminster Abbey. The only change in
the text I should adopt is to avoid the constant enumeration of the
list of rulers and the musical instruments. In doing this, I am aware
that I am sacrificing something of beauty in the rhythm,--on the other
hand, for narrative purpose, the interest is not broken. The first time
the announcement is made, that is, by the Herald, it should be in a
perfectly loud, clear and toneless voice, such as you would naturally
use when shouting through a trumpet to a vast concourse of people
scattered over a wide plain; reserving all the dramatic tone of voice
for the passage where Nebuchadnezzar is making the announcement to the
three men by themselves. I can remember Professor Moulton saying that
all the dramatic interest of the story is summed up in the words “But
if Not....” This suggestion is a very helpful one, for it enables us to
work up gradually to this point, and then, as it were, _unwind_, until
we reach the words of Nebuchadnezzar's dramatic recantation.

In this connection, it is a good plan occasionally during the story
hour to introduce really good poetry which, delivered in a dramatic
manner (far removed, of course, from the melodramatic), might give
children their first love of beautiful form in verse. And I do not
think it necessary to wait for this. Even the normal child of seven
(though there is nothing arbitrary in the suggestion of this age) will
appreciate the effect--if only on the ear--of beautiful lines well
spoken. Mahomet has said, in his teaching advice: “Teach your children
poetry: it opens the mind, lends grace to wisdom and makes heroic
virtues hereditary.”

To begin with the youngest children of all, here is a poem which
contains a thread of story, just enough to give a human interest:

MILKING-TIME.

    When the cows come home, the milk is coming,
    Honey's made when the bees are humming.
    Duck, Drake on the rushy lake,
    And the deer live safe in the breezy brake,
    And timid, funny, pert little bunny
    Winks his nose, and sits all sunny.
                                                  _Christina Rossetti._

Now, in comparing this poem with some of the doggerel verse offered
to small children, one is struck with the literary superiority in the
choice of words. Here, in spite of the simplicity of the poem, there
is not the ordinary limited vocabulary, nor the forced rhyme, nor the
application of a moral, by which the artist falls from grace.

Again, in Eugene Field's “Hushaby Lady,” the language of which is most
simple, the child is carried away by the beauty of the sound.

I remember hearing some poetry repeated by the children in one of
the elementary schools in Sheffield which made me feel that they had
realised romantic possibilities which would prevent their lives from
ever becoming quite prosaic again, and I wish that this practice
were more usual. There is little difficulty with the children. I can
remember, in my own experience as a teacher in London, making the
experiment of reading or repeating passages from Milton and Shakespeare
to children from nine to eleven years of age, and the enthusiastic
way they responded by learning those passages by heart. I have taken,
with several sets of children, such passages from Milton as “Echo
Song,” “Sabrina,” “By the rushy fringed Bank,” “Back, shepherds, back,”
from _Comus_, “May Morning,” “Ode to Shakespeare,” “Samson on his
blindness,” etc. I even ventured on several passages from _Paradise
Lost_, and found “Now came still evening on” a particular favourite
with the children.

It seemed even easier to interest them in Shakespeare, and they learned
quite readily and easily many passages from “As You Like It,” “Merchant
of Venice,” “Julius Cæsar”; from “Richard II,” “Henry IV,” and “Henry
V.”

The method I should recommend in the introduction of both poets
occasionally into the Story-hour would be threefold.

First, to choose passages which appeal for beauty of sound or beauty
of mental vision called up by those sounds: such as, “Tell me where is
Fancy bred,” Titania's Lullaby, “How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon
this bank.”

Secondly, passages for sheer interest of content, such as the Trial
Scene from “The Merchant of Venice,” or the Forest Scene in “As You
Like It.”

Thirdly, for dramatic and historical interest, such as, “Men at some
time are masters of their fates,” the whole of Mark Antony's speech,
and the scene with Imogen and her foster-brothers in the Forest.

It may not be wholly out of place to add here that the children learned
and repeated these passages themselves, and that I offered them the
same advice as I do to all Story-tellers. I discussed quite openly
with them the method I considered best, trying to make them see that
simplicity of delivery was not only the most beautiful but the most
effective means to use; and, by the end of a few months, when they
had been allowed to experiment and express themselves, they began
to see that mere ranting was not force, and that a sense of reserve
power is infinitely more impressive and inspiring than mere external
presentation.

I encouraged them to criticise each other for the common good, and
sometimes I read a few lines with over-emphasis and too much gesture,
which they were at liberty to point out, so that they might avoid the
same error.

A very good collection of poems for this purpose of narrative is to be
found in:

    Mrs. P. A. Barnett's series of _Song and Story_,
                                          Published by A. and C. Black.

And for older children:

    _The Call of the Homeland_, Anthology.
      Edited by Dr. Scott and Miss Katharine Wallas, Published by
        Blackie and Son.

Also in a collection published (I believe) in Boston by Miss Agnes
Repplier.

    _Golden Numbers_.
                                        (K. D. Wiggin and N. A. Smith).

It will be realised from the scanty number of examples offered in
this section that it is only a side issue, a mere suggestion of an
occasional alternative for the Story-hour, as likely to develop the
imagination.

I think it is well to have a good number of stories illustrating the
importance of common sense and resourcefulness. For this reason I
consider that stories treating of the ultimate success of the youngest
son are very admirable for the purpose, because the youngest child,
who begins by being considered inferior to the elder ones, triumphs in
the end, either from resourcefulness, or from common sense, or from
some high quality, such as kindness to animals, courage in overcoming
difficulties, etc.[27]

Thus we have the story of Cinderella. The cynic might imagine that it
was the diminutive size of her foot that ensured her success: the child
does not realise any advantage in this, but, though the matter need not
be pressed, the story leaves us with the impression that Cinderella had
been patient and industrious, forbearing with her sisters. We know that
she was strictly obedient to her godmother, and in order to be this
she makes her dramatic exit from the ball which is the beginning of
her triumph. There are many who might say that these qualities do not
meet with reward in life and that they end in establishing a habit of
drudgery, but, after all, we must have poetic justice in a Fairy Story,
occasionally, at any rate.

Another such story is “Jesper and the Hares.” Here, however, it is
not at first resourcefulness that helps the hero, but sheer kindness
of heart, which prompts him first to help the ants, and then to
show civility to the old woman, without for a moment expecting any
material benefit from such actions. At the end, he does win by his own
ingenuity and resourcefulness, and if we regret that his _trickery_
has such wonderful results, we must remember that the aim was to win
the princess for herself, and that there was little choice left him. I
consider the end of this story to be one of the most remarkable I have
found in my long years of browsing among Fairy Tales. I should suggest
stopping at the words: “The Tub is full,” as any addition seems to
destroy the subtlety of the story.[28]

Another story of this kind, admirable for children from six years and
upwards, is “What the Old Man does is always Right.” Here, perhaps,
the entire lack of common sense on the part of the hero would serve
rather as a warning than a stimulating example, but the conduct of
the wife in excusing the errors of her foolish husband is a model of
resourcefulness.

In the story of “Hereafter--this”[29] we have just the converse: a
perfectly foolish wife shielded by a most patient and forbearing
husband, whose tolerance and common sense save the situation.

One of the most important elements to seek in our choice of stories is
that which tends to develop, eventually, a fine sense of humour in a
child. I purposely use the word “eventually,” because I realise first
that humour has various stages, and that seldom, if ever, can you
expect an appreciation of fine humour from a normal child, that is,
from an elemental mind. It seems as if the rough-and-tumble element
were almost a necessary stage through which children must pass--a
stage, moreover, which is normal and healthy; but up to now we have
quite unnecessarily extended the period of elephantine fun, and though
we cannot control the manner in which children are catered for along
this line in their homes, we can restrict the folly of appealing too
strongly or too long to this elemental faculty in our schools. Of
course, the temptation is strong, because the appeal is so easy. But
there is a tacit recognition that horse-play and practical jokes are
no longer considered an essential part of a child's education. We note
this in the changed attitude in the schools, taken by more advanced
educationists, towards bullying, fagging, hazing, etc. As a reaction,
then, from more obvious fun, there should be a certain number of
stories which make appeal to a more subtle element, and in the chapter
on the questions put to me by teachers on various occasions, I speak
more in detail about the educational value of a finer humour in our
stories.

At some period there ought to be presented in our stories the
superstitions connected with the primitive history of the race, dealing
with the Fairy (proper), giants, dwarfs, gnomes, nixies, brownies
and other elemental beings. Andrew Lang says: “Without our savage
ancestors we should have had no poetry. Conceive the human race born
into the world in its present advanced condition, weighing, analysing,
examining everything. Such a race would have been destitute of poetry
and flattened by common sense. Barbarians did the _dreaming_ of the
world.”

But it is a question of much debate among educationists what should
be the period of the child's life in which these stories are to be
presented. I myself was formerly of opinion that they belonged to
the very primitive age of the individual, just as they belong to the
primitive age of the race, but experience in telling stories has taught
me to compromise.

Some people maintain that little children, who take things with brutal
logic, ought not to be allowed the Fairy Tale in its more limited
form of the Supernatural; whereas, if presented to older children,
this material can be criticised, catalogued and (alas!) rejected as
worthless, or retained with flippant toleration.

Now, whilst recognising a certain value in this point of view, I am
bound to admit that if we regulate our stories entirely on this basis,
we lose the real value of the Fairy Tale element--it is the one element
which causes little children to _wonder_, simply because no scientific
analysis of the story can be presented to them. It is somewhat
heartrending to feel that Jack and the Bean-Stalk and stories of that
ilk are to be handed over to the critical youth who will condemn the
quick growth of the tree as being contrary to the order of nature, and
wonder why Jack was not playing football in the school team instead of
climbing trees in search of imaginary adventures.

A wonderful plea for the telling of early superstitions to children is
to be found in an old Indian Allegory called “The Blazing Mansion.”

     “An old man owned a large, rambling mansion--the pillars
    were rotten, the galleries tumbling down, the thatch dry and
    combustible, and there was only one door. Suddenly, one day, there
    was a smell of fire: the old man rushed out. To his horror he
    saw that the thatch was aflame, the rotten pillars were catching
    fire one by one, and the rafters were burning like tinder. But
    inside, the children went on amusing themselves quite happily. The
    distracted father said: ‘I will run in and save my children. I will
    seize them in my strong arms, I will bear them harmless through the
    falling rafters and the blazing beams.’ Then the sad thought came
    to him that the children were romping and ignorant. ‘If I say the
    house is on fire, they will not understand me. If I try to seize
    them, they will romp about and try to escape. Alas! not a moment to
    be lost!’ Suddenly a bright thought flashed across the old man's
    mind. ‘My children are ignorant,’ he said; ‘they love toys and
    glittering playthings. I will promise them playthings of unheard-of
    beauty. Then they will listen.’

    So the old man shouted: ‘Children, come out of the house and see
    these beautiful toys! Chariots with white oxen, all gold and
    tinsel. See these exquisite little antelopes. Whoever saw such
    goats as these? Children, children, come quickly, or they will all
    be gone!’

    Forth from the blazing ruin the children came in hot haste. The
    word ‘plaything’ was almost the only word they could understand.

    Then the Father, rejoiced that his offspring was freed from peril,
    procured for them one of the most beautiful chariots ever seen:
    the chariot had a canopy like a pagoda: it had tiny rails and
    balustrades and rows of jingling bells. Milk-white oxen drew the
    chariot. The children were astonished when they were placed inside.”
                                              (_From the “Thabagata.”_)

Perhaps, as a compromise, one might give the gentler superstitions to
very small children, and leave such a blood-curdling story as Bluebeard
to a more robust age.

There is one modern method which has always seemed to me much to be
condemned, and that is the habit of changing the end of a story, for
fear of alarming the child. This is quite indefensible. In doing this
we are tampering with folk-lore and confusing stages of development.

Now, I know that there are individual children that, at a tender
age, might be alarmed at such a story, for instance, as Little Red
Riding-Hood; in which case, it is better to sacrifice the “wonder
stage” and present the story later on.

I live in dread of finding one day a bowdlerized form of “Bluebeard”
(prepared for a junior standard), in which, to produce a satisfactory
finale, all the wives come to life again, and “live happily for ever
after” with Bluebeard and each other!

And from this point it seems an easy transition to the subject of
legends of different kinds. Some of the old country legends in
connection with flowers are very charming for children, and as long as
we do not tread on the sacred ground of the Nature Students, we may
indulge in a moderate use of such stories, of which a few will be found
in the Story Lists.

With regard to the introduction of legends connected with saints into
the school curriculum, my chief plea is the element of the unusual
which they contain, and an appeal to a sense of mysticism and wonder
which is a wise antidote to the prosaic and commercial tendencies of
to-day. Though many of the actions of the saints may be the result of
a morbid strain of self-sacrifice, at least none of them were engaged
in the sole occupation of becoming rich: their ideals were often lofty
and unselfish; their courage high, and their deeds noble. We must be
careful, in the choice of our legends, to show up the virile qualities
rather than to dwell on the elements of horror in details of martyrdom,
or on the too-constantly recurring miracles, lest we should defeat our
own ends. For the children might think lightly of the dangers to which
the saints were exposed if they find them too often preserved at the
last moment from the punishment they were brave enough to undergo. For
one or other of these reasons, I should avoid the detailed history of
St. Juliana, St. Vincent, St. Quintin, St. Eustace, St. Winifred, St.
Theodore, St. James the More, St. Katharine, St. Cuthbert, St. Alphage,
St. Peter of Milan, St. Quirine and Juliet, St. Alban and others.

The danger of telling children stories connected with sudden
conversions is that they are apt to place too much emphasis on the
process, rather than the goal to be reached. We should always insist on
the splendid deeds performed after a real conversion--not the details
of the conversion itself; as, for instance, the beautiful and poetical
work done by St. Christopher when he realised what work he could do
most effectively.

On the other hand, there are many stories of the saints dealing with
actions and motives which would appeal to the imagination and are not
only worthy of imitation, but are not wholly outside the life and
experience even of the child.[30]

Having protested against the elephantine joke and the too-frequent
use of exaggerated fun, I now endeavour to restore the balance by
suggesting the introduction into the school curriculum of a few purely
grotesque stories which serve as an antidote to sentimentality or
utilitarianism. But they must be presented as nonsense, so that the
children may use them for what they are intended, as pure relaxation.
Such a story is that of “The Wolf and the Kids.” I have had serious
objections offered to this story by several educational people, because
of the revenge taken by the goat on the wolf, but I am inclined to
think that if the story is to be taken as anything but sheer nonsense,
it is surely sentimental to extend our sympathy towards a caller who
has devoured six of his hostess' children. With regard to the wolf
being cut open, there is not the slightest need to accentuate the
physical side. Children accept the deed as they accept the cutting
off of a giant's head, because they do not associate it with pain,
especially if the deed is presented half-humorously. The moment in the
story where their sympathy is aroused is the swallowing of the kids,
because the children do realise the possibility of being disposed of
in the mother's absence. (Needless to say, I never point out the moral
of the kids' disobedience to the mother in opening the door.) I have
always noticed a moment of breathlessness even in a grown-up audience
when the wolf swallows the kids, and that the recovery of them “all
safe and sound, all huddled together” is quite as much appreciated by
the adult audience as by the children, and is worth the tremor caused
by the wolf's summary action.

I have not always been able to impress upon the teachers that this
story _must_ be taken lightly. A very earnest young student came to
me once after I had told it, and said in an awestruck voice: “Do you
Correlate?” Having recovered from the effect of this word, which she
carefully explained, I said that as a rule I preferred to keep the
story apart from the other lessons, just an undivided whole, because
it had effects of its own which were best brought about by not being
connected with other lessons.[31] She frowned her disapproval and said:
“I am sorry, because I thought I would take The Goat for my Nature
Study lesson, and then tell your story at the end.” I thought of the
terrible struggle in the child's mind between his conscientious wish to
be accurate and his dramatic enjoyment of the abnormal habits of a goat
who went out with scissors, needle and thread; but I have been most
careful since to repudiate any connection with Nature Study in this and
a few other stories in my répertoire.

One might occasionally introduce one of Edward Lear's “Book of
Nonsense.” For instance:

    There was an Old Man of Cape Horn,
    Who wished he had never been born;
    So he sat in a chair till he died of despair,
    That dolorous Man of Cape Horn.

Now, except in case of very young children, this could not possibly be
taken seriously. The least observant normal boy or girl would recognise
the hollowness of the pessimism that prevents a man from at least an
attempt to rise from his chair.

The following I have chosen as repeated with intense appreciation and
much dramatic vigour by a little boy just five years old:

    There was an Old Man who said, “Hush!
    I perceive a young bird in this bush!”
    When they said, “Is it small?” he replied, “Not at all!
    It is four times as big as the bush!”[32]

One of the most desirable of all elements to introduce into our stories
is that which encourages kinship with animals. With very young children
this is easy, because in those early years when the mind is not clogged
with knowledge, the sympathetic imagination enables them to enter into
the feelings of animals. Andersen has an illustration of this point in
his “Ice Maiden”:

“Children who cannot talk yet can understand the language of fowls and
ducks quite well, and cats and dogs speak to them quite as plainly as
Father and Mother; but that is only when the children are very small,
and then even Grandpapa's stick will become a perfect horse to them
that can neigh and, in their eyes, is furnished with legs and a tail.
With some children this period ends later than with others, and of such
we are accustomed to say that they are very backward, and that they
have remained children for a long time. People are in the habit of
saying strange things.”

Felix Adler says: “Perhaps the chief attraction of Fairy Tales is due
to their representing the child as living in brotherly friendship with
nature and all creatures. Trees, flowers, animals, wild and tame, even
the stars are represented as comrades of children. That animals are
only human beings in disguise is an axiom in the Fairy Tales. Animals
are humanised, that is, the kinship between animal and human life
is still keenly felt; and this reminds us of those early animistic
interpretations of nature which subsequently led to doctrines of
metempsychosis.”[33]

I think that beyond question the finest animal stories are to be found
in the Indian Collections, of which I furnish a list in the Appendix.

With regard to the development of the love of nature through the
telling of the stories, we are confronted with a great difficult in the
elementary schools, because so many of the children have never been out
of the towns, have never seen a daisy, a blade of grass and scarcely a
tree, so that in giving, in form of a story, a beautiful description
of scenery, you can make no appeal to the retrospective imagination,
and only the rarely gifted child will be able to make pictures whilst
listening to a style which is beyond his everyday use. Nevertheless,
once in a way, when the children are in a quiet mood, not eager for
action but able to give themselves up to the pure joy of sound, then
it is possible to give them a beautiful piece of writing in praise of
Nature, such as the following, taken from _The Divine Adventure_, by
Fiona Macleod:

“Then he remembered the ancient wisdom of the Gael and came out of the
Forest Chapel and went into the woods. He put his lip to the earth,
and lifted a green leaf to his brow, and held a branch to his ear,
and because he was no longer heavy with the sweet clay of mortality,
though yet of human clan he heard that which we do not hear, and saw
that which we do not see, and knew that which we do not know. All the
green life was his. In that new world, he saw the lives of trees, now
pale green, now of woodsmoke blue, now of amethyst; the gray lives of
stone; breaths of the grass and reed, creatures of the air, delicate
and wild as fawns, or swift and fierce and terrible, tigers, of that
undiscovered wilderness, with birds almost invisible but for their
luminous wings, and opalescent crests.”

The value of this particular passage is the mystery pervading the whole
picture, which forms so beautiful an antidote to the eternal explaining
of things. I think it of the highest importance for children to realise
that the best and most beautiful things cannot be expressed in everyday
language and that they must content themselves with a flash here and
there of the beauty which may come later. One does not enhance the
beauty of the mountain by pulling to pieces some of the earthy clogs:
one does not increase the impression of a vast ocean by analysing the
single drops of water. But at a reverent distance one gets a clear
impression of the whole, and can afford to leave the details in the
shadow.

In presenting such passages (and it must be done very sparingly)
experience has taught me that we should take the children into our
confidence by telling them frankly that nothing exciting is going
to happen, so that they will be free to listen to the mere words. A
very interesting experiment might occasionally be made by asking the
children some weeks afterwards to tell you in their own words what
pictures were made on their minds. This is a very different thing from
allowing the children to reproduce the passage at once, the danger of
which proceeding I speak of later in detail. (See Chapter on Questions.)

We now come to the question as to what proportion of _Dramatic
Excitement_ we should present in the stories for a normal group of
children. Personally, I should like, while the child is very young
(I mean in mind, not in years) to exclude the element of dramatic
excitement, but though this may be possible for the individual child,
it is quite Utopian to hope we can keep the average child free from
what is in the atmosphere. Children crave for excitement, and unless we
give it to them in legitimate form, they will take it in any riotous
form it presents itself, and if from our experience we can control
their mental digestion by a moderate supply of what they demand, we
may save them from devouring too eagerly the raw material they can so
easily find for themselves.

There is a humorous passage bearing on this question in the story of
the small Scotch boy, when he asks leave of his parents to present the
pious little book--a gift to himself from his Aunt--to a little sick
friend, hoping probably that the friend's chastened condition will make
him more lenient towards this mawkish form of literature. The parents
expostulate, pointing out to their son how ungrateful he is, and how
ungracious it would be to part with his Aunt's gift. Then the boy can
contain himself no longer. He bursts out, unconsciously expressing the
normal attitude of children at a certain stage of development: “It's
a _daft_ book ony way; there's naebody gets kilt en't. I like stories
about folk getting their heids cut off, or stabbit through and through,
wi' swords an' spears. An' there's nae wile beasts. I like Stories
about black men gettin' ate up, an' white men killin' lions and tigers
an' bears an'----”

Then, again, we have the passage from George Eliot's “Mill on the
Floss”:

“Oh, dear! I wish they would not fight at your school, Tom. Didn't it
hurt you?”

“Hurt me? No,” said Tom, putting up the hooks again, taking out a large
pocket-knife, and slowly opening the largest blade, which he looked at
meditatively as he rubbed his finger along it. Then he added:

“I gave Spooner a black eye--that's what he got for wanting to leather
me. I wasn't going to go halves because anybody leathered me.”

“Oh! how brave you are, Tom. I think you are like Samson. If there came
a lion roaring at me, I think you'd fight him, wouldn't you, Tom?”

“How can a lion come roaring at you, you silly thing? There's no lions
only in the shows.”

“No, but if we were in the lion countries--I mean in Africa where it's
very hot, the lions eat people there. I can show it you in the book
where I read it.”

“Well, I should get a gun and shoot him.”

“But if you hadn't got a gun?--we might have gone out, you know, not
thinking, just as we go out fishing, and then a great lion might come
towards us roaring, and we could not get away from him. What should you
do, Tom?”

Tom paused, and at last turned away contemptuously, saying: “But the
lion _isn't_ coming. What's the use of talking?”

This passage illustrates also the difference between the
highly-developed imagination of the one and the stodgy prosaical
temperament of the other. Tom could enter into the elementary question
of giving his school-fellow a black eye, but could not possibly enter
into the drama of the imaginary arrival of a lion. He was sorely in
need of Fairy Stories.

It is for this element we have to cater, and we cannot shirk our
responsibilities.

William James says: “Living things, moving things or things that
savour of danger or blood, that have a dramatic quality, these are
the things natively interesting to childhood, to the exclusion of
almost everything else, and the teacher of young children (until more
artificial interests have grown up) will keep in touch with his pupils
by constant appeal to such matters as those.”[34]

Of course the savour of danger and blood is only _one_ of the things to
which we should appeal, but I give the whole passage to make the point
clearer.

This is one of the most difficult parts of our selection, namely, how
to present enough excitement for the child and yet include enough
constructive element which will satisfy him when the thirst for
“blugginess” is slaked.

And here I should like to say that, whilst wishing to encourage in
children great admiration and reverence for the courage and other fine
qualities which have been displayed in times of war, and which have
mitigated its horrors, I think we should show that some of the finest
moments in these heroes' lives had nothing to do with their profession
as soldiers. Thus we have the well-known story of Sir Philip Sidney and
the soldier; the wonderful scene where Roland drags the bodies of his
dead friends to receive the blessing of the archbishop after the battle
of Roncevalles[35]; and of Napoleon sending the sailor back to England.
There is a moment in the story of Gunnar when he pauses in the midst of
the slaughter of his enemies, and says, “I wonder if I am less brave
than others, because I kill men less willingly than they.”

And in the “Njal's Burning” from Andrew Lang's “Book of Romance” we
have the words of the boy Thord when his grandmother, Bergthora, urges
him to go out of the burning house.

“You promised me when I was little, grandmother, that I never should go
from you till I wished it of myself. And I would rather die with you
than live after you.”

Here the moral courage is so splendidly shown; none of these heroes
feared to die in battle or in open single fight, but to face a death by
fire for higher considerations is a point of view worth presenting to
the child.

In spite of all the dramatic excitement roused by the conduct of our
soldiers and sailors,[36] should we not try to offer also in our
stories the romance and excitement of saving as well as _taking_ life?

I would have quite a collection dealing with the thrilling adventures
of the Life-Boat and the Fire Brigade, of which I hope to present
examples in the final Story List.

Finally, we ought to include a certain number of stories dealing with
Death, especially with children who are of an age to realise that it
must come to all, and that this is not a calamity but a perfectly
natural and simple thing. At present the child in the street invariably
connects death with sordid accidents. I think they should have stories
of Death coming in heroic form, as when a man or woman dies for a great
cause, in which he has opportunity of admiring courage, devotion and
unselfishness; or of Death coming as a result of treachery, such as
we find in the death of Baldur, of Siegfried, and of others, so that
children may learn to abhor such deeds; but also a fair proportion of
stories dealing with death that comes naturally, when our work is done
and our strength gone, which has no more tragedy than the falling of
a leaf from the tree. In this way we can give children the first idea
that the individual is so much less than the whole.

Quite small children often take Death very naturally. A boy of five
met two of his older companions at the school door. They said sadly
and solemnly: “We have just seen a dead man!” “Well,” said the little
philosopher, “that's all right. We've _all_ got to die when our work's
done.”

In one of the Buddha stories which I reproduce at the end of this book,
the little Hare (who is, I think, a symbol of nervous Individualism)
constantly says: “Suppose the Earth were to fall in, what would become
of me?”

As an antidote to the ordinary attitude towards death, I commend an
episode from a German folk-lore story called “Unlucky John,” which is
included in the list of stories recommended at the end of this book.

The following sums up in poetic form some of the material necessary for
the wants of a child:


THE CHILD.

    The little new soul has come to Earth,
      He has taken his staff for the Pilgrim's way.
    His sandals are girt on his tender feet,
      And he carries his scrip for what gifts he may.

    What will you give to him, Fate Divine?
      What for his scrip on the winding road?
    A crown for his head, or a laurel wreath?
      A sword to wield, or is gold his load?

    What will you give him for weal or woe?
      What for the journey through day and night?
    Give or withhold from him power and fame,
      But give to him love of the earth's delight.

    Let him be lover of wind and sun
      And of falling rain; and the friend of trees;
    With a singing heart for the pride of noon,
      And a tender heart for what twilight sees.

    Let him be lover of you and yours--
      The Child and Mary; but also Pan,
    And the sylvan gods of the woods and hills,
      And the god that is hid in his fellow-man.

    Love and a song and the joy of earth,
      These be the gifts for his scrip to keep
    Till, the journey ended, he stands at last
      In the gathering dark, at the gate of sleep.
                                                      _Ethel Clifford._

And so our stories should contain all the essentials for the child's
scrip on the road of life, providing the essentials and holding or
withholding the non-essentials. But, above all, let us fill the scrip
with gifts that the child need never reject, even when he passes
through “the gate of sleep.”


FOOTNOTES:

[24] Chapter I, page 3.

[25] This experiment cannot be made with a group of children, for
obvious reasons.

[26] From an address on the “Cultivation of the Imagination.”

[27] “The House in the Wood” (Grimm) is a good instance of triumph for
the youngest child.

[28] To be found in Andrew Lang's Collection. See list of Stories.

[29] To be found in Jacob's “More English Tales.”

[30] For selection of suitable stories among legends of the Saints, see
Story Lists.

[31] I believe that I am quite in a minority among Educationists in
this matter. Possibly my constantly specialising in the stories may
have formed my opinion.

[32] These words have been set most effectively to music by Miss
Margaret Ruthven Lang. (Boston.)

[33] From “Moral Instruction of Children,” page 66. “The Use of Fairy
Tales.”

[34] From “Talks to Teachers,” page 93.

[35] An excellent account of this is to be found in “The Song of
Roland,” by Arthur Way and Frederic Spender.

[36] This passage was written before the Great War.




CHAPTER VI.

HOW TO OBTAIN AND MAINTAIN THE EFFECT OF THE STORY.


WE are now coming to the most important part of the question of
Story-Telling, to which all the foregoing remarks have been gradually
leading, and that is the Effects of these stories upon the child, apart
from the dramatic joy he experiences in listening to them, which would
in itself be quite enough to justify us in the telling. But, since I
have urged upon teachers the extreme importance of giving so much time
to the manner of telling and of bestowing so much care on the selection
of the material, it is right that they should expect some permanent
results, or else those who are not satisfied with the mere enjoyment of
the children will seek other methods of appeal--and it is to them that
I most specially dedicate this chapter.

I think we are on the threshold of the re-discovery of an old truth,
that the Dramatic Presentation is the quickest and surest, because
it is the only one with which memory plays no tricks. If a thing has
appeared before us in a vital form, nothing can really destroy it; it
is because things are often given in a blurred, faint light that they
gradually fade out of our memory. A very keen scientist was deploring
to me, on one occasion, the fact that stories were told so much in the
schools, to the detriment of science, for which she claimed the same
indestructible element that I recognise in the best-told stories.
Being very much interested in her point of view, I asked her to tell
me, looking back on her school days, what she could remember as
standing out from other less clear information. After thinking some
little time over the matter, she said with some embarrassment, but with
a candour that did her much honour:

“Well, now I come to think of it, it was the story of Cinderella.”

Now, I am not holding any brief for this story in particular. I think
the reason it was remembered was because of the dramatic form in which
it was presented to her, which fired her imagination and kept the
memory alight. I quite realise that a scientific fact might also have
been easily remembered if it was presented in the form of a successful
chemical experiment: but this also has something of the dramatic appeal
and will be remembered on that account.

Sully says: “We cannot understand the fascination of a story for
children save in remembering that for their young minds, quick to
imagine, and unversed in abstract reflection, words are not dead things
but _winged_, as the old Greeks called them.”[37]

The Red Queen (in “Through the Looking-Glass”) was more psychological
than she knew when she made the memorable statement: “When once you've
_said_ a thing that _fixes_ it, and you must take the consequences.”

In Curtin's Introduction to “Myths and Folk Tales of the Russians,” he
says:

“I remember well the feeling roused in my mind at the mention or sight
of the name _Lucifer_ during the early years of my life. It stood for
me as the name of a being stupendous, dreadful in moral deformity,
lurid, hideous and mighty. I remember the surprise which, when I had
grown somewhat older and began to study Latin, I came upon the name in
Virgil where it means _light-bringer_--the herald of the Sun.”

Plato has said: “That the End of Education should be the training by
suitable habits of the Instincts of Virtue in the Child.”

About two thousand years later, Sir Philip Sidney, in his “Defence of
Poesy,” says: “The final end of learning is to draw and lead us to so
high a perfection as our degenerate souls, made worse by their clay
lodgings, can be capable of.”

And yet it is neither the Greek philosopher nor the Elizabethan poet
that makes the every-day application of these principles; but we have
a hint of this application from the Pueblo tribe of Indians, of whom
Lummis tells us the following:

“There is no duty to which a Pueblo child is trained in which he has
to be content with a bare command: Do this. For each he learns a
fairy-tale designed to explain how children first came to know that
it was right to ‘do this,’ and detailing the sad results that befell
those who did otherwise. Some tribes have regular story-tellers, men
who have devoted a great deal of time to learning the myths and stories
of their people and who possess, in addition to a good memory, a vivid
imagination. The mother sends for one of these, and having prepared a
feast for him, she and her little brood, who are curled up near her,
await the Fairy Stories of the dreamer, who after his feast and smoke
entertains the company for hours.”

In modern times, the nurse, who is now receiving such complete
training for her duties with the children, should be ready to
imitate the “dreamer” of the Indian tribe. I rejoice to find that
regular instruction in Story-telling is being given in many of the
institutions where the nurses are trained.

Some years ago there appeared a book by Dion Calthrop called “King
Peter,” which illustrates very fully the effect of story-telling. It
is the account of the education of a young prince which is carried on
at first by means of stories, and later he is taken out into the arena
of Life to be shown what is happening there--the dramatic appeal being
always the means used to awaken his imagination. The fact that only
_one_ story a year is told him prevents our seeing the effect from day
to day, but the time matters little. We only need faith to believe that
the growth, though slow, was very sure.

There is something of the same idea in the “Adventures of Telemachus,”
written by Fénélon for his royal pupil, the young Duke of Burgundy; but
whereas Calthrop trusts to the results of indirect teaching by means of
dramatic stories, Fénélon, on the contrary, makes use of the somewhat
heavy, didactic method, so that one would think the attention of the
young prince must have wandered at times; and I imagine Telemachus was
in the same condition when he was addressed at some length by Mentor,
who, being Minerva (though in disguise), should occasionally have
displayed that sense of humour which must always temper true wisdom:

Take, for instance, the heavy reproof conveyed in the following
passage:

“Death and shipwreck are less dreadful than the pleasures that attack
Virtue.... Youth is full of presumption and arrogance, though nothing
in the world is so frail: it fears nothing, and vainly relies on its
own strength, believing everything with the utmost levity and without
any precaution.”

And on another occasion, when Calypso hospitably provides clothes for
the shipwrecked men, and Telemachus is handling a tunic of the finest
wool and white as snow, with a vest of purple embroidered with gold,
and displaying much pleasure in the magnificence of the clothes, Mentor
addresses him in a severe voice, saying: “Are these, O Telemachus, the
thoughts that ought to occupy the heart of the son of Ulysses? A young
man who loves to dress vainly, as a woman does, is unworthy of wisdom
or glory.”

I remember, as a schoolgirl of thirteen, having to commit to memory
several books of these adventures, so as to become familiar with the
style. Far from being impressed by the wisdom of Mentor, I was simply
bored, and wondered why Telemachus did not escape from him. The only
part in the book that really interested me was Calypso's unrequited
love for Telemachus, but this was always the point where we ceased to
learn by heart, which surprised me greatly, for it was here that the
real human interest seemed to begin.

Of all the effects which I hope for from the telling of stories in the
schools, personally I place first the dramatic joy we bring to the
children and to ourselves. But there are many who would consider this
result as fantastic, if not frivolous, and not to be classed among the
educational values concocted with the introduction of stories into the
school curriculum. I therefore propose to speak of other effects of
story-telling which may seem of more practical value.

The first, which is of a purely negative character, is that through
means of a dramatic story we can counteract some of the sights and
sounds of the streets which appeal to the melodramatic instinct in
children. I am sure that all teachers whose work lies in the crowded
cities must have realised the effect produced on children by what they
see and hear on their way to and from school. If we merely consider
the hoardings, with their realistic representations, quite apart from
the actual dramatic happenings in the street, we at once perceive
that the ordinary school interests pale before such lurid appeals as
these. How can we expect the child who has stood open-mouthed before
a poster representing a woman chloroformed by a burglar, whilst that
hero escapes in safety with her jewels, to display any interest in the
arid monotony of the multiplication-table? The illegitimate excitement
created by the sight of the depraved burglar can only be counteracted
by something equally exciting along the realistic but legitimate side;
and this is where the story of the right kind becomes so valuable, and
why the teacher who is artistic enough to undertake the task can find
the short path to results which theorists seek for so long in vain. It
is not even necessary to have an exceedingly exciting story; sometimes
one which will bring about pure reaction may be just as suitable.

I remember in my personal experience an instance of this kind. I had
been reading with some children of about ten years old the story from
Cymbeline, of Imogen in the forest scene, when the brothers strew
flowers upon her, and sing the funeral dirge,

    “Fear no more the heat of the sun.”

Just as we had all taken on this tender, gentle mood, the door opened
and one of the prefects announced in a loud voice the news of the
relief of Mafeking. The children were on their feet at once, cheering
lustily, and for the moment the joy over the relief of the brave
garrison was the predominant feeling. Then, before the Jingo spirit
had time to assert itself, I took advantage of a momentary reaction and
said: “Now, children, don't you think we can pay England the tribute
of going back to England's greatest poet?” In a few minutes we were
back in the heart of the Forest, and I can still hear the delightful
intonation of those subdued voices repeating:

    Golden lads and girls all must
    Like chimney-sweepers come to dust.

It is interesting to note that the same problem that is exercising
us to-day was a source of difficulty to people in remote times. The
following is taken from an old Chinese document, and has particular
interest for us to-day.

“The Philosopher Mentius (born 371 B.C.) was left fatherless at a very
tender age and brought up by his mother Changsi. The care of this
prudent and attentive mother has been cited as a model for all virtuous
parents. The house she occupied was near that of a butcher: she
observed at the first cry of the animals that were being slaughtered,
the little Mentius ran to be present at the sight, and that, on his
return, he sought to imitate what he had seen. Fearful lest his heart
might become hardened, and accustomed to the sights of blood, she
removed to another house which was in the neighbourhood of a cemetery.
The relations of those who were buried there came often to weep upon
their graves, and make their customary libations. The lad soon took
pleasure in their ceremonies and amused himself by imitating them.
This was a new subject of uneasiness to his mother: she feared her
son might come to consider as a jest what is of all things the most
serious, and that he might acquire a habit of performing with levity,
and as a matter of routine merely, ceremonies which demand the most
exact attention and respect. Again therefore she anxiously changed the
dwelling, and went to live in the city, opposite to a school, where her
son found examples the most worthy of imitation, and began to profit
by them. This anecdote has become incorporated by the Chinese into a
proverb, which they constantly quote: The Mother of Mentius seeks a
neighbourhood.”

Another influence we have to counteract is that of newspaper headings
which catch the eye of children in the streets and appeal so powerfully
to their imagination.

Shakespeare has said:

    Tell me where is Fancy bred,
    Or in the heart, or in the head?
    How begot, how nourished?
      Reply, reply.
    It is engendered in the eyes
    With gazing fed: and Fancy dies
    In the cradle where it lies.
      Let us all ring Fancy's knell.
      I'll begin it--ding, dong, bell.
                                                “_Merchant of Venice._”

If this be true, it is of importance to decide what our children shall
look upon as far as we can control the vision, so that we can form some
idea of the effect upon their imagination.

Having alluded to the dangerous influence of the street, I should
hasten to say that this influence is very far from being altogether
bad. There are possibilities of romance in street life which may have
just the same kind of effect on children as the telling of exciting
stories. I am indebted to Mrs. Arnold Glover (Hon. Sec. of the National
Organisation of Girls' Clubs), one of the most widely informed people
on this subject, for the two following experiences gathered from the
streets which bear indirectly on the subject of story-telling:

Mrs. Glover was visiting a sick woman in a very poor neighbourhood,
and found, sitting on the doorstep of the house, two children, holding
something tightly grasped in their little hands, and gazing with much
expectancy towards the top of the street. She longed to know what they
were doing, but not being one of those unimaginative and tactless
folk who rush headlong into the mysteries of children's doings, she
passed them at first in silence. It was only when she found them still
in the same silent and expectant posture half-an-hour later that
she said tentatively: “I wonder whether you would tell me what you
are doing here?” After some hesitation, one of them said, in a shy
voice: “We're waitin' for the barrer.” It then transpired that, once a
week, a vegetable-and flower-cart was driven through this particular
street, on its way to a more prosperous neighbourhood, and on a few
red-letter days, a flower, or a sprig, or even a root sometimes fell
out of the back of the cart; and those two little children were waiting
there in hope, with their hands full of soil, ready to plant anything
which might by golden chance fall that way, in their secret garden of
oyster-shells.

This seems to me as charming a fairy-tale as any that our books can
supply.

Another time Mrs. Glover was collecting the pennies for the Holiday
Fund Savings Bank from the children who came weekly to her house. She
noticed on three consecutive Mondays that one little lad deliberately
helped himself to a new envelope from her table. Not wishing to
frighten or startle him, she allowed this to continue for some weeks,
and then one day, having dismissed the other children, she asked him
quite quietly why he was taking the envelopes. At first he was very
sulky, and said: “I need them better than you do.” She quite agreed
this might be, but reminded him that, after all, they belonged to her.
She promised, however, that if he would tell her for what purpose he
wanted the envelopes, she would endeavour to help him in the matter.
Then came the astonishing announcement: “I am building a navy.” After
a little more gradual questioning, Mrs. Glover drew from the boy the
information that the Borough Water Carts passed through the side
street once a week, flushing the gutter; that then the Envelope Ships
were made to sail on the water and pass under the covered ways which
formed bridges for wayfarers and tunnels for the “navy.” Great was the
excitement when the ships passed out of sight and were recognised as
they arrived safely at the other end. Of course the expenses in raw
material were greatly diminished by the illicit acquisition of Mrs.
Glover's property, and in this way she had unconsciously provided the
neighbourhood with a navy and a Commander. Her first instinct, after
becoming acquainted with the whole story, was to present the boy with a
real boat, but on second thought she collected and gave him a number of
old envelopes with names and addresses upon them, which added greatly
to the excitement of the sailing, because they could be more easily
identified as they came out of the other side of the tunnel, and had
their respective reputations as to speed.

Here is indeed food for romance, and I give both instances to prove
that the advantages of street life are to be taken into consideration
as well as the disadvantages; though I think we are bound to admit that
the latter outweigh the former.

One of the immediate results of dramatic stories is the escape from
the commonplace, to which I have already alluded in quoting Mr.
Goschen's words. The desire for this escape is a healthy one, common to
adults and children. When we wish to get away from our own surroundings
and interests, we do for ourselves what I maintain we ought to do for
children; we step into the land of fiction. It has always been a source
of astonishment to me that, in trying to escape from our own every-day
surroundings, we do not step more boldly into the land of pure romance,
which would form a real contrast to our every-day life, but in nine
cases out of ten the fiction which is sought after deals with the
subjects of our ordinary existence--namely, frenzied finance, sordid
poverty, political corruption, fast society, and religious doubts.

There is the same danger in the selection of fiction for children:
namely, a tendency to choose very utilitarian stories, both in form and
substance, so that we do not lift the children out of the commonplace.
I remember once seeing the titles of two little books, the contents of
which were being read or told to small children of the poorer class:
one was called “Tom the Boot-black,” the other, “Dan the News-boy.”
My chief objection to these stories was the fact that neither of
the heroes rejoiced in their work for the work's sake. Had Tom even
invented a new kind of blacking, or if Dan had started a splendid
newspaper, it might have been encouraging for those among the listeners
who were thinking of engaging in similar professions. It is true, both
gentlemen amassed large fortunes, but surely the school age is not to
be limited to such dreams and aspirations as these! One wearies of the
tales of boys who arrive in a town with one cent in their pockets, and
leave it as millionaires, with the added importance of a Mayoralty, not
to speak of a Knighthood. It is true that the romantic prototype of
these boys is Dick Whittington, for whom we unconsciously cherish the
affection which we often bestow on a far-off personage. Perhaps--who
knows?--it is the picturesque adjunct of the cat--lacking to modern
millionaires.[38]

I do not think it Utopian to present to children a fair share of
stories which deal with the importance of things “untouched by hand.”
They too can learn at an early age that “the things which are seen are
temporal, but the things which are unseen are spiritual.” To those who
wish to try the effect of such stories on children, I present for their
encouragement the following lines from Whitcomb Riley:


THE TREASURE OF THE WISE MAN.[39]

    Oh, the night was dark and the night was late,
    When the robbers came to rob him;
    And they picked the lock of his palace-gate,
    The robbers who came to rob him--
    They picked the lock of the palace-gate,
    Seized his jewels and gems of State
    His coffers of gold and his priceless plate,--
    The robbers that came to rob him.

    But loud laughed he in the morning red!--
    For of what had the robbers robbed him?
    Ho! hidden safe, as he slept in bed,
    When the robbers came to rob him,--
    They robbed him not of a golden shred
    Of the childish dreams in his wise old head--
    “And they're welcome to all things else,” he said,
    When the robbers came to rob him.

There is a great deal of this romantic spirit, combined with a
delightful sense of irresponsibility, which I claim above all things
for small children, to be found in our old Nursery Rhymes. I quote from
the following article written by the Rev. R. L. Gales for the _Nation_.

After speaking on the subject of Fairy Stories being eliminated from
the school curriculum, the writer adds:

“This would be lessening the joy of the world and taking from
generations yet unborn the capacity for wonder, the power to take a
large unselfish interest in the spectacle of things, and putting them
forever at the mercy of small private cares.

A Nursery Rhyme is the most sane, the most unselfish thing in the
world. It calls up some delightful image,--a little nut-tree with a
silver walnut and a golden pear; some romantic adventure only for the
child's delight and liberation from the bondage of unseeing dulness: it
brings before the mind the quintessence of some good thing:

'The little dog laughed to see such sport'--there is the soul of
good humour, of sanity, of health in the laughter of that innocently
wicked little dog. It is the laughter of pure frolic without
unkindness. To have laughed with the little dog as a child is the best
preservative against mirthless laughter in later years--the horse
laughter of brutality, the ugly laughter of spite, the acrid laughter
of fanaticism. The world of Nursery Rhymes, the old world of Mrs.
Slipper-Slopper, is the world of natural things, of quick, healthy
motion, of the joy of living.

In Nursery Rhymes the child is entertained with all the pageant of
the world. It walks in Fairy Gardens, and for it the singing birds
pass. All the King's horses and all the King's men pass before it in
their glorious array. Craftsmen of all sorts, bakers, confectioners,
silversmiths, blacksmiths are busy for it with all their arts and
mysteries, as at the court of an Eastern King.”

In insisting on the value of this escape from the commonplace, I cannot
prove the importance of it more clearly than by showing what may happen
to a child who is deprived of his birthright by having none of the
Fairy Tale element presented to him. In “Father and Son,” Mr. Edmund
Gosse says:

“Meanwhile, capable as I was of reading, I found my greatest pleasure
in the pages of books. The range of these was limited, for story-books
of every description were sternly excluded. No fiction of any kind,
religious or secular, was admitted into the house. In this it was to
my Mother, not to my Father, that the prohibition was due. She had a
remarkable, I confess, to me somewhat unaccountable impression that to
‘tell a story,’ that is, to compose fictitious narrative of any kind,
was a sin.... Nor would she read the chivalrous tales in the verse of
Sir Walter Scott, obstinately alleging that they were not true. She
would read nothing but lyrical and subjective poetry.... As a child,
however, she had possessed a passion for making up stories, and so
considerable a skill in it, that she was constantly being begged to
indulge others with its exercise.... ‘When I was a very little child,’
she says, ‘I used to amuse myself and my brothers with inventing
stories such as I had read. Having, as I suppose, naturally a restless
mind and busy imagination, this soon became the chief pleasure of
my life. Unfortunately, my brothers were always fond of encouraging
this propensity, and I found in Taylor, my maid, a still greater
tempter. I had not known there was any harm in it, until Miss Shore (a
Calvinistic governess), finding it out, lectured me severely and told
me it was wicked. From that time forth I considered that to invent
a story of any kind was a sin.... But the longing to invent stories
grew with violence. The simplicity of Truth was not enough for me. I
must needs embroider imagination upon it, and the folly and wickedness
which disgraced my heart are more than I am able to express....’ This
(the Author, her son, adds) is surely a very painful instance of the
repression of an instinct.”

In contrast to the stifling of the imagination, it is good to recall
the story of the great Hermits who, having listened to the discussion
of the Monday sitting at the Académie des Sciences (Institut de France)
as to the best way to teach the young how to shoot in the direction
of mathematical genius, said: “_Cultivez l'imagination, messieurs.
Tout est là. Si vous voulez des mathématiciens, donnez à vos enfants à
lire--des Contes de Fées._”

Another important effect of the story is to develop at an early
age sympathy for children of other countries where conditions are
different from our own. There is a book used in American schools
called “Little Citizens of other Lands,” dealing with the clothes,
the games and occupations of those little citizens. Stories of this
kind are particularly necessary to prevent the development of insular
notions, and are a check on that robust form of Philistinism, only
too prevalent, alas! among grown-ups, which looks askance at new
suggestions and makes the withering remark: “How un-English! How
queer!”--the second comment being, it would seem, a natural corollary
to the first.[40]

I have so constantly to deal with the question of confusion between
Truth and Fiction in the mind of children that it might be useful
to offer here an example of the way they make the distinction for
themselves.

Mrs. Ewing says on this subject:

“If there are young intellects so imperfect as to be incapable of
distinguishing between Fancy and Falsehood, it is most desirable to
develop in them the power to do so, but, as a rule, in childhood,
we appreciate the distinction with a vivacity which as elders our
care-clogged memories fail to recall.”

Mr. P. A. Barnett, in his book on the “Commonsense of Education,” says,
alluding to Fairy Tales:

“Children will _act_ them but not act _upon_ them, and they will
not accept the incidents as part of their effectual belief. They
will imagine, to be sure, grotesque worlds, full of admirable and
interesting personages to whom strange things might have happened.
So much the better; this largeness of imagination is one of the
possessions that distinguish the better nurtured child from others less
fortunate.”

The following passage from Stevenson's essay on _Child Play_[41] will
furnish an instance of children's aptitude for creating their own
dramatic atmosphere:

“When my cousin and I took our porridge of a morning, we had a device
to enliven the course of a meal. He ate his with sugar, and explained
it to be a country continually buried under snow. I took mine with
milk, and explained it to be a country suffering gradual inundation.
You can imagine us exchanging bulletins; how here was an island still
unsubmerged, here a valley not yet covered with snow; what inventions
were made; how his population lived in cabins on perches and travelled
on stilts, and how mine was always in boats; how the interest grew
furious as the last corner of safe ground was cut off on all sides and
grew smaller every moment; and how, in fine, the food was of altogether
secondary importance, and might even have been nauseous, so long as we
seasoned it with these dreams. But perhaps the most exciting moments I
ever had over a meal, were in the case of calves' feet jelly. It was
hardly possible not to believe, and you may be quite sure, so far from
trying it, I did all I could to favour the illusion--that some part of
it was hollow, and that sooner or later my spoon would lay open the
secret tabernacle of that golden rock. There, might some Red-Beard
await this hour; there might one find the treasures of the Forty
Thieves. And so I quarried on slowly, with bated breath, savouring
the interest. Believe me, I had little palate left for the jelly; and
though I preferred the taste when I took cream with it, I used often to
go without because the cream dimmed the transparent fractures.”

In his work on Imagination, Ribot says: “The free initiative of
children is always superior to the imitations we pretend to make for
them.”

The passage from Robert Stevenson becomes more clear from a scientific
point of view when taken in connection with one from Karl Groos' book
on the “Psychology of Animal Play”:

“The Child is wholly absorbed in his play, and yet under the ebb and
flow of thought and feeling like still water under wind-swept waves, he
has the knowledge that it is pretence after all. Behind the sham ‘I’
that takes part in the game, stands the unchanged ‘I’ which regards the
sham ‘I’ with quiet superiority.”

Queyrat speaks of play as one of the distinct phases of a child's
imagination; it is “essentially a metamorphosis of reality, a
transformation of places and things.”

Now to return to the point which Mrs. Ewing makes, namely, that we
should develop in normal children the power of distinguishing between
Truth and Falsehood.

I should suggest including two or three stories which would test that
power in children, and if they fail to realise the difference between
romancing and telling lies then it is evident that they need special
attention and help along this line. I give the titles of two stories of
this kind in the collection at the end of the book.[42]

So far we have dealt only with the negative results of stories, but
there are more important effects, and I am persuaded that if we are
careful in our choice of stories, and artistic in our presentation
(so that the truth is framed, so to speak, in the memory), we can
unconsciously correct evil tendencies in children which they only
recognise in themselves when they have already criticised them in
the characters of the story. I have sometimes been misunderstood on
this point, therefore I should like to make it quite clear. I do
_not_ mean that stories should take the place entirely of moral or
direct teaching, but that on many occasions they could supplement
and strengthen moral teaching, because the dramatic appeal to the
imagination is quicker than the moral appeal to the conscience. A child
will often resist the latter lest it should make him uncomfortable
or appeal to his personal sense of responsibility: it is often not in
his power to resist the former, because it has taken possession of him
before he is aware of it.

As a concrete example, I offer three verses from a poem entitled “A
Ballad for a Boy,” written some twelve years ago by W. Cory, an Eton
master. The whole poem is to be found in a book of poems known as
“Ionica” (published by George Allen and Co.).

The poem describes a fight between two ships, the French ship
_Téméraire_ and the English ship _Quebec_. The English ship was
destroyed by fire. Farmer, the captain, was killed, and the officers
taken prisoners:

    “They dealt with us as brethren, they mourned for Farmer dead;
    And as the wounded captives passed, each Breton bowed the head.
    Then spoke the French lieutenant, 'Twas the fire that won, not we:
    You never struck your flag to _us_; you'll go to England free.'[43]

    'Twas the sixth day of October, Seventeen-hundred-seventy-nine,
    A year when nations ventured against us to combine,
    _Quebec_ was burned and Farmer slain, by us remembered not;
    But thanks be to the French book wherein they're not forgot.

    And you, if you've to fight the French, my youngster, bear in mind
    Those seamen of King Louis so chivalrous and kind;
    Think of the Breton gentlemen who took our lads to Brest,
    And treat some rescued Breton as a comrade and a guest.”

This poem is specially to be commended because it is another example of
the finer qualities which are developed in war.[44]

Now, such a ballad as this, which, being pure narrative, could
easily be introduced into the story-hour, would do as much to foster
“_L'entente cordiale_” as any processions or civic demonstrations,
or lavish international exchange of hospitality. It has also a great
practical application now that we are encouraging visits between
English and foreign children. Let us hope the _entente cordiale_ will
not stop at France. There must be many such instances of magnanimity
and generosity displayed to us by other nations, and it might be
well to collect them and include them among stories for the school
curriculum.

But in all our stories, in order to produce desired effects we must
refrain from holding, as Burroughs says, “a brief for either side,” and
we must leave the decision of the children free in this matter.[45]

In a review of Ladd's _Psychology_ in the “Academy,” we find a passage
which refers as much to the story as to the novel:

    “The psychological novelist girds up his loins and sets himself
    to write little essays on each of his characters. If he have the
    gift of the thing he may analyse motives with a subtlety which is
    more than their desert, and exhibit simple folk passing through the
    most dazzling rotations. If he be a novice, he is reduced to mere
    crude invention--the result in both cases is quite beyond the true
    purpose of Art. Art--when all is said and done--is a suggestion,
    and it refuses to be explained. Make it obvious, unfold it in
    detail, and you reduce it to a dead letter.”

Again there is a sentence by Schopenhauer applied to novels which would
apply equally well to stories:

“Skill consists in setting the inner life in motion with the smallest
possible array of circumstances, for it is this inner life that excites
our interest.”

Now, in order to produce an encouraging and lasting effect by means
of our stories, we should be careful to introduce a certain number
from fiction where virtue is rewarded and vice punished, because
to appreciate the fact that “virtue is its own reward” calls for a
developed and philosophic mind, or a born saint, of whom there will
not, I think, be many among normal children: a comforting fact, on the
whole, as the normal teacher is apt to confuse them with prigs.

A _grande dame_ visiting an elementary school listened to the telling
of an exciting story from fiction, and was impressed by the thrill
of delight which passed through the children. But when the story was
finished, she said: “But _oh!_ what a pity the story was not taken from
actual history!”

Now, not only was this comment quite beside the mark, but the lady
in question did not realise that pure fiction has one quality which
history cannot have. The historian, bound by fact and accuracy, must
often let his hero come to grief. The poet (or, in this case, we may
call him, in the Greek sense, the “maker” of stories) strives to show
_ideal_ justice.

What encouragement to virtue (except for the abnormal child) can be
offered by the stories of good men coming to grief, such as we find in
Miltiades, Phocion, Socrates, Severus, Cicero, Cato and Cæsar?

Sir Philip Sidney says in his “Defence of Poesy”:

“Only the Poet declining to be held by the limitations of the lawyer,
the _historian_, the grammarian, the rhetorician, the logician, the
physician, the metaphysician, if lifted up with the vigour of his own
imagination; doth grow in effect into another nature in making things
either better than Nature bringeth forth or quite anew, as the Heroes,
Demi-gods, Cyclops, Furies and such like, so as he goeth hand in hand
with Nature not enclosed in the narrow range of her gifts but freely
ranging within the Zodiac of his own art--_her_ world is brazen; the
poet only delivers a golden one.”

The effect of the story need not stop at the negative task of
correcting evil tendencies. There is the positive effect of translating
the abstract ideal of the story into concrete action.

I was told by Lady Henry Somerset that when the first set of slum
children came down for a fortnight's holiday in the country, she was
much startled and shocked by the obscenity of the games they played
amongst themselves. Being a sound psychologist, Lady Henry wisely
refrained from appearing surprised or from attempting any direct method
of reproof. “I saw,” she said, “that the ‘goody’ element would have no
effect, so I changed the whole atmosphere by reading to them or telling
them the most thrilling mediæval tales without any commentary. By the
end of the fortnight the activities had all changed. The boys were
performing astonishing deeds of prowess, and the girls were allowing
themselves to be rescued from burning towers and fetid dungeons.”
Now, if these deeds of chivalry appear somewhat stilted to us, we can
at least realise that, having changed the whole atmosphere of the
filthy games, it is easier to translate the deeds into something a
little more in accordance with the spirit of the age, and boys will
more readily wish later on to save their sisters from dangers more
sordid and commonplace than fiery towers and dark dungeons, if they
have once performed the deeds in which they had to court danger and
self-sacrifice for themselves.

And now we come to the question as to how these effects are to be
maintained. In what has already been stated about the danger of
introducing the dogmatic and direct appeal into the story, it is
evident that the avoidance of this element is the first means of
preserving the story in all its artistic force in the memory of the
child, and we must be careful, as I point out in the chapter on
Questions, not to interfere by comment or question with the atmosphere
we have made round the story, or else, in the future, that story will
become blurred and overlaid with the remembrance, not of the artistic
whole, as presented by the teller of the story, but by some unimportant
small side issue raised by an irrelevant question or a superfluous
comment.

Many people think that the dramatisation of the story by the children
themselves helps to maintain the effect produced. Personally, I fear
there is the same danger as in the immediate reproduction of the story,
namely, that the general dramatic effect may be weakened.

If, however, there is to be dramatisation (and I do not wish to
dogmatise on the subject), I think it should be confined to facts
and not fancies, and this is why I realise the futility of the
dramatisation of Fairy Tales.

Horace Scudder says on this subject:

“Nothing has done more to vulgarise the Fairy than its introduction
on the stage. The charm of the Fairy Tale is its divorce from human
experience; the charm of the stage is its realisation in miniature of
Human Life. If a frog is heard to speak, if a dog is changed before
our eyes into a prince by having cold water dashed over it, the charm
of the Fairy Tale has fled, and, in its place, we have the perplexing
pleasure of _leger de main_. Since the real life of a Fairy is in the
imagination, a wrong is committed when it is dragged from its shadowy
hiding-place and made to turn into ashes under the calcium light of the
understanding.”[46]

I am bound to confess that the teachers have a case when they plead for
this re-producing of the story, and there are three arguments they use
whose validity I admit, but which have nevertheless not converted me,
because the loss, to my mind, would exceed the gain.

The first argument they put forward is that the reproduction of the
story enables the child to enlarge and improve his vocabulary. Now
I greatly sympathise with this point of view, only, as I regard the
story-hour as a very precious and special one, which I think may have a
lasting effect on the character of a child, I do not think it important
that, during this hour, a child should be called upon to improve his
vocabulary at the expense of the dramatic whole, and at the expense
of the literary form in which the story has been presented. It would
be like using the Bible for parsing or paraphrase or pronunciation.
So far, I believe, the line has been drawn here, though there are
blasphemers who have laid impious hands on Milton or Shakespeare for
this purpose.

There are surely other lessons (as I have already said in dealing with
the reproduction of the story quite apart from the dramatisation),
lessons more utilitarian in character, which can be used for this
purpose: the facts of history (I mean the mere facts as compared with
the deep truths) and those of geography, above all, the grammar lessons
are those in which the vocabulary can be enlarged and improved. But
I am anxious to keep the story-hour apart as dedicated to something
higher than these excellent but utilitarian considerations.

The second argument used by the teachers is the joy felt by the
children in being allowed to dramatise the stories. This, too, appeals
very strongly to me, but there is a means of satisfying their desire
and yet protecting the dramatic whole, and that is occasionally to
allow children to act out their own dramatic inventions; this, to my
mind, has great educational significance: it is original and creative
work and, apart from the joy of the immediate performance, there is
the interesting process of comparison which can be presented to the
children, showing them the difference between their elementary attempts
and the finished product of the experienced artist, which they can be
led to recognise by their own powers of observation if the teachers are
not in too great a hurry to point it out themselves.

Here is a short original story (quoted by the French psychologist,
Queyrat, in his “Jeux de l'enfance”) written by a child of five:

“One day I went to sea in a life-boat--all at once I saw an enormous
whale, and I jumped out of the boat to catch him, but he was so big
that I climbed on his back and rode astride, and all the little fishes
laughed to see.”

Here is a complete and exciting drama, making a wonderful picture
and teeming with adventure. We could scarcely offer anything to so
small a child for reproduction that would be a greater stimulus to the
imagination.

Here is another, offered by Loti, but the age of the child is not given:

“Once upon a time, a little girl out in the Colonies cut open a huge
melon, and out popped a green beast and stung her, and the little child
died.”

Loti adds: “The phrases ‘out in the Colonies’ and ‘a huge melon’
were enough to plunge me suddenly into a dream. As by an apparition,
I beheld tropical trees, forests alive with marvellous birds. Oh!
the simple magic of the words 'the Colonies'! In my childhood they
stood for a multitude of distant sun-scorched countries, with their
palm-trees, their enormous flowers, their black natives, their wild
beasts, their endless possibilities of adventure.”

I quote this in full because it shows so clearly the magic force of
words to evoke pictures, without any material representation. It is
just the opposite effect of the pictures presented to the bodily eye
without the splendid educational opportunity for the child to form his
own mental image.

I am more and more convinced that the rare power of visualization is
accounted for by the lack of mental practice afforded along these lines.

The third argument used by the teachers in favour of the dramatisation
of the stories is that it is a means of discovering how much the child
has really learnt from the story. Now this argument makes absolutely no
appeal to me.

My experience, in the first place, has taught me that a child very
seldom gives out any account of a deep impression made upon him: it
is too sacred and personal. But he very soon learns to know what is
expected of him, and he keeps a set of stock sentences which he has
found out are acceptable to the teacher. How can we possibly gauge the
deep effects of a story in this way, or how can a child, by acting
out a story, describe the subtle elements which you have tried to
introduce? You might as well try to show with a pint measure how the
sun and rain have affected a plant, instead of rejoicing in the beauty
of the sure, if slow, growth.

Then, again, why are we in such a hurry to find out what effects have
been produced by our stories? Does it matter whether we know to-day or
to-morrow how much a child has understood? For my part, so sure do I
feel of the effect that I am willing to wait indefinitely. Only I must
make sure that the first presentation is truly dramatic and artistic.

The teachers of general subjects have a much easier and more simple
task. Those who teach science, mathematics, even, to a certain extent,
history and literature, are able to gauge with a fair amount of
accuracy, by means of examination, what their pupils have learnt. The
teaching carried on by means of stories can never be gauged in the
same manner. We must be content, though we have nothing to place in
our “shop window,” content to know of the possessions behind, and make
up our mind that we can show the education authorities little or no
results from our teaching, but that the real fruit will be seen by the
next generation; and we can take courage, for, if our story be “a thing
of beauty,” it will never “pass into nothingness.”

Carlyle has said:[47]

“Of this thing be certain: wouldst thou plant for Eternity, then plant
into the deep infinite faculties of man, his Fantasy and Heart. Wouldst
thou plant for Year and Day, then plant into his shallow superficial
faculties, his self-love and arithmetical understanding, what will grow
there.”

If we use this marvellous Art of Story-Telling in the way I have tried
to show, then the children who have been confided to our care will one
day be able to bring to us the tribute which Björnson brought to Hans
C. Andersen:

    Wings you give to my Imagination,
      Me uplifting to the strange and great;
    Gave my heart the poet's revelation,
      Glorifying things of low estate.

    When my child-soul hungered all-unknowing,
      With great truths its needs you satisfied:
    Now, a world-worn man, to you is owing
      That the child in me has never died.
                      (_Translated from the Danish by Emilie Poulson._)


FOOTNOTES:

[37] From “Studies of Childhood,” page 55.

[38] I always remember the witty jibe of a chairman at my expense on
this subject, who, when proposing a vote of thanks to me, asked whether
I seriously approved of the idea of providing “wild-cat schemes” in
order to bring romance into the lives of millionaires.

[39] From The Lockerbie Book, by James Whitcomb Riley. Copyright 1911.
Used by special permission of the publishers, the Bobbs-Merrill Company.

[40] See Little Cousin Series in American collection of tales at the
end of book.

[41] From “Virginibus Puerisque and other Essays.”

[42] See Longbow story, “John and the Pig.”

[43] This is even a higher spirit than that shown in the advice given
in the _Agamemnon_ (speaking of the victor's attitude after the taking
of Troy):

  “Yea, let no craving for forbidden gain
  Bid conquerors yield before the darts of greed.”

[44] The great war in which we have become involved since this book was
written has furnished brilliant examples of these finer qualities.

[45] It is curious to find that the story of “Puss-in-Boots” in its
variants is sometimes presented with a moral, sometimes without. In the
valley of the Ganges it has _none_. In Cashmere it has one moral, in
Zanzibar another.

[46] From “Childhood in Literature and Art.” Study of Hans C. Andersen,
page 201.

[47] “Sartor Resartus,” Book III, page 218.




CHAPTER VII.

ON QUESTIONS ASKED BY TEACHERS.


THE following questions have been put to me so often by teachers, in my
own country and the States, that I have thought it might be useful to
give in my book some of the attempts I have made to answer them; and
I wish to record here an expression of gratitude to the teachers who
have asked these questions at the close of my lectures. It has enabled
me to formulate my views on the subject and to clear up, by means of
research and thought, the reason for certain things which I had more or
less taken for granted. It has also constantly modified my own point of
view, and has prevented me from becoming too dogmatic in dealing with
other people's methods.

    _Question I._ Why do I consider it necessary to spend so many years
      on the Art of Story-Telling, which takes in, after all, such a
      restricted portion of literature?

Just in the same way that an actor thinks it worth while to go through
so many years' training to fit him for the stage, although dramatic
literature is also only one branch of general literature. The region of
Storyland is the legitimate stage for children. They crave for drama
as we do, and because there are comparatively few good story-tellers,
children do not have their dramatic needs satisfied. What is the
result? We either take them to dramatic performances for grown-up
people, or we have children's theatres where the pieces, charming as
they may be, are of necessity deprived of the essential elements which
constitute a drama--or they are shrivelled up to suit the capacity of
the child. Therefore it would seem wiser, whilst the children are quite
young, to keep them to the simple presentation of stories, because,
their imagination being keener at that period, they have the delight
of the inner vision and they do not need, as we do, the artificial
stimulus provided by the machinery of the stage.[48]

    _Question II._ What is to be done if a child asks you: Is a story
      true?

I hope I shall not be considered Utopian in my ideas if I say that it
is quite easy, even with small children, to teach them that the seeing
of truth is a relative matter which depends on the eyes of the seer.
If we were not afraid to tell our children that all through life there
are grown-up people who do not see things that others see, their own
difficulties would be helped.

In his _Imagination Créatrice_, Queyrat says: “To get down into the
recesses of a child's mind, one would have to become even as he is; we
are reduced to interpreting that child in the terms of an adult. The
children we observe live and grow in a civilised community, and the
result of this is that the development of their imagination is rarely
free or complete, for as soon as it rises beyond the average level, the
rationalistic education of parents and schoolmasters at once endeavours
to curb it. It is restrained in its flight by an antagonistic power
which treats it as a kind of incipient madness.”

It is quite easy to show children that if you keep things where they
belong they are true with regard to each other, but that if you drag
these things out of the shadowy atmosphere of the “make-believe,” and
force them into the land of actual facts, the whole thing is out of
gear.

To take a concrete example: The arrival of the coach made from a
pumpkin and driven by mice is entirely in harmony with the Cinderella
surroundings, and I have never heard one child raise any question of
the difficulty of travelling in such a coach or of the uncertainty
of mice in drawing it. But suggest to the child that this diminutive
vehicle could be driven among the cars of Broadway, or amongst the
motor omnibuses in the Strand, and you would bring confusion at once
into his mind.

Having once grasped this, the children will lose the idea that Fairy
Stories are just for them, and not for their elders, and from this they
will go on to see that it is the child-like mind of the Poet and Seer
that continues to appreciate these things: that it is the dull, heavy
person whose eyes so soon become dim and unable to see any more the
visions which were once his own.

In his essay on _Poetry and Life_ (Glasgow, 1889), Professor Bradley
says:

“It is the effect of poetry, not only by expressing emotion but in
other ways also, to bring life into the dead mass of our experience,
and to make the world significant.”

This applies to children as well as to adults. There may come to the
child in the story-hour, by some stirring poem or dramatic narration,
a sudden flash of the possibilities of Life which he had not hitherto
realised in the even course of school experience.

“Poetry,” says Professor Bradley, “is a way of representing truth;
but there is in it, as its detractors have always insisted, a certain
untruth or illusion. We need not deny this, so long as we remember
that the illusion is conscious, that no one wishes to deceive, and
that no one is deceived. But it would be better to say that poetry is
false to literal fact for the sake of obtaining a higher truth. First,
in order to represent the connection between a more significant part
of experience and a less significant, poetry, instead of linking them
together by a chain which touches one by one the intermediate objects
that connect them, leaps from one to the other. It thus falls at once
into conflict with commonsense.”

Now, the whole of this passage bears as much on the question of the
truth embodied in a Fairy Tale as a poem, and it would be interesting
to take some of these tales and try to discover where they are false to
actual fact for the sake of a higher truth.

Let us take, for instance, the story of Cinderella: The coach and
pumpkins to which we have alluded, and all the magic part of the story,
are false to actual facts as we meet them in our every-day life; but
is it not a higher truth that Cinderella could escape from her chimney
corner by thinking of the brightness outside? In this sense we all
travel in pumpkin coaches.

Take the story of Psyche, in any one of the many forms it is presented
to us in folk-story. The magic transformation of the lover is false
to actual fact; but is it not a higher truth that we are often
transformed by Circumstance, and that love and courage can overcome
most difficulties?

Take the story of the Three Bears. It is not in accordance with
established fact that bears should extend hospitality to children
who invade their territory. Is it not true, in a higher sense, that
fearlessness often lessens or averts danger?

Take the story of Jack and the Bean-Stalk. The rapid growth of the
bean-stalk and the encounter with the Giant are false to literal fact;
but is it not a higher truth that the spirit of courage and high
adventure leads us straight out of the commonplace and often sordid
facts of Life?

Now, all these considerations are too subtle for the child, and, if
offered in explanation, would destroy the excitement and interest
of the story; but they are good for those of us who are presenting
such stories: they not only provide an argument against the objection
raised by unimaginative people as to the futility, if not immorality,
of presenting these primitive tales, but clear up our own doubt and
justify us in the use of them, if we need such justification.

For myself, I am perfectly satisfied that, being part of the history
of primitive people, it would be foolish to ignore them from an
evolutionary point of view, which constitutes their chief importance;
and it is only from the point of view of expediency that I mention the
potential truths they contain.

    _Question III._ What are you to do if a child says he does not like
      Fairy Tales?

This is not an uncommon case. What we have first to determine, under
these circumstances, is whether this dislike springs from a stolid,
prosaic nature, whether it springs from a real inability to visualize
such pictures as the Fairy, or marvellous element in the story,
presents, or whether (and this is often the real reason) it is from a
fear of being asked to believe what his judgment resents as untrue, or
whether he thinks it is “grown-up” to reject such pleasure as unworthy
of his years.

In the first case, it is wise to persevere, in hopes of developing the
dormant imagination. If the child resents the apparent want of truth,
we can teach him how many-sided truth is, as I suggested in my answer
to the first question. In the other cases, we must try to make it
clear that the delight he may venture to take now will increase, not
decrease, with years; that the more you bring _to_ a thing (in the way
of experience and knowledge) the more you will draw _out_ of it.

Let us take as a concrete example the question of Santa Claus. This
joy has almost disappeared, for we have torn away the last shred of
mystery about that personage by allowing him to be materialised in the
Christmas shops and bazaars.

But the original myth need never have disappeared; the link could
easily have been kept by gradually telling the child that the Santa
Claus they worshipped as a mysterious and invisible power is nothing
but the Spirit of Charity and Kindness that makes us remember others,
and that this spirit often takes the form of material gifts. We can
also lead them a step higher and show them that this spirit of kindness
can do more than provide material things; so that the old nursery tale
has laid a beautiful foundation which need never be pulled up: we can
build upon it and add to it all through our lives.

Is not _one_ of the reasons that children reject Fairy Tales because
such very _poor_ material is offered them? There is a dreary flatness
about all except the very best which revolts the child of literary
appreciation and would fail to strike a spark in the more prosaic.

    _Question IV._ Do I recommend learning a story by heart, or telling
      it in one's own words?

This would largely depend on the kind of story. If the style is classic
or if the interest of the story is closely connected with the style,
as in Andersen, Kipling or Stevenson, then it is better to commit it
absolutely to memory. But if this process should take too long (I mean
for those who cannot afford the time to specialise), or if it produces
a stilted effect, then it is wiser to read the story many times over,
let it soak in, taking notes of certain passages which would add to the
dramatic interest of the story, and not trouble about the word accuracy
of the whole.

For instance, for very young children the story of Pandora, as told
in the Wonder-Book, could be shortened so as to leave principally the
dramatic dialogue between the two children, which would be easily
committed to memory by the narrator and would appeal most directly
to the children. Again, for older children: in taking a beautiful
mediæval story such as “Our Lady's Tumbler,” the original text could
hardly be presented so as to hold an audience; but whilst giving up a
great deal of the elaborate material, we should try to present many of
the characteristic passages which seem to sum up the situation. For
instance, before his performance, the Tumbler cries: “What am I doing?
For there is none here so caitiff but who vies with all the rest in
serving God after his trade.” And after his act of devotion: “Lady,
this is a choice performance. I do it for no other but for you; so aid
me God, I do not--for you and for your Son. And this I dare avouch and
boast, that for me it is no play-work. But I am serving you, and that
pays me.”

On the other hand, there are some very gifted narrators who can only
tell the story in their own words. I consider that both methods are
necessary to the all-round story-teller.

    _Question V._ How do I set about preparing a story?

Here again the preparation depends a great deal on the kind of story:
whether it has to be committed to memory or re-arranged to suit a
certain age of child, or told entirely in one's own words. But there
is one kind of preparation which is the same for any story, that is,
living with it for a long time, until you have really obtained the
right atmosphere, and then bringing the characters actually to life
in this atmosphere, most especially in the case of inanimate objects.
This is where Hans C. Andersen reigns supreme. Horace Scudder says of
him: “By some transmigration, souls have passed into tin soldiers,
balls, tops, money-pigs, coins, shoes and even such attenuated things
as darning-needles, and when, in forming these apparent dead and stupid
bodies, they begin to make manifestations, it is always in perfect
consistency with the ordinary conditions of the bodies they occupy,
though the several objects become, by the endowment of souls, suddenly
expanded in their capacity.”[49]

Now, my test of being ready with such stories is whether I have ceased
to look upon such objects _as_ inanimate. Let us take some of those
quoted from Andersen. First, the Tin Soldier. To me, since I have lived
in the story, he is a real live hero, holding his own with some of the
bravest fighting heroes in history or fiction. As for his being merely
of tin, I entirely forget it, except when I realise against what odds
he fights, or when I stop to admire the wonderful way Andersen carries
out his simile of the old tin spoon--the stiffness of the musket, and
the tears of tin.

Take the Top and the Ball, and, except for the delightful way they
discuss the respective merits of _cork_ and _mahogany_ in their
ancestors, you would completely forget that they are not real human
beings with the live passions and frailties common to youth.

As for the Beetle--who ever thinks of him as a mere entomological
specimen? Is he not the symbol of the self-satisfied traveller who
learns nothing _en route_ but the importance of his own personality?
And the Darning-Needle? It is impossible to divorce human interest from
the ambition of this little piece of steel.

And this same method applied to the preparation of any story shows that
you can sometimes rise from the rôle of mere interpreter to that of
creator--that is to say, the objects live afresh for you in response to
the appeal you make in recognising their possibilities of vitality.

As a mere practical suggestion, I would advise that, as soon as you
have overcome the difficulties of the text (if actually learning by
heart, there is nothing but the drudgery of constant repetition), and
as you begin to work the story into true dramatic form, always say the
words aloud, and many times aloud, before you try them even on one
person. More suggestions come to one in the way of effects from hearing
the sounds of the words, and more complete mental pictures, in this
way than any other ... it is a sort of testing period, the results of
which may or may not have to be modified when produced in public....
In case of committing to memory, I advise word perfection first, not
trying dramatic effects before this is reached; but, on the other hand,
if you are using your own words, you can think out the effects as you
go along--I mean, during the preparation. Gestures, pauses, facial
expression often help to fix the choice of words you decide to use,
though here again the public performance will often modify the result.
I should strongly advise that all gestures should be studied before the
glass, because this most faithfully-recording friend, whose sincerity
we dare not question, will prevent glaring errors, and also help by the
correction of these to more satisfactory results along positive lines.
If your gesture does not satisfy (and practice will make you more and
more critical), it is generally because you have not made sufficient
allowance for the power of imagination in your audience. Emphasis in
gesture is just as inartistic--and therefore ineffective--as emphasis
in tone or language.

Before _deciding_, however, either on the facial expression or gesture,
we must consider the chief characters in the story, and study how we
can best--_not_ present them, but allow them to present themselves,
which is a very different thing. The greatest tribute which can be
paid to a story-teller, as to an actor, is that his own personality is
temporarily forgotten, because he has so completely identified himself
with his rôle.

When we have decided what the chief characters really mean to do, we
can let ourselves go in the impersonation....

I shall now take a story as a concrete example--namely, the Buddhist
legend of the Lion and the Hare,[50] which I give in the final story
list.

We have here the Lion and the Hare as types--the other animals are
less individual and therefore display less salient qualities. The
little hare's chief characteristics are nervousness, fussiness and
misdirected imagination. We must bear this all in mind when she appears
on the stage--fortunately these characteristics lend themselves easily
to dramatic representation. The lion is not only large-hearted but
broad-minded. It is good to have an opportunity of presenting to
the children a lion who has other qualities than physical beauty or
extraordinary strength. (Here again there will lurk the danger of
alarming the Nature students!) He is even more interesting than the
magnanimous lion whom we have sometimes been privileged to meet in
fiction.

Of course we grown-up people know that the lion is the Buddha in
disguise. Children will not be able to realise this, nor is it the
least necessary that they should do so; but they will grasp the
idea that he is a very unusual lion, not to be met with in Paul du
Chaillu's adventures, still less in the quasi-domestic atmosphere of
the Zoological Gardens. If our presentation is life-like and sincere,
we shall convey all we intend to the child. This is part of what I call
the atmosphere of the story, which, as in a photograph, can only be
obtained by long exposure, that is to say, in case of the preparation
we must bestow much reflection and sympathy.

Because these two animals are the chief characters, they must stand
out in sharp outline: the other animals must be painted in fainter
colours--they should be suggested rather than presented in detail.
It might be as well to give a definite gesture to the Elephant--say,
a characteristic movement with his trunk--a scowl to the Tiger, a
supercilious and enigmatic smile to the Camel (suggested by Kipling's
wonderful creation). But if a gesture were given to each of the
animals, the effect would become monotonous, and the minor characters
would crowd the foreground of the picture, impeding the action and
leaving little to the imagination of the audience.... I personally have
found it effective to repeat the gestures of these animals as they are
leaving the stage, less markedly, as it is only a form of reminder.

Now, what is the impression we wish to leave on the mind of the child,
apart from the dramatic joy and interest we have endeavoured to
provide? Surely it is that he may realise the danger of a panic. One
method of doing this (alas! a favourite one still) is to say at the
end of the story: “Now, children, what do we learn from this?” Of this
method Lord Morley has said: “It is a commonplace to the wise, and an
everlasting puzzle to the foolish, that direct inculcation of morals
should invariably prove so powerless an instrument--so futile a method.”

If this direct method were really effective, we might as well put the
little drama aside, and say plainly: “It is foolish to be nervous; it
is dangerous to make loose statements. Large-minded people understand
things better than those who are narrow-minded.”

Now, all these abstract statements would be as true and as tiresome as
the multiplication-table. The child might or might not fix them in his
mind, but he would not act upon them.

But, put all the artistic warmth of which you are capable into the
presentation of the story, and, without one word of comment from you,
the children will feel the dramatic intensity of that vast concourse of
animals brought together by the feeble utterance of one irresponsible
little hare. Let them feel the dignity and calm of the Lion, which
accounts for his authority; his tender but firm treatment of the
foolish little Hare; and listen to the glorious finale when all
the animals retire convinced of their folly; and you will find that
you have adopted the same method as the Lion (who must have been an
unconscious follower of Froebel), and that there is nothing to add to
the picture.

    _Question VI._ Is it wise to talk over a story with children and to
      encourage them in the habit of asking questions about it?

At the time, no! The effect produced is to be by dramatic means,
and this would be destroyed by any attempts at analysis by means of
questions.

The medium that has been used in the telling of the story is (or ought
to be) a purely artistic one which will reach the child through the
medium of the emotions: the appeal to the intellect or the reason is
a different method, which must be used at a different time. When you
are enjoying the fragrance of a flower or the beauty of its colour, it
is not the moment to be reminded of its botanical classification. Just
as in the botany lesson it would be somewhat irrelevant to talk of the
part that flowers play in the happiness of life.

From a practical point of view, it is not wise to encourage questions
on the part of the children, because they are apt to disturb the
atmosphere by bringing in entirely irrelevant matter, so that in
looking back on the telling of the story, the child often remembers the
irrelevant conversation to the exclusion of the dramatic interest of
the story itself.[51]

I remember once making what I considered at the time a most effective
appeal to some children who had been listening to the story of the
Little Tin Soldier, and, unable to refrain from the cheap method of
questioning, of which I have now recognised the futility, I asked:
“Don't you think it was nice of the little dancer to rush down into the
fire to join the brave little soldier?” “Well,” said a prosaic little
lad of six: “I thought the draught carried her down.”

    _Question VII._ Is it wise to call upon children to repeat the
      story as soon as it has been told?

My answer here is decidedly in the negative.

Whilst fully appreciating the modern idea of children expressing
themselves, I very much deprecate this so-called self-expression taking
the form of mere reproduction. I have dealt with this matter in detail
in another portion of my book. This is one of the occasions when
children should be taking in, not giving out. (Even the most fanatic of
moderns must agree that there are such moments.)

When, after much careful preparation, an expert has told a story to the
best of his ability, to encourage the children to reproduce this story
with their imperfect vocabulary and with no special gift of speech (I
am always alluding to the normal group of children) is as futile as
if, after the performance of a musical piece by a great artist, some
individual member of the audience were to be called upon to give his
rendering of the original rendering. The result would be that the
musical joy of the audience would be completely destroyed and the
performer himself would share in the loss.[52]

I have always maintained that five minutes of complete silence after
the story would do more to fix the impression on the mind of the child
than any amount of attempts at reproducing it. The general statement
made in Dr. Montessori's wonderful chapter on Silence would seem to me
of special application to the moments following on the telling of a
story.

    _Question VIII._ Should children be encouraged to illustrate the
      stories which they have heard?

As a dramatic interest to the teachers and the children, I think it
is a very praiseworthy experiment, if used somewhat sparingly. But I
seriously doubt whether these illustrations in any way indicate the
impression made on the mind of the child. It is the same question
that arises when that child is called upon (or expresses a wish) to
reproduce the story in his own words: the unfamiliar medium in both
instances makes it almost impossible for the child to convey his
meaning, unless he be an artist in the one case or have real literary
power of expression in the other.

My own impression, which has been confirmed by many teachers who
have made the experiment, is that a certain amount of disappointment
is mixed up with the daring joy in the attempt, simply because the
children can get nowhere near the ideal which has presented itself to
the “inner eye.”

I remember a Kindergarten mistress saying that on one occasion, when
she had told to the class a thrilling story of a knight, one of the
children immediately asked for permission to draw a picture of him
on the blackboard. So spontaneous a request could not, of course, be
refused, and, full of assurance, the would-be artist began to give his
impression of the knight's appearance. When the picture was finished,
the child stood back for a moment to judge for himself of the result.
He put down the chalk and said sadly: “And I _thought_ he was so
handsome.”

Nevertheless, except for the drawback of the other children seeing a
picture which might be inferior to their own mental vision, I should
quite approve of such experiments as long as they are not taken as
literal data of what the children have really received. It would,
however, be better not to have the picture drawn on a blackboard but at
the child's private desk, to be seen by the teacher and not, unless the
picture were exceptionally good, to be shown to the other children.

One of the best effects of such an experiment would be to show a child
how difficult it is to give the impression he wishes to record, and
which would enable him later on to appreciate the beauty of such work
in the hands of a finished artist.

I can anticipate the jeers with which such remarks would be received by
the Futurist School, but, according to their own theory, I ought to be
allowed to express the matter _as I see it_, however faulty the vision
may appear to them.[53]

    _Question IX._ In what way can the dramatic method of story-telling
      be used in ordinary class teaching?

This is too large a question to answer fully in so general a survey as
this work, but I should like to give one or two concrete examples as to
how the element of story-telling could be introduced.

I have always thought that the only way in which we could make either a
history or literature lesson live, so that it should take a real hold
on the mind of the pupil at any age, would be that, instead of offering
lists of events, crowded into the fictitious area of one reign, one
should take a single event, say in one lesson out of five, and give
it in the most splendid language and in the most dramatic (not to be
confused with “melodramatic”) manner.

To come to a concrete example: Supposing that you are talking to the
class of Greece, either in connection with its history, its geography
or its literature, could any mere accumulation of facts give a clearer
idea of the life of the people than a dramatically told story from
Homer, Æschylus, Sophocles or Euripides?

What in the history of Iceland could give a more graphic idea of the
whole character of the life and customs of the inhabitants than one
of the famous sagas, such as “The Burning of Njal” or “The Death of
Gunnar”?

In teaching the history of Spain, what could make the pupils understand
better the spirit of knight-errantry, its faults and its qualities,
than a recital from “Don Quixote” or from the tale of “The Cid”?

In a word, the stories must appeal so vividly to the imagination that
they will light up the whole period of history which we wish them to
illustrate, and keep it in the memory for all time.

But apart from the dramatic presentation of history, there are great
possibilities for introducing the short story into the portrait of
some great personage: a story which, though it may be insignificant in
itself, throws a sudden sidelight on his character, and reveals the
mind behind the actual deeds; this is what I mean by using the dramatic
method.

To take a concrete example: Supposing, in giving an account of the
life of Napoleon, after enlarging on his campaigns, his European
policy, his indomitable will, you were suddenly to give an idea of his
many-sidedness by relating how he actually found time to compile a
catechism which was used for some years in the elementary schools in
France!

What sidelights might be thrown in this way on such characters as Nero,
Cæsar, Henry VIII, Luther, Goethe!

To take one example from these: Instead of making the whole career
of Henry VIII centre round the fact that he was a much-married man,
could we not present his artistic side and speak of his charming
contributions to music?....

So much for the history lessons. But could not the dramatic form and
interest be introduced into our geography lessons? Think of the romance
of the Panama Canal, the position of Constantinople as affecting
the history of Europe, the shape of Greece, England as an Island,
the position of Tibet, the interior of Africa--to what wonderful
story-telling would these themes lend themselves!

    _Question X._ Which should predominate in the story--the dramatic
      or the poetic element?

This is a much debated point. From experience, I have come to the
conclusion that, though both should be found in the whole range of
stories, the dramatic element should prevail from the very nature of
the presentation, and also because it reaches the larger number of
children (at least of normal children). Almost every child is dramatic,
in the sense that he loves action (not necessarily an action in which
he has to bear a part). It is the exceptional child who is reached by
the poetic side, and just as on the stage the action must be quicker
and more concentrated than in a poem--even than a dramatic poem--so
it must be with the story. Children act out in their imagination the
dramatic or actable part of the story--the poetical side, which must
be painted in more delicate colours or presented in less obvious form,
often escapes them. Of course the very reason why we must include the
poetical element is that it is an unexpressed need of most children.
Their need of the dramatic is more loudly proclaimed and more easily
satisfied.

    _Question XI._ What is the educational value of Humour in the
      stories told to our children?

My answer to this is that Humour means much more than is usually
understood by this term. So many people seem to think that to have a
sense of humour is merely to be tickled by a funny element in a story.
It surely means something much more subtle than this. It is Thackeray
who says: “If Humour only meant Laughter ... but the Humourist
professes to awaken and direct your love, your pity, your kindness,
your scorn for untruth and pretention, your tenderness for the weak,
the poor, the oppressed, the unhappy.” So that, in our stories, the
introduction of humour should not merely depend on the doubtful
amusement that follows on a sense of incongruity. It should inculcate
a sense of proportion brought about by an effort of imagination:
it shows a child its real position in the Universe, and prevents
an exaggerated idea of his own importance. It develops the logical
faculty, and prevents hasty conclusions. It shortens the period of joy
in horseplay and practical jokes. It brings about a clearer perception
of all situations, enabling the child to get the point of view of
another person. It is the first instilling of philosophy into the mind
of a child, and prevents much suffering later on when the blows of life
fall upon him; for a sense of humour teaches us at an early age not to
expect too much; and this philosophy can be developed without cynicism
or pessimism, without even destroying the _joie de vivre_....

One cannot, however, sufficiently emphasize the fact that these
far-reaching results can only be brought about by humour quite distinct
from the broader fun and hilarity which have also their use in an
educational scheme.

From my own experience, I have learned that development of Humour
is with most children extremely slow. It is quite natural and quite
right that at first pure fun, obvious situations and elementary jokes
should please them, but we can very gradually appeal to something more
subtle, and if I were asked what story would educate our children most
thoroughly in appreciation of Humour, I should say that “Alice in
Wonderland” was the most effective.

What better object-lesson could be given in humorous form of taking
somebody else's point of view than that given to Alice by the Mock
Turtle in speaking of the Whiting?:

“‘You know what they're like?’

‘I believe so,’ said Alice. ‘They have their tails in their mouths--and
they're all over crumbs.’

‘You're wrong about the crumbs,’ said the Mock Turtle. 'Crumbs would
all wash off in the sea.'”

Or when Alice is speaking to the Mouse of her Cat, and says: “She is
such a dear quiet thing--and a capital one for catching mice----”
and then suddenly realises the point of view of the Mouse, who was
“trembling down to the end of its tail.”

Then, as an instance of how a lack of humour leads to illogical
conclusions (a condition common to most children), we have the
conversation between Alice and the Pigeon:

ALICE: “But little girls eat quite as much as serpents do, you know.”

PIGEON: “I don't believe it. But if they do, why then they're a kind of
serpent, that's all I can say.”

Then, as an instance of how a sense of humour would prevent too much
self-importance:

“‘I have a right to think,’ said Alice sharply.

‘Just about as much right,’ said the Duchess, 'as pigs have to fly.'”


FOOTNOTES:

[48] I do not deny that there can be charming representations of this
kind. Miss Netta Syrett has given a triplet of plays at the Court
Theatre which were entirely on the plane of the child; but these
performances were somewhat exceptional.

[49] From “Study of Hans C. Andersen.”

[50] See “Eastern Stories and Fables,” published by Routledge.

[51] See Chapter I.

[52] In this matter I have, in England, the support of Dr. Kimmins,
Chief Inspector of the London County Council, who is strongly opposed
to immediate reproduction of the stories.

[53] Needless to say that these remarks only refer to the
illustrations of stories told. Whether children should be encouraged to
self-expression in drawing (quite apart from reproducing in one medium
what has been conveyed to them in another), is too large a question to
deal with in this special work on Story-Telling.




CHAPTER VIII.

STORIES IN FULL.


THE following three stories have for so long formed a part of my
repertory that I have been requested to include them in my book, and,
in order to associate myself more completely with them, I am presenting
a translation of my own from the original Danish version.


THE NIGHTINGALE.

You must know that in China the Emperor is a Chinaman, and all those
around him are also Chinamen. It is many years since all this happened,
and for that very reason it is worth hearing, before it is forgotten.

There was no palace in the world more beautiful than the Emperor's;
it was very costly, all of fine porcelain, but it was so delicate and
brittle, that it was very difficult to touch, and you had to be very
careful in doing so. The most wonderful flowers could be seen in the
garden, and silver tinkling bells were tied on to the most beautiful
of these, for fear people should pass by without noticing them. How
well everything had been thought out in the Emperor's garden--which was
so big, that even the gardener himself did not know how big. If you
walked on and on you came to the most beautiful wood, with tall trees
and deep lakes. This wood stretched right down to the sea, which was
blue and deep; great ships could pass underneath the branches, and in
these branches a nightingale had made its home, and its singing was so
entrancing that the poor fisherman, though he had so many other things
to do, would lie still and listen when he was out at night drawing in
his nets.

“Heavens! how lovely that is!” he said: but then he was forced to think
about his own affairs, and the nightingale was forgotten; but the next
day, when it sang again, the fisherman said the same thing: “Heavens!
how lovely that is!”

Travellers from all the countries of the world came to the Emperor's
town, and expressed their admiration for the palace and the garden, but
when they heard the nightingale, they all said in one breath: “That is
the best of all!”

Now, when these travellers came home, they told of what they had seen.
The scholars wrote many books about the town, the palace and the
garden, but nobody left the nightingale out: it was always spoken of as
the most wonderful of all they had seen, and those who had the gift of
the Poet wrote the most delightful poems all about the nightingale in
the wood near the deep lake.

The books went round the world, and in course of time some of them
reached the Emperor. He sat in his golden chair, and read and read,
nodding his head every minute; for it pleased him to read the beautiful
descriptions of the town, the palace and the garden; and then he found
in the book the following words: “But the Nightingale is the best of
all.”

“What is this?” said the Emperor. “The nightingale! I know nothing
whatever about it. To think of there being such a bird in my
Kingdom--nay, in my very garden--and I have never heard it! And one has
to learn of such a thing for the first time from a book!”

Then he summoned his Lord-in-Waiting, who was such a grand creature
that if any one inferior in rank ventured to speak to him, or ask him
about anything, he merely uttered the sound “P,” which meant nothing
whatever.

“There is said to be a most wonderful bird, called the Nightingale,”
said the Emperor; “they say it is the best thing in my great Kingdom.
Why have I been told nothing about it?”

“I have never heard it mentioned before,” said the Lord-in-Waiting. “It
has certainly never been presented at court.”

“It is my good pleasure that it shall appear here to-night and sing
before me!” said the Emperor. “The whole world knows what is mine, and
I myself do not know it.”

“I have never heard it mentioned before,” said the Lord-in-Waiting. “I
will seek it, and I shall find it.”

But where was it to be found? The Lord-in-Waiting ran up and down all
the stairs, through the halls and the passages, but not one of all
those whom he met had ever heard a word about the Nightingale. The
Lord-in-Waiting ran back to the Emperor and told him that it must
certainly be a fable invented by writers of books.

“Your Majesty must not believe all that is written in books. It is pure
invention, besides something which is called the Black Art.”

“But,” said the Emperor, “the book in which I read this was sent to
me by His Majesty the Emperor of Japan, and therefore this cannot be
a falsehood. I insist on hearing the Nightingale: it must appear this
evening. It has my gracious favour, and if it fails to appear, the
court shall be trampled upon after the court has supped.”

“Tsing-pe!” said the Lord-in-Waiting, and again he ran up and down all
the stairs, through all the halls and passages, and half the court ran
with him, for they had no wish to be trampled upon. And many questions
were asked about the wonderful Nightingale of whom all had heard except
those who lived at court.

At last, they met a poor little girl in the kitchen. She said:
“Heavens! The Nightingale! I know it well! Yes, how it can sing! Every
evening I have permission to take the broken pieces from the table
to my poor sick mother who lives near the seashore, and on my way
back, when I feel tired and rest a while in the wood, then I hear the
Nightingale sing, and my eyes are filled with tears: it is just as if
my mother kissed me.”

“Little kitchen-girl,” said the Lord-in-Waiting, “I will get a
permanent position for you in the Court Kitchen and permission to see
the Emperor dine, if you can lead us to the Nightingale; for it has
received orders to appear at Court to-night.”

So they started off all together for the wood where the bird was wont
to sing: half the court went too. They were going along at a good pace
when suddenly they heard a cow lowing.

“Oh,” said a court-page. “There you have it. That is a wonderful power
for so small a creature! I have certainly heard it before.”

“No, those are the cows lowing,” said the little kitchen girl. “We are
a long way from the place yet.”

And then the frogs began to croak in the pond.

“Beautiful,” said the Court Preacher. “Now, I hear it--it is just like
little church bells.”

“No, those are the frogs,” said the little Kitchen maid. “But now I
think that we shall soon hear it.”

And then the Nightingale began to sing.

“There it is,” said the little girl. “Listen, listen--there it sits.”
And she pointed to a little grey bird in the branches.

“Is it possible!” said the Lord-in-Waiting. “I had never supposed it
would look like that. How very plain it looks! It has certainly lost
its colour from seeing so many grand folk around it.”

“Little Nightingale,” called out the little Kitchen girl, “our gracious
Emperor would be so glad if you would sing for him.”

“With the greatest pleasure,” said the Nightingale. It sang, and it was
a joy to hear it.

“Just like little glass bells,” said the Lord-in-Waiting; “and just
look at the little throat, how active it is! It is astonishing to think
we have never heard it before! It will have a real _success_ at Court.”

“Shall I sing for the Emperor again?” said the Nightingale, who thought
that the Emperor was there in person.

“Mine excellent little Nightingale,” said the Lord-in-Waiting, “I have
the great pleasure of bidding you to a Court-Festival this night, when
you will enchant His Imperial Majesty with your delightful warbling.”

“My voice sounds better among the green trees,” said the Nightingale.
But it came willingly when it knew that the Emperor wished it.

There was a great deal of furbishing up at the Palace. The walls and
ceiling, which were of porcelain, shone with a light of a thousand
golden lamps. The most beautiful flowers of the tinkling kind were
placed in the passages. There was running to and fro, and a thorough
draught. But that is just what made the bells ring: one could not
oneself. In the middle of the large hall where the Emperor sat, a
golden rod had been set up on which the Nightingale was to perch. The
whole Court was present, and the little Kitchen-maid was allowed to
stand behind the door, for she had now the actual title of a Court
Kitchen Maid. All were there in their smartest clothes, and they all
looked towards the little grey bird to which the Emperor nodded.

And the Nightingale sang so delightfully that tears sprang into the
Emperor's eyes and rolled down his cheeks; and then the Nightingale
sang even more beautifully. The song went straight to the heart, and
the Emperor was so delighted that he declared that the Nightingale
should have his golden slipper to hang round its neck. But the
Nightingale declined. It had already had its reward.

“I have seen tears in the Emperor's eyes. That to me is the richest
tribute. An Emperor's tears have a wonderful power. God knows my reward
is great enough,” and again its sweet, glorious voice was heard.

“That is the most delightful coquetting I have ever known,” said the
ladies sitting round, and they took water into their mouths, in order
to gurgle when anyone spoke to them, and they really thought they were
like the Nightingale. Even the footmen and the chambermaids sent word
that they, too, were satisfied, and that means a great deal, for these
are the people whom it is most difficult to please. There was no doubt
as to the Nightingale's success. It was sure to stay at Court, and
have its own cage, with liberty to go out twice in the daytime, and
once at night. Twelve servants went out with it, and each held a silk
ribbon which was tied to the bird's leg, and they held it very tightly.
There was not much pleasure in going out under those conditions. The
whole town was talking of the wonderful bird, and when two people met,
one said: “Nightin-” and the other said “gale,” and they sighed and
understood one another. Eleven cheese-mongers' children were called
after the bird, though none of them had a note in his voice. One day
a large parcel came for the Emperor. Outside was written the word:
“Nightingale.”

“Here we have a new book about our wonderful bird,” said the Emperor.
But it was not a book; it was a little work of art which lay in a
box--an artificial Nightingale, which was supposed to look like the
real one, but it was set in diamonds, rubies and sapphires. As soon as
you wound it up, it could sing one of the pieces which the real bird
sang, and its tail moved up and down and glittered with silver and
gold. Round its neck was a ribbon on which was written: “The Emperor of
Japan's Nightingale is miserable compared with the Emperor of China's.”

“That is delightful,” they all said, and on the messenger who had
brought the artificial bird they bestowed the title of “Imperial
Nightingale-Bringer-in-Chief.”

“Let them sing together, and _what_ a duet that will be!”

And so they had to sing, but the thing would not work, because the
real Nightingale could only sing in its own way, and the artificial
Nightingale could only play by clock-work.

“That is not its fault,” said the Band Master. “Time is its strong
point, and it has quite my method.”

Then the artificial Nightingale had to sing alone. It had just as much
success as the real bird, and then it was so much handsomer to look at:
it glittered like bracelets and breast-pins. It sang the same tune
three and thirty times, and it was still not tired: the people would
willingly have listened to the whole performance over again from the
start. But the Emperor suggested that the real Nightingale should sing
for a while. But where was it? Nobody had noticed that it had flown out
of the open window back to its green woods.

“But what is the meaning of all this?” said the Emperor. All the
courtiers upbraided the Nightingale and said that it was a most
ungrateful creature.

“We have the better of the two,” they said, and the artificial
Nightingale had to sing again, and this was the thirty-fourth time
they heard the same tune. But they did not know it properly even then,
because it was so difficult, and the bandmaster praised the wonderful
bird in the highest terms, and even asserted that it was superior to
the real bird, not only as regarded the outside, with the many lovely
diamonds, but also the inside as well.

“You see, ladies and gentlemen, and above all your Imperial Majesty,
that with the real Nightingale, you can never predict what may happen,
but with the artificial bird, everything is settled upon beforehand; so
it remains and it cannot be changed. One can account for it. One can
rip it open and show the human ingenuity, explaining how the cylinders
lie, how they work, and how one thing is the result of another.”

“That is just what we think,” they all exclaimed, and the Bandmaster
received permission to exhibit the bird to the people on the following
Sunday. The Emperor said they were to hear it sing. They listened, and
were as much delighted as if they had been drunk with tea, which is
a thoroughly Chinese habit, and they all said “Oh!” and stuck their
forefingers in the air, and nodded their heads. But the poor Fisherman
who had heard the real Nightingale, said: “It sounds quite well, and a
little like it, but there is something missing. I do not know what it
is.”

The real Nightingale was banished from the Kingdom. The artificial bird
had its place on a silken cushion close to the Emperor's bed. All the
presents it had received, the gold and precious stones, lay all round
it, and it had been honoured with the title of High Imperial Bedroom
Singer--in the first rank, on the left side, for even the Emperor
considered that side the grander on which the heart is placed, and
even an Emperor has his heart on the left side. The Bandmaster wrote
twenty-five volumes about the wonderful artificial bird. The book was
very learned and very long, filled with the most difficult words in the
Chinese language, and everybody said that he had read it and understood
it, for otherwise he would have been considered stupid, and would have
been trampled upon.

And thus a whole year passed away. The Emperor, the Court and all the
other Chinese knew every little gurgle in the artificial bird's song,
and just for this reason, they were all the better pleased with it.
They could sing it themselves--which they did. The boys in the street
sang “zizizi” and “cluck, cluck,” and even the Emperor sang it. Yes, it
was certainly beautiful. But one evening, while the bird was singing,
and the Emperor lay in bed listening to it, there was a whirring sound
inside the bird, and something whizzed; all the wheels ran round, and
the music stopped. The Emperor sprang out of bed and sent for the Court
Physician, but what could he do? Then they sent for the watch-maker,
and after much talk and examination, he patched the bird up, but he
said it must be spared as much as possible, because the hammers were
so worn out and he could not put new ones in so that the music could
be counted on. This was a great grief. The bird could only be allowed
to sing once a year, and even that was risky, but on these occasions
the Bandmaster would make a little speech, introducing difficult words,
saying the bird was as good as it ever had been: and that was true.

Five years passed away, and a great sorrow had come over the land. The
people all really cared for their Emperor: now he was ill and it was
said he could not live. A new Emperor had been chosen, and the people
stood about the streets, and questioned the Lord-in-Waiting about their
Emperor's condition.

“P!” he said, and shook his head.

The Emperor lay pale and cold on his great, gorgeous bed: the whole
Court believed that he was dead, and they all hastened to pay homage to
the new Emperor. The footmen hurried off to discuss matters, and the
chambermaids gave a great coffee party. Cloth had been laid down in
all the rooms and passages, so that not a footstep should be heard and
it was all fearfully quiet. But the Emperor was not yet dead. He lay
stiff and pale in the sumptuous bed, with its long, velvet curtains,
and the heavy gold tassels: just above was an open window, and the moon
shone in upon the Emperor and the artificial bird. The poor Emperor
could hardly breathe: it was as if something were weighing him down:
he opened his eyes and saw it was Death, sitting on his chest, wearing
his golden crown, holding in one hand the golden sword, and in the
other the splendid banner: and from the folds of the velvet curtains
strange faces peered forth, some terrible to look on, others mild and
friendly: these were the Emperor's good and bad deeds, which gazed upon
him now that Death sat upon his heart.

“Do you remember this?” whispered one after the other. “Do you remember
that?” They told him so much that the sweat poured down his face.

“I never knew that,” said the Emperor. “Play music! music! Beat the
great Chinese drum!” he called out, “so that I may not hear what they
are saying!”

But they kept on, and Death nodded his head, like a Chinaman, at
everything they said.

“Music, music,” cried the Emperor. “You little precious bird! Sing to
me, ah! sing to me! I have given you gold and costly treasures. I have
hung my golden slipper about your neck. Sing to me. Sing to me!”

But the bird stood still: there was no one to wind him up, and
therefore he could not sing. But Death went on, staring at the Emperor
with his great hollow sockets, and it was terribly still.

Then, suddenly, close to the window, came the sound of a lovely song.
It was the little live Nightingale which perched on the branches
outside. It had heard of its Emperor's plight, and had therefore flown
hither to bring him comfort and hope, and as he sang, the faces became
paler and the blood coursed more freely through the Emperor's weak
body, and Death himself listened and said: “Go on, little Nightingale.
Go on.”

“And will you give me the splendid sword, and the rich banner and the
Emperor's crown?”

And Death gave all these treasures for a song. And still the
Nightingale sang on. He sang of the quiet churchyard, where the white
roses grow, where the Elder flowers bloom, and where the grass is kept
moist by the tears of the survivors, and there came to Death such a
longing to see his garden, that he floated out of the window, in the
form of a white, cold mist.

“Thank you, thank you,” said the Emperor. “You heavenly little bird, I
know you well! I banished you from the land, and you have charmed away
the evil spirits from my bed, and you have driven Death from my heart.
How shall I reward you?”

“You have rewarded me,” said the Nightingale. “I received tears from
your eyes the first time I sang, and I never forget that. These are
jewels which touch the heart of the singer. But sleep now, that you
may wake fresh and strong. I will sing to you,” and it sang, and the
Emperor fell into a sweet sleep. The sun shone in upon him through the
window, and he woke feeling strong and healthy. None of his servants
had come back, because they thought he was dead, but the Nightingale
was still singing.

“You will always stay with me,” said the Emperor. “You shall only sing
when it pleases you, and I will break the artificial Nightingale into a
thousand pieces.”

“Do not do that,” said the Nightingale. “It has done the best it
could. Keep it with you. I cannot build my nest in a palace, but let
me come just as I please. I will sit on the branch near the window,
and sing to you that you may be joyful and thoughtful too. I will sing
to you of the happy folk, and of those that suffer; I will sing of
the evil and of the good, which is being hidden from you. The little
singing bird flies hither and thither, to the poor fisherman, to the
peasant's hut, to many who live far from you and the Court. Your heart
is dearer to me than your crown, and yet the crown has a breath of
sanctity too. I will come; I will sing to you, but one thing you must
promise.”

“All that you ask,” said the Emperor and stood there in his imperial
robes which he had put on himself, and held the heavy golden sword on
his heart.

“I beg you, let no one know that you have a little bird who tells you
everything. It will be far better thus,” and the Nightingale flew away.

The servants came to look upon their dead Emperor: they stood there and
the Emperor said “Good morning.”

   (_From Hans. C. Andersen, translated from the Danish by Marie L.
                              Shedlock._)


THE SWINEHERD.

There was once upon a time a needy prince. He owned a Kingdom--a very
small one, but it was large enough to support a wife, and he made up
his mind to marry. Now, it was really very bold on his part to say of
the King's daughter: “Will you marry me?” But he dared to do so, for
his name was known far and wide, and there were hundreds of princesses
who would willingly have said: “Yes, with thanks.” But, whether she
would say so, was another matter. We shall hear what happened.

On the grave of the Prince's father there grew a rose-tree--such a
wonderful rose-tree! It only bloomed once in five years, and then it
only bore one rose--but what a rose! Its perfume was so sweet that
whoever smelt it forgot all his cares and sorrows. The Prince had also
a Nightingale which could sing as if all the delicious melodies in the
world were contained in its little throat. The rose and the Nightingale
were both to be given to the Princess and were therefore placed in two
silver cases and sent to her. The Emperor had them carried before him
into the great hall where the Princess was playing at “visiting” with
her ladies-in-waiting. This was their chief occupation; and when she
saw the great cases with the presents in them, she clapped her hands
with joy.

“If it were only a little pussy-cat,” she cried. But out came the
beautiful rose.

“How elegantly it is made,” said all the ladies of the Court.

“It is more than elegant,” said the Emperor; “it is nice.”

“Fie, papa,” she said, “it is not made at all; it is a natural rose.”

“Fie,” said all the ladies of the court; “it is a natural rose.”

“Let us see what the other case contains before we lose our temper,”
said the Emperor, and then out came the little Nightingale and sang so
sweetly that nobody right off could think of any bad thing to say of it.

“Superbe, charmant,” cried the ladies of the Court, for they all
chattered French, one worse than the other.

“How the bird reminds me of the late Empress' musical-box!” said an old
Lord-in-Waiting. “Ah me! The same tone, the same execution----”

“The very same,” said the Emperor, and he cried like a little child.

“I hope it is not a real bird,” said the Princess.

“Oh yes; it is a real bird,” said those who had brought it.

“Then let the bird fly away,” she said, and she would on no account
allow the Prince to come in.

But he was not to be discouraged. He smeared his face with black and
brown, drew his cap over his forehead, and knocked at the Palace door.
The Emperor opened it.

“Good day, Emperor,” he said. “Could I not get some work at the Palace?”

“There are so many who apply for positions here!” said the Emperor.
“Now let me see: I am in want of a swineherd. I have a good many pigs
to keep.”

So the Prince was appointed as Imperial Swineherd. He had a wretched
little room near the pig-sty and here he was obliged to stay. But the
whole day he sat and worked, and by the evening he had made a neat
little pipkin, and round it was a set of bells, and as soon as the pot
began to boil, the bells fell to jingling most sweetly and played the
old melody:

    “Ah, my dear Augustus,
    All is lost, all is lost;”

but the most wonderful thing was that when you held your finger in
the steam of the pipkin, you could immediately smell what dinner was
cooking on every hearth in the town--that was something very different
from a rose.

The Princess was walking out with her ladies-in-Waiting, and when she
heard the melody, she stopped short, and looked much rejoiced, for she
could play “Ah, my dear Augustus.” That was the only tune she knew, but
she could play it with one finger. “Why, that is what I can play,” she
said. “What a cultivated swineherd he must be. Go down and ask him how
much his instrument costs.”

So one of the Ladies-in-Waiting was obliged to go down, but she put on
pattens first.

“What do you charge for your instrument?” asked the Lady-in-Waiting.

“I will have ten kisses from the Princess,” said the Swineherd.

“Good gracious!” said the Lady-in-Waiting.

“I will not take less,” said the Swineherd.

“Well, what did he say?” asked the Princess.

“I really cannot tell you,” said the Lady-in-Waiting. “It is too
dreadful.”

“Then you can whisper it,” said the Princess.

So she whispered it.

“He is very rude,” said the Princess, and she walked away. But when she
had walked a few steps the bells sounded so sweetly:

    “Ah, my dear Augustus,
    All is lost, all is lost.”

“Listen,” said the Princess, “ask him whether he will have his kisses
from my Ladies-in-Waiting.”

“No, thank you,” said the Swineherd. “I will have ten kisses from the
Princess, or I will keep my pipkin.”

“How tiresome it is,” said the Princess; “but you must stand round me,
so that nobody shall see.”

So the Ladies-in-Waiting stood round her, and they spread out their
dresses. The Swineherd got the kisses, and she got the pipkin.

How delighted she was. All the evening, and the whole of the next day
that pot was made to boil. And you might have known what everybody
was cooking on every hearth in the town from the Chamberlain's to the
shoemaker's. The court ladies danced and clapped their hands.

“We know who is to have fruit, soup and pancakes. We know who is going
to have porridge, and cutlets. How very interesting it is!”

“Most, interesting, indeed,” said the first Lady-of-Honour.

“Yes, but hold your tongues, because I am the Emperor's daughter.”

“Of course we will,” they cried in one breath.

The Swineherd, or rather the Prince, though they did not know but
that he was a real swineherd, did not let the day pass without doing
something, and he made a rattle which could play all the waltzes and
the polkas and the hop-dances which had been known since the creation
of the world.

“But this is superb,” said the Princess, who was just passing: “I have
never heard more beautiful composition. Go and ask him the cost of the
instrument. But I will give no more kisses.”

“He insists on a hundred kisses from the Princess,” said the
Ladies-in-Waiting who had been down to ask.

“I think he must be quite mad,” said the Princess, and she walked away.
But when she had taken a few steps, she stopped short, and said: “One
must encourage the fine arts, and I am the Emperor's daughter. Tell him
he may have ten kisses, as before, and the rest he can take from my
Ladies-in-Waiting.”

“Yes, but we object to that,” said the Ladies-in-Waiting.

“That is nonsense,” said the Princess. “If I can kiss him, surely you
can do the same. Go down at once. Don't I pay you board and wages?”

So the Ladies-in-Waiting were obliged to go down to the Swineherd again.

“A hundred kisses from the Princess, or each keeps his own.”

“Stand round me,” she said. And all the Ladies-in-Waiting stood round
her, and the Swineherd began to kiss her.

“What can all that crowd be down by the pigsty?” said the Emperor,
stepping out on to the balcony. He rubbed his eyes and put on his
spectacles. “It is the court-ladies up to some of their tricks. I must
go down and look after them.” He pulled up his slippers (for they were
shoes which he had trodden down at the heel).

Heavens! How he hurried! As soon as he came into the garden he walked
very softly, and the Ladies-in-Waiting had so much to do counting
the kisses, so that everything should be done fairly, and that the
Swineherd should neither get too many nor too few, that they never
noticed the Emperor at all. He stood on tiptoe.

“What is this all about?” he said, when he saw the kissing that was
going on, and he hit them on the head with his slipper, just as the
Swineherd was getting the eighty-sixth kiss. “Heraus,” said the
Emperor, for he was angry, and both the Princess and the Swineherd were
turned out of his Kingdom.

The Princess wept, the Swineherd scolded, and the rain streamed down.

“Ah! wretched creature that I am,” said the Princess. “If I had only
taken the handsome Prince! Ah me, how unhappy I am!”

Then the Swineherd went behind a tree, washed the black and brown off
his face, threw off his ragged clothes, and stood forth in his royal
apparel, looking so handsome that she was obliged to curtsey.

“I have learned to despise you,” he said. “You would not have an
honourable Prince. You could not appreciate a rose or a Nightingale,
but to get a toy, you kissed the Swineherd. Now you have your reward.”

So he went into his Kingdom, shut the door and bolted it, and she had
to stand outside singing:

    “Ah, you dear Augustus,
    All, all is lost.”

     (_From the Danish of Hans C. Andersen, translated by Marie L.
                              Shedlock._)


THE PRINCESS AND THE PEA.

There was once a Prince who wished to marry a Princess, but she must
be a real Princess. He travelled all over the world to find such a
one; but there was always something the matter. There were plenty of
Princesses, but whether they were real or not, he could not be quite
certain. There was always something that was not quite right. So he
came home again, feeling very sad, for he was so anxious to have a real
Princess.

One evening a terrible storm came on: it lightened, and thundered and
the rain came down in torrents. It was quite terrible. Then there
came a knocking at the town-gate, and the old King went down to open
it. There, outside, stood a Princess. But gracious! the rain and bad
weather had made her look dreadful. The water was running out of her
hair on to her clothes, into the tips of her shoes and out at the
heels, and yet she said she was a real Princess.

“We shall soon find out about that,” thought the old Queen. But
she said never a word. She went into the bedroom, took off all the
bed-clothes and put a pea on the bedstead. Then she took twenty
mattresses and laid them on the pea and twenty eider-down quilts upon
the mattresses. And the Princess was to sleep there at night.

In the morning they came to her and asked her how she had slept.

“Oh! dreadfully,” said the Princess. “I scarcely closed my eyes the
whole night long. Heaven knows what could have been in the bed. I have
lain upon something hard, so that my whole body is black and blue. It
is quite dreadful.”

So they could see now that she was a real Princess, because she had
felt the pea through twenty mattresses and twenty eider-down quilts.
Nobody but a real Princess could be so sensitive.

So the Prince married her, for now he knew that he had found a real
Princess, and the pea was sent to an Art Museum, where it can still be
seen, if nobody has taken it away.

Now, mark you: This is a true story.

(_Translated from the Danish of Hans C. Andersen by Marie L. Shedlock._)


I give the following story, quoted by Professor Ker in his Romanes
Lecture, 1906, as an encouragement to those who develop the art of
story-telling.


THE STORY OF STURLA.

Then Sturla got ready to sail away with the king, and his name was
put on the list. He went on board before many men had come; he had
a sleeping bag and a travelling chest, and took his place on the
fore-deck. A little later the king came on to the quay, and a company
of men with him. Sturla rose and bowed, and bade the king ‘hail,’
but the king answered nothing, and went aft along the ship to the
quarter-deck. They sailed that day to go south along the coast. But
in the evening when men unpacked their provisions Sturla sat still,
and no one invited him to mess. Then a servant of the king's came and
asked Sturla if he had any meat and drink. Sturla said ‘No.’ Then the
king's servant went to the king and spoke with him, out of hearing:
and then went forward to Sturla and said: “You shall go to mess with
Thorir Mouth and Erlend Maw.” They took him into their mess, but rather
stiffly. When men were turning in to sleep, a sailor of the king's
asked who should tell them stories. There was little answer. Then he
said: “Sturla the Icelander, will you tell stories?” “As you will,”
said Sturla. So he told them the story of Huld, better and fuller than
any one there had ever heard it told before. Then many men pushed
forward to the fore-deck, wanting to hear as clearly as might be, and
there was a great crowd. The queen asked: “What is that crowd on deck
there?” A man answered: “The men are listening to the story that the
Icelander tells.” “What story is that?” said she. He answers: “It is
about a great troll-wife, and it is a good story and well told.” The
king bade her pay no heed to that, and go to sleep. She says: “I think
this Icelander must be a good fellow, and less to blame than he is
reported.” The king was silent.

So the night passed, and the next morning there was no wind for them,
and the king's ship lay in the same place. Later in the day, when men
sat at their drink, the king sent dishes from his table to Sturla.
Sturla's messmates were pleased with this: “You bring better luck than
we thought, if this sort of thing goes on.” After dinner the queen sent
for Sturla and asked him to come to her and bring the troll-wife story
along with him. So Sturla went aft to the quarter-deck, and greeted
the king and queen. The king answered little, the queen well and
cheerfully. She asked him to tell the same story he had told overnight.
He did so, for a great part of the day. When he had finished, the queen
thanked him, and many others besides, and made him out in their minds
to be a learned man and sensible. But the king said nothing; only he
smiled a little. Sturla thought he saw that the king's whole frame of
mind was brighter than the day before. So he said to the king that
he had made a poem about him, and another about his father: “I would
gladly get a hearing for them.” The queen said: “Let him recite his
poem; I am told that he is the best of poets, and his poem will be
excellent.” The king bade him say on, if he would, and repeat the poem
he professed to have made about him. Sturla chanted it to the end. The
queen said: “To my mind that is a good poem.” The king said to her:
“Can you follow the poem clearly?” “I would be fain to have you think
so, Sir,” said the queen. The king said: “I have learned that Sturla
is good at verses.” Sturla took his leave of the king and queen and
went to his place. There was no sailing for the king all that day. In
the evening before he went to bed he sent for Sturla. And when he came
he greeted the king and said: “What will you have me to do, Sir?” The
king called for a silver goblet full of wine, and drank some and gave
it to Sturla and said: “A health to a friend in wine!” (_Vin skal til
vinar drekka._) Sturla said: “God be praised for it!” “Even so,” says
the king, “and now I wish you to say the poem you have made about my
father.” Sturla repeated it: and when it was finished men praised it
much, and most of all the queen. The king said: “To my thinking, you
are a better reciter than the Pope.”

                              _Sturlunga Saga_, vol. ii, pp. 269 _sqq._


A SAGA.

In the grey beginnings of the world, or ever the flower of justice
had rooted in the heart, there lived among the daughters of men two
children, sisters, of one house.

In childhood did they leap and climb and swim with the men children of
their race, and were nurtured on the same stories of gods and heroes.

In maidenhood they could do all that a maiden might and more--delve
could they no less than spin, hunt no less than weave, brew pottage and
helm ships, wake the harp and tell the stars, face all danger and laugh
at all pain.

Joyous in toil-time and rest-time were they as the days and years
of their youth came and went. Death had spared their house, and
unhappiness knew they none. Yet often as at falling day they sat before
sleep round the hearth of red fire, listening with the household to the
brave songs of gods and heroes, there would surely creep into their
hearts a shadow--the thought that whatever the years of their lives,
and whatever the generous deeds, there would for them, as women, be
no escape at the last from the dire mists of Hela, the fogland beyond
the grave for all such as die not in battle; no escape for them from
Hela, and no place for ever for them or for their kind among the
glory-crowned, sword-shriven heroes of echoing Valhalla.

That shadow had first fallen in their lusty childhood, had slowly
gathered darkness through the overflowing days of maidenhood, and now,
in the strong tide of full womanhood, often lay upon their future as
the moon in Odin's wrath lies upon the sun.

But stout were they to face danger and laugh at pain, and for all the
shadow upon their hope they lived brave and songful days--the one a
homekeeper and in her turn a mother of men; the other unhusbanded,
but gentle to ignorance and sickness and sorrow through the width and
length of the land.

And thus, facing life fearlessly and ever with a smile, those two women
lived even unto extreme old age, unto the one's children's children's
children, labouring truly unto the end and keeping strong hearts
against the dread day of Hela, and the fate-locked gates of Valhalla.

But at the end a wonder.

As these sisters looked their last upon the sun, the one in the
ancestral homestead under the eyes of love, the other in a distant land
among strange faces, behold the wind of Thor, and out of the deep of
heaven the white horses of Odin, All-Father, bearing Valkyrie, shining
messengers of Valhalla. And those two world-worn women, faithful in all
their lives, were caught up in death in divine arms and borne far from
the fogs of Hela to golden thrones among the battle heroes, upon which
the Nornir, sitting at the loom of life, had from all eternity graven
their names.

And from that hour have the gates of Valhalla been thrown wide to all
faithful endeavour whether of man or of women.

                             JOHN RUSSELL,
                 Headmaster of the King Alfred School.


THE LEGEND OF ST. CHRISTOPHER.

Christopher was of the lineage of the Canaaneans and he was of a right
great stature, and had a terrible and fearful cheer and countenance.
And he was twelve cubits of length. And, as it is read in some
histories, when he served and dwelled with the king of Canaaneans, it
came in his mind that he would seek the greatest prince that was in the
world and him he would serve and obey.

And so far he went that he came to a right great king, of whom the
renown generally was that he was the greatest of the world. And when
the king saw him he received him into his service and made him to dwell
in his court.

Upon a time a minstrel sang before him a song in which he named oft
the devil. And the king which was a Christian man, when he heard him
name the devil, made anon the sign of the cross in his visage. And
when Christopher saw that, he had great marvel what sign it was and
wherefore the king made it. And he demanded it of him. And because the
king would not say, he said, “If thou tell me not, I shall no longer
dwell with thee.” And then the king told to him saying, “Alway when I
hear the devil named, I fear that he should have power over me, and
I garnish me with this sign that he grieve not nor annoy me.” Then
Christopher said to him, “Thou doubtest the devil that he hurt thee
not? Then is the devil more mighty and greater than thou art. I am then
deceived of my hope and purpose; for I supposed that I had found the
most mighty and the most greatest lord of the world. But I commend thee
to God, for I will go seek him to be my lord and I his servant.”

And then he departed from this king and hasted him to seek the devil.
And as he went by a great desert he saw a great company of knights.
Of which a knight cruel and horrible came to him and demanded whither
he went. And Christopher answered to him and said, “I go to seek the
devil for to be my master.” And he said, “I am he that thou seekest.”
And then Christopher was glad and bound himself to be his servant
perpetual, and took him for his master and lord.

And as they went together by a common way, they found there a cross
erect and standing. And anon as the devil saw the cross, he was afeard
and fled, and left the right way and brought Christopher about by a
sharp desert, and after, when they were past the cross, he brought him
to the highway that they had left. And when Christopher saw that, he
marvelled and demanded whereof he doubted that he had left high and
fair way and had gone so far about by so hard desert. And the devil
would not tell to him in no wise. Then Christopher said to him, “If
thou wilt not tell me I shall anon depart from thee and shall serve
thee no more.” Therefore the devil was constrained to tell him, and
said, “There was a man called Christ which was hanged on the cross, and
when I see his sign, I am sore afeard and flee from it wheresomever
I find it.” To whom Christopher said, “Then he is greater and more
mightier than thou, when thou art afraid of his sign. And I see well
that I have laboured in vain since I have not founden the greatest lord
of all the earth. And I will serve thee no longer. Go thy way then: for
I will go seek Jesus Christ.”

And when he had long sought and demanded where he should find Christ,
at the last he came into a great desert to an hermit that dwelled
there. And this hermit preached to him of Jesus Christ and informed
him in the faith diligently. And he said to him, “This king whom thou
desirest to serve, requireth this service that thou must oft fast.” And
Christopher said to him, “Require of me some other thing and I shall
do it. For that which thou requirest I may not do.” And the hermit
said, “Thou must then wake and make many prayers.” And Christopher
said to him, “I wot not what it is. I may do no such thing.” And then
the hermit said unto him, “Knowest thou such a river in which many
be perished and lost?” To whom Christopher said, “I know it well.”
Then said the hermit, “Because thou art noble and high of stature and
strong in thy members, thou shalt be resident by that river and shalt
bear over all them that shall pass there. Which shall be a thing right
convenable to Our Lord Jesus Christ, whom thou desirest to serve, and
I hope He shall shew Himself to thee.” Then said Christopher, “Certes,
this service may I well do, and I promise to Him for to do it.”

Then went Christopher to this river, and made there his habitation
for him. And he bare a great pole in his hand instead of a staff, by
which he sustained him in the water; and bare over all manner of people
without ceasing. And there he abode, thus doing many days.

And on a time, as he slept in his lodge, he heard the voice of a
child which called him and said, “Christopher, come out and bear me
over.” Then he awoke and went out; but he found no man. And when he
was again in his house, he heard the same voice, and he ran out and
found nobody. The third time he was called, and came thither, and
found a child beside the rivage of the river: which prayed him goodly
to bear him over the water. And then Christopher lift up the child on
his shoulders and took his staff and entered into the river for to
pass. And the water of the river arose and swelled more and more. And
the child was heavy as lead. And always as he went further the water
increased and grew more, and the child more and more waxed heavy: in
so much that Christopher had great anguish and feared to be drowned.
And when he was escaped with great pain and passed the water, and set
the child aground, he said to the child, “Child, thou hast put me in
great peril. Thou weighest almost as I had had all the world upon me.
I might bear no greater burden.” And the child answered, “Christopher,
marvel thou no thing. For thou hast not only borne all the world upon
thee; but thou hast borne Him that created and made all the world upon
thy shoulders. I am Jesus Christ, the King to whom thou servest in this
work. And that thou mayest know that I say to thee truth, set thy staff
in the earth by the house, and thou shalt see to-morrow that it shall
bear flowers and fruit.” And anon he vanished from his eyes.

And then Christopher set his staff in the earth and when he arose on
the morrow, he found his staff like a palm-tree bearing flowers, leaves
and dates.


ARTHUR IN THE CAVE.

Once upon a time a Welshman was walking on London Bridge, staring
at the traffic and wondering why there were so many kites hovering
about. He had come to London, after many adventures with thieves
and highwaymen, which need not be related here, in charge of a herd
of black Welsh cattle. He had sold them with much profit, and with
jingling gold in his pocket he was going about to see the sights of the
city.

He was carrying a hazel staff in his hand, for you must know that a
good staff is as necessary to a drover as teeth are to his dogs. He
stood still to gaze at some wares in a shop (for at that time London
Bridge was shops from beginning to end), when he noticed that a man was
looking at his stick with a long fixed look. The man after a while came
to him and asked him where he came from.

“I come from my own country,” said the Welshman, rather surlily, for he
could not see what business the man had to ask such a question.

“Do not take it amiss,” said the stranger: “if you will only answer my
questions, and take my advice, it will be greater benefit to you than
you imagine. Do you remember where you cut that stick?”

The Welshman was still suspicious, and said: “What does it matter where
I cut it?”

“It matters,” said the questioner, “because there is a treasure hidden
near the spot where you cut that stick. If you can remember the place
and conduct me to it, I will put you in possession of great riches.”

The Welshman now understood he had to deal with a sorcerer, and he was
greatly perplexed as to what to do. On the one hand, he was tempted by
the prospect of wealth; on the other hand, he knew that the sorcerer
must have derived his knowledge from devils, and he feared to have
anything to do with the powers of darkness. The cunning man strove hard
to persuade him, and at length made him promise to shew the place where
he cut his hazel staff.

The Welshman and the magician journeyed together to Wales. They went
to Craig y Dinas, the Rock of the Fortress, at the head of the Neath
valley, near Pont Nedd Fechan, and the Welshman, pointing to the stock
or root of an old hazel, said: “This is where I cut my stick.”

“Let us dig,” said the sorcerer. They digged until they came to a
broad, flat stone. Prising this up, they found some steps leading
downwards. They went down the steps and along a narrow passage until
they came to a door. “Are you brave?” asked the sorcerer, “will you
come in with me?”

“I will,” said the Welshman, his curiosity getting the better of his
fear.

They opened the door, and a great cave opened out before them. There
was a faint red light in the cave, and they could see everything. The
first thing they came to was a bell.

“Do not touch that bell,” said the sorcerer, “or it will be all over
with us both.”

As they went further in, the Welshman saw that the place was not empty.
There were soldiers lying down asleep, thousands of them, as far as
ever the eye could see. Each one was clad in bright armour, the steel
helmet of each was on his head, the shining shield of each was on his
arm, the sword of each was near his hand, each had his spear stuck in
the ground near him, and each and all were asleep.

In the midst of the cave was a great round table at which sat warriors
whose noble features and richly-dight armour proclaimed that they were
not as the roll of common men.

Each of these, too, had his head bent down in sleep. On a golden throne
on the further side of the round table was a king of gigantic stature
and august presence. In his hand, held below the hilt, was a mighty
sword with scabbard and haft of gold studded with gleaming gems; on his
head was a crown set with precious stones which flashed and glinted
like so many points of fire. Sleep had set its seal on his eyelids
also.

“Are they asleep?” asked the Welshman, hardly believing his own eyes.
“Yes, each and all of them,” answered the sorcerer. “But, if you touch
yonder bell, they will all awake.”

“How long have they been asleep?”

“For over a thousand years.”

“Who are they?”

“Arthur's warriors, waiting for the time to come when they shall
destroy all the enemy of the Cymry and repossess the strand of Britain,
establishing their own king once more at Caer Lleon.”

“Who are these sitting at the round table?”

“These are Arthur's knights--Owain, the son of Urien; Cai, the son
of Cynyr; Gnalchmai, the son of Gwyar; Peredir, the son of Efrawe;
Geraint, the son of Erbin; Trystan, the son of March; Bedwyr, the son
of Bedrawd; Ciernay, the son of Celyddon; Edeyrn, the son of Nudd;
Cymri, the son of Clydno.”

“And on the golden throne?” broke in the Welshman.

“Is Arthur himself, with his sword Excalibur in his hand,” replied the
sorcerer.

Impatient by this time at the Welshman's questions, the sorcerer
hastened to a great heap of yellow gold on the floor of the cave. He
took up as much as he could carry, and bade his companion do the same.
“It is time for us to go,” he then said, and he led the way towards the
door by which they had entered.

But the Welshman was fascinated by the sight of the countless soldiers
in their glittering arms--all asleep.

“How I should like to see them all awaking!” he said to himself. “I
will touch the bell--I _must_ see them all arising from their sleep.”

When they came to the bell, he struck it until it rang through the
whole place. As soon as it rang, lo! the thousands of warriors leapt
to their feet and the ground beneath them shook with the sound of the
steel arms. And a great voice came from their midst: “Who rang the
bell? Has the day come?”

The sorcerer was so much frightened that he shook like an aspen leaf.
He shouted in answer: “No, the day has not come. Sleep on.”

The mighty host was all in motion, and the Welshman's eyes were dazzled
as he looked at the bright steel arms which illumined the cave as with
the light of myriad flames of fire.

“Arthur,” said the voice again, “awake; the bell has rung, the day is
breaking. Awake, Arthur the Great.”

“No,” shouted the sorcerer, “it is still night. Sleep on, Arthur the
Great.”

A sound came from the throne. Arthur was standing, and the jewels in
his crown shone like bright stars above the countless throng. His voice
was strong and sweet like the sound of many waters, and he said: “My
warriors, the day has not come when the Black Eagle and the Golden
Eagle shall go to war. It is only a seeker after gold who has rung the
bell. Sleep on, my warriors; the morn of Wales has not yet dawned.”

A peaceful sound like the distant sigh of the sea came over the cave,
and in a trice the soldiers were all asleep again. The sorcerer hurried
the Welshman out of the cave, moved the stone back to its place and
vanished.

Many a time did the Welshman try to find his way into the cave again,
but though he dug over every inch of the hill, he has never again found
the entrance to Arthur's Cave.

    From “The Welsh Fairy Book,” by W. Jenkyn Thomas. Fisher Unwin.


HAFIZ THE STONE-CUTTER.

There was once a stone-cutter whose name was Hafiz, and all day long he
chipped, chipped, chipped at his block. And often he grew very weary
of his task and he would say to himself impatiently, “Why should I go
on chip-chip-chipping at my block? Why should I not have pleasure and
amusement as other folk have?”

One day, when the sun was very hot and when he felt specially weary, he
suddenly heard the sound of many feet, and, looking up from his work,
he saw a great procession coming his way. It was the King, mounted on
a splendid charger, all his soldiers to the right, in their shining
armour, and the servants to the left, dressed in gorgeous clothing,
ready to do his behests.

And Hafiz said: “How splendid to be a King! If only I could be a King,
if only for ten minutes, so that I might know what it feels like!” And
then, even as he spoke, he seemed to be dreaming, and in his dream he
sang this little song:

    Ah me! Ah me!
    If Hafiz only the King could be!

And then a voice from the air around seemed to answer him and to say:

    Be thou the King.[54]

And Hafiz became the King, and he it was that sat on the splendid
charger, and they were his soldiers to the right and his servants to
the left. And Hafiz said: “I am King, and there is no one stronger in
the whole world than I.”

But soon, in spite of the golden canopy over his head, Hafiz began to
feel the terrible heat of the rays of the sun, and soon he noticed that
the soldiers and servants were weary, that his horse drooped, and that
he, Hafiz, was overcome, and he said angrily: “What! Is there something
stronger in the world than a King?” And, almost without knowing it, he
again sang his song--more boldly than the first time:

    Ah me! Ah me!
    If Hafiz only the Sun could be!

And the Voice answered:

    Be thou the Sun.

And Hafiz became the Sun, and shone down upon the Earth, but, because
he did not know how to shine very wisely, he shone very fiercely, so
that the crops dried up, and folk grew sick and died. And then there
arose from the East a little cloud which slipped between Hafiz and the
Earth, so that he could no longer shine down upon it, and he said: “Is
there something stronger in the world than the Sun?”

    Ah me! Ah me!
    If Hafiz only the Cloud could be!

And the Voice said:

    Be thou the cloud.

And Hafiz became the Cloud, and rained down water upon the Earth, but,
because he did not know how to do so wisely, there fell so much rain
that all the little rivulets became great rivers, and all the great
rivers overflowed their banks, and carried everything before them in
swift torrent--all except one great rock which stood unmoved. And Hafiz
said: “Is there something stronger than the Cloud?”

    Ah me! Ah me!
    If Hafiz only the Rock could be!

And the Voice said:

    Be thou the Rock.

And Hafiz became the Rock, and the Cloud disappeared and the waters
went down.

And Hafiz the Rock saw coming towards him a man--but he could not see
his face. As the man approached he suddenly raised a hammer and struck
Hafiz, so that he felt it through all his stony body. And Hafiz said:
“Is there something stronger in the world than the Rock?”

    Ah me! Ah me!
    If Hafiz only that man might be!

And the Voice said:

    Be thou--Thyself.

And Hafiz seized the hammer and said:

“The Sun was stronger than the King, the Cloud was stronger than the
Sun, the Rock was stronger than the Cloud, but I, Hafiz, was stronger
than all.”

           _Adapted and arranged for narration by M. C. S._


FOOTNOTES:

[54] The melody to be crooned at first and to grow louder at each
incident.


TO YOUR GOOD HEALTH.

(_From the Russian._)

Long long ago there lived a King who was such a mighty monarch that
whenever he sneezed everyone in the whole country had to say, “To your
good health!” Everyone said it except the Shepherd with the bright blue
eyes, and he would not say it.

The King heard of this and was very angry, and sent for the Shepherd to
appear before him.

The Shepherd came and stood before the throne, where the King sat
looking very grand and powerful. But, however grand or powerful he
might be, the Shepherd did not feel a bit afraid of him.

“Say at once, 'To my good health!'” cried the King.

“To my good health,” replied the Shepherd.

“To mine--to _mine_, you rascal, you vagabond!” stormed the King.

“To mine, to mine, Your Majesty,” was the answer.

“But to _mine_--to my own!” roared the King, and beat on his breast in
a rage.

“Well, yes; to mine, of course, to my own,” cried the Shepherd, and
gently tapped his breast.

The King was beside himself with fury and did not know what to do, when
the Lord Chamberlain interfered:

“Say at once--say at this very moment, ‘To your health, Your Majesty,’
for if you don't say it you will lose your life,” he whispered.

“No, I won't say it till I get the Princess for my wife,” was the
Shepherd's answer.

Now the Princess was sitting on a little throne beside the King her
father, and she looked as sweet and lovely as a little golden dove.
When she heard what the Shepherd said, she could not help laughing, for
there is no denying the fact that this young shepherd with the blue
eyes pleased her very much; indeed, he pleased her better than any
king's son she had yet seen.

But the King was not as pleasant as his daughter, and he gave orders to
throw the Shepherd into the white bear's pit.

The guards led him away and thrust him into the pit with the white
bear, who had had nothing to eat for two days and was very hungry. The
door of the pit was hardly closed when the bear rushed at the Shepherd;
but when it saw his eyes it was so frightened that it was ready to eat
itself. It shrank away into a corner and gazed at him from there, and
in spite of being so famished, did not dare to touch him, but sucked
its own paws from sheer hunger. The Shepherd felt that if he once
removed his eyes off the beast he was a dead man, and in order to keep
himself awake he made songs and sang them, and so the night went by.

Next morning the Lord Chamberlain came to see the Shepherd's bones, and
was amazed to find him alive and well. He led him to the King, who fell
into a furious passion, and said:

“Well, you have learned what it is to be very near death, and now will
you say, 'To my very good health'?”

But the Shepherd answered:

“I am not afraid of ten deaths! I will only say it if I may have the
Princess for my wife.”

“Then go to your death,” cried the King, and ordered him to be thrown
into the den with the wild boars.

The wild boars had not been fed for a week, and when the Shepherd was
thrust into their den they rushed at him to tear him to pieces. But the
Shepherd took a little flute out of the sleeve of his jacket, and began
to play a merry tune, on which the wild boars first of all shrank shyly
away, and then got up on their hind legs and danced gaily. The Shepherd
would have given anything to be able to laugh, they looked so funny;
but he dared not stop playing, for he knew well enough that the moment
he stopped they would fall upon him and tear him to pieces. His eyes
were of no use to him here, for he could not have stared ten wild boars
in the face at once; so he kept on playing, and the wild boars danced
very slowly, as if in a minuet; then by degrees he played faster and
faster, till they could hardly twist and turn quickly enough, and ended
by all falling over each other in a heap, quite exhausted and out of
breath.

Then the Shepherd ventured to laugh at last; and he laughed so long
and so loud that when the Lord Chamberlain came early in the morning,
expecting to find only his bones, the tears were still running down his
cheeks from laughter.

As soon as the King was dressed the Shepherd was again brought before
him; but he was more angry than ever to think the wild boars had not
torn the man to bits, and he said:

“Well, you have learned what it feels to be near ten deaths, _now_ say
'To my good health!'”

But the Shepherd broke in with:

“I do not fear a hundred deaths; and I will only say it if I may have
the Princess for my wife.”

“Then go to a hundred deaths!” roared the King, and ordered the
Shepherd to be thrown down the deep vault of scythes.

The guards dragged him away to a dark dungeon, in the middle of which
was a deep well with sharp scythes all round it. At the bottom of the
well was a little light by which one could see, if anyone was thrown
in, whether he had fallen to the bottom.

When the Shepherd was dragged to the dungeon he begged the guards to
leave him alone a little while that he might look down into the pit of
scythes; perhaps he might after all make up his mind to say, “To your
good health” to the King.

So the guards left him alone, and he stuck up his long stick near the
wall, hung his cloak round the stick and put his hat on the top. He
also hung his knapsack up beside the cloak, so that it might seem to
have some body within it. When this was done, he called out to the
guards and said that he had considered the matter, but after all he
could not make up his mind to say what the King wished.

The guards came in, threw the hat and cloak, knapsack and stick all
down in the well together, watched to see how they put out the light at
the bottom, and came away, thinking that now there was really an end of
the Shepherd. But he had hidden in a dark corner, and was now laughing
to himself all the time.

Quite early next morning came the Lord Chamberlain with a lamp, and he
nearly fell backwards with surprise when he saw the Shepherd alive and
well. He brought him to the King, whose fury was greater than ever, but
who cried:

“Well, now you have been near a hundred deaths; will you say, 'To your
good health'?”

But the Shepherd only gave the same answer:

“I won't say it till the Princess is my wife.”

“Perhaps after all you may do it for less,” said the King, who saw that
there was no chance of making away with the Shepherd; and he ordered
the state coach to be got ready; then he made the Shepherd get in with
him and sit beside him, and ordered the coachman to drive to the silver
wood.

When they reached it, he said:

“Do you see this silver wood? Well, if you will say, ‘To your good
health,’ I will give it to you.”

The Shepherd turned hot and cold by turns, but he still persisted:

“I will not say it till the Princess is my wife.”

The King was much vexed; he drove further on till they came to a
splendid castle, all of gold, and then he said:

“Do you see this golden castle? Well, I will give you that too, the
silver wood and the golden castle, if only you will say that one thing
to me: 'To your good health.'”

The Shepherd gaped and wondered, and was quite dazzled, but he still
said:

“No, I will not say it till I have the Princess for my wife.”

This time the King was overwhelmed with grief, and gave orders to drive
on to the diamond pond, and there he tried once more:

“You shall have them all--all, if you will but say, 'To your good
health.'”

The Shepherd had to shut his staring eyes tight not to be dazzled with
the brilliant pond, but still he said:

“No, no; I will not say it till I have the Princess for my wife.”

Then the King saw that all his efforts were useless, and that he might
as well give in; so he said:

“Well, well, it is all the same to me--I will give you my daughter
to wife; but then you really and truly must say to me, 'To your good
health.'”

“Of course I'll say it; why should I not say it? It stands to reason
that I shall say it then.”

At this the King was more delighted than anyone could have believed. He
made it known to all through the country that there were going to be
great rejoicings, as the Princess was going to be married. And everyone
rejoiced to think that the Princess who had refused so many royal
suitors, should have ended by falling in love with the staring-eyed
Shepherd.

There was such a wedding as had never been seen. Everyone ate and
drank and danced. Even the sick were feasted, and quite tiny new-born
children had presents given them. But the greatest merry-making was
in the King's palace; there the best bands played and the best food
was cooked. A crowd of people sat down to table, and all was fun and
merry-making.

And when the groomsman, according to custom, brought in the great
boar's head on a big dish and placed it before the King, so that he
might carve it and give everyone a share, the savoury smell was so
strong that the King began to sneeze with all his might.

“To your very good health!” cried the Shepherd before anyone else, and
the King was so delighted that he did not regret having given him his
daughter.

In time, when the old King died, the Shepherd succeeded him. He made a
very good king, and never expected his people to wish him well against
their wills: but, all the same, everyone did wish him well, because
they loved him.


THE PROUD COCK.

There was once a cock who grew so dreadfully proud that he would have
nothing to say to anybody. He left his house, it being far beneath his
dignity to have any trammel of that sort in his life, and as for his
former acquaintances, he cut them all.

One day, whilst walking about, he came to a few little sparks of fire
which were nearly dead.

They cried out to him: “Please fan us with your wings, and we shall
come to the full vigour of life again.”

But he did not deign to answer, and as he was going away, one of the
sparks said: “Ah well! we shall die, but our big brother the Fire will
pay you out for this one day.”

On another day he was airing himself in a meadow, showing himself off
in a very superb set of clothes. A voice calling from somewhere said:
“Please be so good as to drop us into the water again.”

He looked about and saw a few drops of water: they had got separated
from their friends in the river, and were pining away with grief. “Oh!
please be so good as to drop us into the water again,” they said; but,
without any answer, he drank up the drops. He was too proud and a great
deal too big to talk to a poor little puddle of water; but the drops
said: “Our big brother the Water will one day take you in hand, you
proud and senseless creature.”

Some days afterwards, during a great storm of rain, thunder and
lightning, the cock took shelter in a little empty cottage, and shut
to the door; and he thought: “I am clever; I am in comfort. What fools
people are to stop out in a storm like this! What's that?” thought he.
“I never heard a sound like that before.”

In a little while it grew much louder, and when a few minutes had
passed, it was a perfect howl. “Oh!” thought he, “this will never do. I
must stop it somehow. But what is it I have to stop?”

He soon found it was the wind, shouting through the keyhole, so he
plugged up the keyhole with a bit of clay, and then the wind was able
to rest. He was very tired with whistling so long through the keyhole,
and he said: “Now, if ever I have at any time a chance of doing a good
turn to that princely domestic fowl, I will do it.”

Weeks afterwards, the cock looked in at a house door: he seldom went
there, because the miser to whom the house belonged almost starved
himself, and so, of course, there was nothing over for anybody else.

To his amazement the cock saw the miser bending over a pot on the fire.
At last the old fellow turned round to get a spoon with which to stir
his pot, and then the cock, walking up, looked in and saw that the
miser was making oyster-soup, for he had found some oyster-shells in an
ash-pit, and to give the mixture a colour he had put in a few halfpence
in the pot.

The miser chanced to turn quickly round, whilst the cock was peering
into the saucepan, and, chuckling to himself, he said: “I shall have
some chicken broth after all.”

He tripped up the cock into the pot and shut the lid on. The bird,
feeling warm, said: “Water, water, don't boil!” But the water only
said: “You drank up my young brothers once: don't ask a favour of _me_.”

Then he called out to the Fire: “Oh! kind Fire, don't boil the water.”
But the Fire replied: “You once let my young sisters die: you cannot
expect any mercy from me.” So he flared up and boiled the water all the
faster.

At last, when the cock got unpleasantly warm, he thought of the wind,
and called out: “Oh, Wind, come to my help!” and the Wind said: “Why,
there is that noble domestic bird in trouble. I will help him.” So he
came down the chimney, blew out the fire, blew the lid off the pot,
and blew the cock far away into the air, and at last settled him on a
steeple, where the cock has remained ever since. And people say that
the halfpence which were in the pot when it was boiling have given him
the queer brown colour he still wears.

                          _From the Spanish._


SNEGOURKA.

There lived once, in Russia, a peasant and his wife who would have been
as happy as the day is long, if only God had given them a little child.

One day, as they were watching the children playing in the snow, the
man said to the woman:

“Wife, shall we go out and help the children to make a snowball?”

But the wife answered, smiling:

“Nay, husband, but since God has given us no little child, let us go
and fashion one from the snow.”

And she put on her long blue cloak, and he put on his long brown coat,
and they went out onto the crisp snow, and began to fashion the little
child.

First they made the feet and the legs and the little body, and then
they took a ball of snow for the head. And at that moment a stranger in
a long cloak, with his hat well drawn over his face, passed that way,
and said: “Heaven help your undertaking!”

And the peasants crossed themselves and said: “It is well to ask help
from Heaven in all we do.”

Then they went on fashioning the little child. And they made two holes
for the eyes and formed the nose and the mouth. And then--wonder of
wonders--the little child came alive, and breath came into its nostrils
and parted lips.

And the man was afeared, and said to his wife: “What have we done?”

And the wife said: “This is the little girl child God has sent us.” And
she gathered it into her arms, and the loose snow fell away from the
little creature. Her hair became golden and her eyes were as blue as
forget-me-nots--but there was no colour in her cheeks, because there
was no blood in her veins.

In a few days she was like a child of three or four, and in a few
weeks she seemed to be the age of nine or ten, and ran about gaily and
prattled with the other children, who loved her so dearly, though she
was so different from them.

Only, happy as she was, and dearly as her parents loved her, there was
one terror in her life, and that was the sun. And during the day she
would run and hide herself in cool, damp places away from the sunshine,
and this the other children could not understand.

As the Spring advanced and the days grew longer and warmer, little
Snegourka (for this was the name by which she was known) grew paler
and thinner, and her mother would often ask her: “What ails you, my
darling?” and Snegourka would say: “Nothing Mother, but I wish the sun
were not so bright.”

One day, on St. John's Day, the children of the village came to fetch
her for a day in the woods, and they gathered flowers for her and did
all they could to make her happy, but it was only when the great red
sun went down that Snegourka drew a deep breath of relief and spread
her little hands out to the cool evening air. And the boys, glad at
her gladness, said: “Let us do something for Snegourka. Let us light a
bonfire.” And Snegourka, not knowing what a bonfire was, she clapped
her hands and was as merry and eager as they. And she helped them
gather the sticks, and then they all stood round the pile and the boys
set fire to the wood.

Snegourka stood watching the flames and listening to the crackle of
the wood; and then suddenly they heard a tiny sound--and looking at
the place where Snegourka had been standing, they saw nothing but a
little snowdrift fast melting. And they called and called, “Snegourka!
Snegourka!” thinking she had run into the forest. But there was no
answer. Snegourka had disappeared from this life as mysteriously as she
had come into it.

          _From the Russian, adapted for narration by M.T.S._


THE WATER NIXIE.

The river was so clear because it was the home of a very beautiful
Water Nixie who lived in it, and who sometimes could emerge from her
home and sit in woman's form upon the bank. She had a dark green smock
upon her, the colour of the water-weed that waves as the water wills
it, deep, deep down. And in her long wet hair were the white flowers
of the water-violet, and she held a reed mace in her hand. Her face
was very sad, because she had lived a long life, and known so many
adventures, ever since she was a baby, which was nearly a hundred years
ago. For creatures of the streams and trees live a long, long time, and
when they die they lose themselves in Nature. That means that they are
forever clouds, or trees, or rivers, and never have the form of men and
women again.

All water creatures would live, if they might choose it, in the sea,
where they are born. It is in the sea they float hand-in-hand upon
the crested billows, and sink deep in the great troughs of the strong
waves, that are green as jade. They follow the foam and lose themselves
in the wide ocean:

    Where great whales come sailing by,
    Sail and sail with unshut eye;
    And they store in the Sea King's palace
    The golden phosphor of the sea.

But this Water Nixie had lost her happiness through not being good.
She had forgotten many things that had been told her, and she had
done many things that grieved others. She had stolen somebody else's
property--quite a large bundle of happiness--which belonged elsewhere
and not to her. Happiness is generally made to fit the person who owns
it, just as do your shoes, or clothes; so that when you take some one
else's it's very little good to you, for it fits badly, and you can
never forget it isn't yours.

So what with one thing and another, this Water Nixie had to be
punished, and the Queen of the Sea had banished her from the waves. The
punishment that can most affect merfolk is to restrict their freedom.
And this is how the Queen of the Sea punished the Nixie of our tale.

“You shall live for a long time in little places, where you will weary
of yourself. You will learn to know yourself so well that everything
you want will seem too good for you, and you will cease to claim it.
And so, in time, you shall get free.”

Then the Nixie had to rise up and go away, and be shut into the
fastness of a very small space, according to the words of the Queen.
And this small space was--a tear.

At first she could hardly express her misery, and by thinking so
continuously of the wideness and savour of the sea, she brought a dash
of the brine with her, that makes the saltness of our tears. She became
many times smaller than her own stature; even then, by standing upright
and spreading wide her arms, she touched with her finger-tips the walls
of her tiny crystal home. How she longed that this tear might be wept,
and the walls of her prison shattered. But the owner of this tear was
of a very proud nature, and she was so sad that tears seemed to her in
no wise to express her grief.

She was a Princess who lived in a country that was not her home. What
were tears to her? If she could have stood on the top of the very
highest hill and with both hands caught the great winds of heaven,
strong as they, and striven with them, perhaps she might have felt
as if she expressed all she knew. Or, if she could have torn down the
stars from the heavens, or cast her mantle over the sun. But tears!
Would they have helped to tell her sorrow? You cry if you soil your
copy-book, don't you? or pinch your hand? So you may imagine the
Nixie's home was a safe one, and she turned round and round in the
captivity of that tear.

For twenty years she dwelt in that strong heart, till she grew to be
accustomed to her cell. At last, in this wise came her release.

An old gipsy came one morning to the Castle and begged to see the
Princess. She must see her, she cried. And the Princess came down the
steps to meet her, and the gipsy gave her a small roll of paper in her
hand. And the roll of paper smelt like honey as she took it, and it
adhered to her palm as she opened it. There was little sign of writing
on the paper, but in the midst of the page was a picture, small as the
picture reflected in the iris of an eye. The picture shewed a hill,
with one tree on the sky-line, and a long road wound round the hill.

And suddenly in the Princess' memory a voice spoke to her. Many sounds
she heard, gathered up into one great silence, like the quiet there is
in forest spaces, when it is Summer and the green is deep:

Then the Princess gave the gipsy two golden pieces, and went up to her
chamber, and long that night she sat, looking out upon the sky.

She had no need to look upon the honeyed scroll, though she held it
closely. Clearly before her did she see that small picture: the hill,
and the tree, and the winding road, imaged as if mirrored in the iris
of an eye. And in her memory she was upon that road, and the hill rose
beside her, and the little tree was outlined every twig of it against
the sky.

And as she saw all this, an overwhelming love of the place arose in
her, a love of that certain bit of country that was so sharp and
strong, that it stung and swayed her, as she leaned on the window-sill.

And because the love of a country is one of the deepest loves you may
feel, the band of her control was loosened, and the tears came welling
to her eyes. Up they brimmed and over, in salty rush and follow,
dimming her eyes, magnifying everything, speared for a moment on her
eyelashes, then shimmering to their fall. And at last came the tear
that held the disobedient Nixie.

Splish! it fell. And she was free.

If you could have seen how pretty she looked standing there, about the
height of a grass-blade, wringing out her long wet hair. Every bit of
moisture she wrung out of it, she was so glad to be quit of that tear.
Then she raised her two arms above her in one delicious stretch, and if
you had been the size of a mustard-seed perhaps you might have heard
her laughing. Then she grew a little, and grew and grew, till she was
about the height of a bluebell, and as slender to see.

She stood looking at the splash on the window-sill that had been her
prison so long, and then, with three steps of her bare feet, she
reached the jessamine that was growing by the window, and by this she
swung herself to the ground.

Away she sped over the dew-drenched meadows till she came to the
running brook, and with all her longing in her outstretched hands,
she kneeled down by the crooked willows among all the comfrey and the
loosestrife, and the yellow irises and the reeds.

Then she slid into the wide, cool stream.

                   PAMELA TENNANT (Lady Glenconner).
                _From “The Children and the Pictures”_


THE BLUE ROSE.

There lived once upon a time in China a wise Emperor who had one
daughter. His daughter was remarkable for her perfect beauty. Her
feet were the smallest in the world; her eyes were long and slanting
and bright as brown onyxes, and when you heard her laugh it was like
listening to a tinkling stream or to the chimes of a silver bell.
Moreover, the Emperor's daughter was as wise as she was beautiful,
and she chanted the verse of the great poets better than anyone in
the land. The Emperor was old in years; his son was married and had
begotten a son; he was, therefore, quite happy with regard to the
succession to the throne, but he wished before he died to see his
daughter wedded to someone who should be worthy of her.

Many suitors presented themselves to the palace as soon as it became
known that the Emperor desired a son-in-law, but when they reached the
palace they were met by the Lord Chamberlain, who told them that the
Emperor had decided that only the man who found and brought back the
blue rose should marry his daughter. The suitors were much puzzled by
this order. What was the blue rose and where was it to be found? In all
a hundred and fifty suitors had presented themselves, and out of these
fifty at once put away from them all thought of winning the hand of the
Emperor's daughter, since they considered the condition imposed to be
absurd.

The other hundred set about trying to find the blue rose. One of them,
whose name was Ti-Fun-Ti, was a merchant, and immensely rich: he at
once went to the largest shop in the town and said to the shopkeeper,
“I want a blue rose, the best you have.”

The shopkeeper with many apologies, explained that he did not stock
blue roses. He had red roses in profusion, white, pink, and yellow
roses, but no blue roses. There had hitherto been no demand for the
article.

“Well,” said Ti-Fun-Ti, “you must get one for me. I do not mind how
much money it costs, but I must have a blue rose.”

The shopkeeper said he would do his best, but he feared it would be an
expensive article and difficult to procure. Another of the suitors,
whose name I have forgotten, was a warrior, and extremely brave; he
mounted his horse, and taking with him a hundred archers and a thousand
horsemen, he marched into the territory of the King of the Five Rivers,
whom he knew to be the richest king in the world and the possessor of
the rarest treasures, and demanded of him the blue rose, threatening
him with a terrible doom should he be reluctant to give it up.

The King of the Five Rivers, who disliked soldiers, and had a horror
of noise, physical violence, and every kind of fuss (his bodyguard was
armed solely with fans and sunshades), rose from the cushions on which
he was lying when the demand was made, and, tinkling a small bell, said
to the servant who straightway appeared, “Fetch me the blue rose.”

The servant retired and returned presently bearing on a silken cushion
a large sapphire which was carved so as to imitate a full-blown rose
with all its petals.

“This,” said the King of the Five Rivers, “is the blue rose. You are
welcome to it.”

The warrior took it, and after making brief, soldier-like thanks, he
went straight back to the Emperor's palace, saying that he had lost
no time in finding the blue rose. He was ushered into the presence of
the Emperor, who as soon as he heard the warrior's story and saw the
blue rose which had been brought sent for his daughter and said to her:
“This intrepid warrior has brought you what he claims to be the blue
rose. Has he accomplished the quest?”

The Princess took the precious object in her hands, and after examining
it for a moment, said: “This is not a rose at all. It is a sapphire;
I have no need of precious stones.” And she returned the stone to the
warrior with many elegantly expressed thanks. And the warrior went away
in discomfiture.

The merchant, hearing of the warrior's failure, was all the more
anxious to win the prize. He sought the shopkeeper and said to him:
“Have you got me the blue rose? I trust you have; because, if not, I
shall most assuredly be the means of your death. My brother-in-law
is chief magistrate, and I am allied by marriage to all the chief
officials in the kingdom.”

The shopkeeper turned pale and said: “Sir, give me three days and I
will procure you the rose without fail.” The merchant granted him the
three days and went away. Now the shopkeeper was at his wit's end as to
what to do, for he knew well there was no such thing as a blue rose.
For two days he did nothing but moan and wring his hands, and on the
third day he went to his wife and said: “Wife, we are ruined.”

But his wife, who was a sensible woman, said: “Nonsense. If there is no
such thing as a blue rose we must make one. Go to the chemist and ask
him for a strong dye which will change a white rose into a blue one.”

So the shopkeeper went to the chemist and asked him for a dye, and the
chemist gave him a bottle of red liquid, telling him to pick a white
rose and to dip its stalk into the liquid and the rose would turn blue.
The shopkeeper did as he was told; the rose turned into a beautiful
blue and the shopkeeper took it to the merchant, who at once went with
it to the palace saying that he had found the blue rose.

He was ushered into the presence of the Emperor, who as soon as he saw
the blue rose sent for his daughter and said to her: “This wealthy
merchant has brought you what he claims to be the blue rose. Has he
accomplished the quest?”

The Princess took the flower in her hands and after examining it for
a moment said: “This is a white rose; its stalk has been dipped in a
poisonous dye and it has turned blue. Were a butterfly to settle upon
it, it would die of the potent fume. Take it back. I have no need of a
dyed rose.” And she returned it to the merchant with many elegantly
expressed thanks.

The other ninety-eight suitors all sought in various ways for the
blue rose. Some of them travelled all over the world seeking it; some
of them sought the aid of wizards and astrologers, and one did not
hesitate to invoke the help of the dwarfs that live underground; but
all of them, whether they travelled in far countries or took counsel
with wizards and demons or sat pondering in lonely places, failed to
find the blue rose.

At last they all abandoned the quest except the Lord Chief Justice,
who was the most skilful lawyer and statesman in the country. After
thinking over the matter for several months he sent for the most famous
artist in the country and said to him: “Make me a china cup. Let it be
milk-white in colour and perfect in shape, and paint on it a rose, a
blue rose.”

The artist made obeisance and withdrew, and worked for two months at
the Lord Chief Justice's cup. In two months' time it was finished, and
the world has never seen such a beautiful cup, so perfect in symmetry,
so delicate in texture, and the rose on it, the blue rose, was a living
flower, picked in fairyland and floating on the rare milky surface
of the porcelain. When the Lord Chief Justice saw it he gasped with
surprise and pleasure, for he was a great lover of porcelain, and never
in his life had he seen such a piece. He said to himself, “Without
doubt the blue rose is here on this cup and nowhere else.”

So, after handsomely rewarding the artist, he went to the Emperor's
palace and said that he had brought the blue rose. He was ushered into
the Emperor's presence, who as he saw the cup sent for his daughter and
said to her: “This eminent lawyer has brought you what he claims to be
the blue rose. Has he accomplished the quest?”

The Princess took the bowl in her hands, and after examining it for a
moment said: “This bowl is the most beautiful piece of china I have
ever seen. If you are kind enough to let me keep it I will put it aside
until I receive the blue rose. For so beautiful is it that no other
flower is worthy to be put in it except the blue rose.”

The Lord Chief Justice thanked the Princess for accepting the bowl with
many elegantly turned phrases, and he went away in discomfiture.

After this there was no one in the whole country who ventured on the
quest of the blue rose. It happened that not long after the Lord
Chief Justice's attempt a strolling minstrel visited the kingdom of
the Emperor. One evening he was playing his one-stringed instrument
outside a dark wall. It was a summer's evening, and the sun had sunk
in a glory of dusty gold, and in the violet twilight one or two stars
were twinkling like spear-heads. There was an incessant noise made by
the croaking of frogs and the chatter of grasshoppers. The minstrel
was singing a short song over and over again to a monotonous tune. The
sense of it was something like this:

    I watched beside the willow trees
      The river, as the evening fell,
    The twilight came and brought no breeze,
      Nor dew, nor water for the well.

    When from the tangled banks of grass
      A bird across the water flew,
    And in the river's hard grey glass
      I saw a flash of azure blue.

As he sang he heard a rustle on the wall, and looking up he saw a
slight figure white against the twilight, beckoning to him. He walked
along the wall until he came to a gate, and there someone was waiting
for him, and he was gently led into the shadow of a dark cedar tree.
In the dim twilight he saw two bright eyes looking at him, and he
understood their message. In the twilight a thousand meaningless
nothings were whispered in the light of the stars, and the hours fled
swiftly. When the East began to grow light, the Princess (for it was
she) said it was time to go.

“But,” said the minstrel, “to-morrow I shall come to the palace and ask
for your hand.”

“Alas!” said the Princess, “I would that were possible, but my father
has made a foolish condition that only he may wed me who finds the blue
rose.”

“That is simple,” said the minstrel. “I will find it.” And they said
good-night to each other.

The next morning the minstrel went to the palace, and on his way he
picked a common white rose from a wayside garden. He was ushered into
the Emperor's presence, who sent for his daughter and said to her:
“This penniless minstrel has brought you what he claims to be the blue
rose. Has he accomplished the quest?”

The Princess took the rose in her hands and said: “Yes, this is without
doubt the blue rose.”

But the Lord Chief Justice and all who were present respectfully
pointed out that the rose was a common white rose and not a blue one,
and the objection was with many forms and phrases conveyed to the
Princess.

“I think the rose is blue,” said the Princess. “Perhaps you are all
colour blind.”

The Emperor, with whom the decision rested, decided that if the
Princess thought the rose was blue it was blue, for it was well known
that her perception was more acute than that of any one else in the
kingdom.

So the minstrel married the Princess, and they settled on the sea coast
in a little seen house with a garden full of white roses, and they
lived happily for ever afterwards. And the Emperor, knowing that his
daughter had made a good match, died in peace.

                            MAURICE BARING.


THE TWO FROGS.

Once upon a time in the country of Japan there lived two frogs, one of
whom made his home in a ditch near the town of Osaka, on the sea coast,
while the other dwelt in a clear little stream which ran through the
city of Kioto. At such a great distance apart; they had never even
heard of each other; but, funnily enough, the idea came into both their
heads at once that they should like to see a little of the world, and
the frog who lived at Kioto wanted to visit Osaka, and the frog who
lived at Osaka wished to go to Kioto, where the great Mikado had his
palace.

So one fine morning, in the spring, they both set out along the road
that led from Kioto to Osaka, one from one end and the other from the
other.

The journey was more tiring than they expected, for they did not know
much about travelling, and half-way between the two towns there rose
a mountain which had to be climbed. It took them a long time and a
great many hops to reach the top, but there they were at last, and
what was the surprise of each to see another frog before him! They
looked at each other for a moment without speaking, and then fell into
conversation, and explained the cause of their meeting so far from
their homes. It was delightful to find that they both felt the same
wish--to learn a little more of their native country--and as there was
no sort of hurry they stretched themselves out in a cool, damp place,
and agreed that they would have a good rest before they parted to go
their ways.

“What a pity we are not bigger,” said the Osaka frog, “and then we
could see both towns from here and tell if it is worth our while going
on.”

“Oh, that is easily managed,” returned the Kioto frog. “We have only
got to stand up on our hind legs, and hold on to each other, and then
we can each look at the town he is travelling to.”

This idea pleased the Osaka frog so much that he at once jumped up and
put his front paws on the shoulder of his friend, who had risen also.
There they both stood, stretching themselves as high as they could, and
holding each other tightly, so that they might not fall down. The Kioto
frog turned his nose towards Osaka, and the Osaka frog turned his nose
towards Kioto; but the foolish things forgot that when they stood up
their great eyes lay in the backs of their heads, and that though their
noses might point to the places to which they wanted to go, their eyes
beheld the places from which they had come.

“Dear me!” cried the Osaka frog, “Kioto is exactly like Osaka. It is
certainly not worth such a long journey. I shall go home.”

“If I had had any idea that Osaka was only a copy of Kioto I should
never have travelled all this way,” exclaimed the frog from Kioto, and
as he spoke, he took his hands from his friend's shoulders and they
both fell down on the grass.

Then they took a polite farewell of each other, and set off for home
again, and to the end of their lives they believed that Osaka and
Kioto, which are as different to look at as two towns can be, were as
like as two peas.


THE WISE OLD SHEPHERD.

Once upon a time, a Snake went out of his hole to take an airing. He
crawled about, greatly enjoying the scenery and the fresh whiff of the
breeze, until, seeing an open door, he went in. Now this door was the
door of the palace of the King, and inside was the King himself, with
all his courtiers.

Imagine their horror at seeing a huge Snake crawling in at the door.
They all ran away except the King, who felt that his rank forbade him
to be a coward, and the King's son. The King called out for somebody to
come and kill the Snake; but this horrified them still more, because
in that country the people believed it to be wicked to kill any living
thing, even snakes and scorpions and wasps. So the courtiers did
nothing, but the young Prince obeyed his father, and killed the Snake
with his stick.

After a while the Snake's wife became anxious and set out in search of
her husband. She too saw the open door of the palace, and in she went.
O horror! there on the floor lay the body of her husband, all covered
with blood and quite dead. No one saw the Snake's Wife crawl in; she
inquired of a white ant what had happened, and when she found that the
young Prince had killed her husband, she made a vow that, as he had
made her a widow, so she would make his wife a widow.

That night, when all the world was asleep, the Snake crept into the
Prince's bedroom, and coiled round his neck. The Prince slept on,
and when he awoke in the morning, he was surprised to find his neck
encircled with the coils of a snake. He was afraid to stir, so there he
remained, until the Prince's mother became anxious and went to see what
was the matter. When she entered his room, and saw him in this plight,
she gave a loud shriek, and ran off to tell the King.

“Call the archers,” said the King.

The archers came, and the King told them to go to the Prince's room,
and shoot the Snake that was coiled about his neck. They were so
clever, that they could easily do this without hurting the Prince at
all.

In came the archers in a row, fitted the arrows to the bows, the bows
were raised and ready to shoot, when, on a sudden, from the Snake there
issued a voice which spoke as follows:

“O archers, wait, wait and hear me before you shoot. It is not fair to
carry out the sentence before you have heard the case. Is not this a
good law: an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth? Is it not so, O
King?”

“Yes,” replied the King, “that is our law.”

“Then,” said the Snake, “I plead the law. Your son has made me a widow,
so it is fair and right that I should make his wife a widow.”

“That sounds right enough,” said the King, “but right and law are not
always the same thing. We had better ask somebody who knows.”

They asked all the judges, but none of them could tell the law of the
matter. They shook their heads, and said they would look up all their
law-books, and see whether anything of the sort had ever happened
before, and if so, how it had been decided. That is the way judges used
to decide cases in that country, though I daresay it sounds to you a
very funny way. It looked as if they had not much sense in their own
heads, and perhaps that was true. The upshot of it all was that not a
judge would give an opinion; so the King sent messengers all over the
countryside, to see if they could find somebody who knew something.

One of these messengers found a party of five shepherds, who were
sitting upon a hill and trying to decide a quarrel of their own. They
gave their opinions so freely, and in language so very strong, that
the King's messenger said to himself, “Here are the men for us. Here
are five men, each with an opinion of his own, and all different.”
Post-haste he scurried back to the King, and told him that he had
found at last some one ready to judge the knotty point.

So the King and the Queen, and the Prince and Princess, and all the
courtiers, got on horseback, and away they galloped to the hill
whereupon the five shepherds were sitting, and the Snake too went with
them, coiled round the neck of the Prince.

When they got to the shepherds' hill, the shepherds were dreadfully
frightened. At first they thought that the strangers were a gang of
robbers, and when they saw it was the King their next thought was
that one of their misdeeds had been found out; and each of them began
thinking what was the last thing he had done, and wondering, was it
that?

But the King and the courtiers got off their horses, and said good day
in the most civil way. So the shepherds felt their minds set at ease
again. Then the King said:

“Worthy shepherds, we have a question to put to you, which not all the
judges in all the courts of my city have been able to solve. Here is my
son, and here, as you see, is a snake coiled round his neck. Now, the
husband of this Snake came creeping into my palace hall, and my son the
Prince killed him; so this Snake, who is the wife of the other, says
that, as my son has made her a widow, so she has a right to widow my
son's wife. What do you think about it?”

The first shepherd said: “I think she is quite right, my Lord the King.
If anyone made my wife a widow, I would pretty soon do the same to him.”

This was brave language, and the other shepherds shook their heads and
looked fierce. But the King was puzzled, and could not quite understand
it. You see, in the first place, if the man's wife were a widow,
the man would be dead; and then it is hard to see that he could do
anything. So, to make sure, the King asked the second shepherd whether
that was his opinion too.

“Yes,” said the second shepherd; “now the Prince has killed the Snake,
the Snake has a right to kill the Prince if he can.” But that was not
of much use either, as the Snake was as dead as a door-nail. So the
King passed on to the third.

“I agree with my mates,” said the third shepherd. “Because, you see, a
Prince is a Prince, but then a Snake is a Snake.” That was quite true,
they all admitted, but it did not seem to help the matter much. Then
the King asked the fourth shepherd to say what he thought.

The fourth shepherd said: “An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth;
so I think a widow should be a widow, if so be she don't marry again.”

By this time the poor King was so puzzled that he hardly knew whether
he stood on his head or his heels. But there was still the fifth
shepherd left; the oldest and wisest of them all; and the fifth
shepherd said:

“King, I should like to ask two questions.”

“Ask twenty, if you like,” said the King. He did not promise to answer
them, so he could afford to be generous.

“First, I ask the Princess how many sons she has?”

“Four,” said the Princess.

“And how many sons has Mistress Snake here?”

“Seven,” said the Snake.

“Then,” said the old shepherd, “it will be quite fair for Mistress
Snake to kill his Highness the Prince when her Highness the Princess
has had three sons more.”

“I never thought of that,” said the Snake. “Good-bye, King, and all
you good people. Send a message when the Princess has had three more
sons, and you may count upon me--I will not fail you.”

So saying, she uncoiled from the Prince's neck and slid away among the
grass.

The King and the Prince and everybody shook hands with the wise old
shepherd, and went home again. And the Princess never had any more sons
at all. She and the Prince lived happily for many years; and if they
are not dead they are living still.

                     _From “The Talking Thrush.”_


THE TRUE SPIRIT OF A FESTIVAL DAY.

And it came to pass that the Buddha was born a Hare and lived in a
wood; on one side was the foot of a mountain, on another a river, on
the third side a border village.

And with him lived three friends: a Monkey, a Jackal and an Otter; each
of these creatures got food on his own hunting ground. In the evening
they met together, and the Hare taught his companions many wise things:
that the moral laws should be observed, that alms should be given to
the poor, and that holy days should be kept.

One day the Buddha said: “To-morrow is a fast day. Feed any beggars
that come to you by giving food from your own table.” They all
consented.

The next day the Otter went down to the bank of the Ganges to seek
his prey. Now a fisherman had landed seven red fish and had buried
them in the sand on the river's bank while he went down the stream
catching more fish. The Otter scented the buried fish, dug up the sand
till he came upon them, and he called aloud: “Does any one own these
fish?” And not seeing the owner, he laid the fish in the jungle where
he dwelt, intending to eat them at a fitting time. Then he lay down,
thinking how virtuous he was.

The Jackal also went off in search of food, and found in the hut of a
field watcher a lizard, two spits, and a pot of milk-curd.

And, after thrice crying aloud, “To whom do these belong?” and not
finding an owner, he put on his neck the rope for lifting the pot, and
grasping the spits and lizard with his teeth, he laid them in his own
lair, thinking, “In due season I will devour them,” and then he lay
down, thinking how virtuous he had been.

The Monkey entered the clump of trees, and gathering a bunch of
mangoes, laid them up in his part of the jungle, meaning to eat them in
due season. He then lay down and thought how virtuous he had been.

But the Hare (who was the Buddha-to-be) in due time came out, thinking
to lie (in contemplation) on the Kuca grass. “It is impossible for me
to offer grass to any beggars who may chance to come by, and I have no
oil or rice or fish. If any beggar come to me, I will give him (of) my
own flesh to eat.”

Now when Sakka, the King of the Gods, heard this thing, he determined
to put the Royal Hare to the test. So he came in disguise of a Brahmin
to the Otter and said: “Wise Sir, if I could get something to eat, I
would perform all my priestly duties.”

The Otter said: “I will give you food. Seven red fish have I safely
brought to land from the sacred river of the Ganges. Eat thy fill, O
Brahmin, and stay in this wood.”

And the Brahmin said: “Let it be until to-morrow, and I will see to it
then.”

Then he went to the Jackal, who confessed that he had stolen the food,
but he begged the Brahmin to accept it and remain in the wood; but the
Brahmin said: “Let it be until the morrow, and then I will see to it.”

And he came to the Monkey, who offered him the mangoes, and the Brahmin
answered in the same way.

Then the Brahmin went to the wise Hare, and the Hare said: “Behold, I
will give you of my flesh to eat. But you must not take life on this
holy day. When you have piled up the logs I will sacrifice myself by
falling into the midst of the flames, and when my body is roasted you
shall eat my flesh and perform all your priestly duties.”

Now when Sakka heard these words he caused a heap of burning coals
to appear, and the Wisdom Being, rising from the grass, came to the
place, but before casting himself into the flames he shook himself,
lest perchance there should be any insects in his coat who might suffer
death. Then, offering his body as a free gift, he sprang up, and like
a royal swan, lighting on a bed of lotus in an ecstasy of joy, he
fell on the heap of live coals. But the flame failed even to heat the
pores or the hair on the body of the Wisdom Being, and it was as if he
had entered a region of frost. Then he addressed the Brahmin in these
words: “Brahmin, the fire that you have kindled is icy cold; it fails
to heat the pores or the hair on my body. What is the meaning of this?”

“O most wise Hare! I am Sakka, and have come to put your virtue to the
test.”

And the Buddha in a sweet voice said: “No god or man could find in me
an unwillingness to die.”

Then Sakka said: “O wise Hare, be thy virtue known to all the ages to
come.”

And seizing the mountain he squeezed out the juice and daubed on the
moon the signs of the young hare.

Then he placed him back on the grass that he might continue his Sabbath
meditation, and returned to Heaven.

And the four creatures lived together and kept the moral law.


FILIAL PIETY.

Now it came to pass that the Buddha was re-born in the shape of a
Parrot, and he greatly excelled all other parrots in his strength and
beauty. And when he was full grown his father, who had long been the
leader of the flock in their flights to other climes, said to him: “My
son, behold my strength is spent! Do thou lead the flock, for I am no
longer able.” And the Buddha said: “Behold, thou shalt rest. I will
lead the birds.” And the parrots rejoiced in the strength of their new
leader, and willingly did they follow him. Now from that day on, the
Buddha undertook to feed his parents, and would not consent that they
should do any more work. Each day he led his flock to the Himalaya
Hills, and when he had eaten his fill of the clumps of rice that grew
there, he filled his beak with food for the dear parents who were
waiting his return.

Now there was a man appointed to watch the rice-fields, and he did his
best to drive the parrots away, but there seemed to be some secret
power in the leader of this flock which the Keeper could not overcome.

He noticed that the Parrots ate their fill and then flew away, but that
the Parrot-King not only satisfied his hunger, but carried away rice in
his beak.

Now he feared there would be no rice left, and he went to his master
the Brahmin to tell him what had happened; and even as the master
listened there came to him the thought that the Parrot-King was
something higher than he seemed, and he loved him even before he saw
him. But he said nothing of this, and only warned the Keeper that he
should set a snare and catch the dangerous bird. So the man did as he
was bidden: he made a small cage and set the snare, and sat down in
his hut waiting for the birds to come. And soon he saw the Parrot-King
amidst his flock, who, because he had no greed, sought no richer spot,
but flew down to the same place in which he had fed the day before.

Now, no sooner had he touched the ground that he felt his feet caught
in the noose. Then fear crept into his bird-heart, but a stronger
feeling was there to crush it down, for he thought: “If I cry out the
Cry of the Captured, my Kinsfolk will be terrified, and they will fly
away foodless. But if I lie still, then their hunger will be satisfied,
and they may safely come to my aid.” Thus was the Parrot both brave and
prudent.

But alas! he did not know that his Kinsfolk had nought of his brave
spirit. When _they_ had eaten their fill, though they heard the
thrice-uttered cry of the captured, they flew away, nor heeded the sad
plight of their leader.

Then was the heart of the Parrot-King sore within him, and he said:
“All these my kith and kin, and not one to look back on me. Alas! what
sin have I done?”

The Watchman now heard the cry of the Parrot-King, and the sound of the
other Parrots flying through the air. “What is that?” he cried, and
leaving his hut he came to the place where he had laid the snare. There
he found the captive Parrot; he tied his feet together and brought him
to the Brahmin, his master. Now, when the Brahmin saw the Parrot-King,
he felt his strong power, and his heart was full of love to him, but he
hid his feelings, and said in a voice of anger: “Is thy greed greater
than that of all other birds? They eat their fill, but thou takest away
each day more food than thou canst eat. Doest thou this out of hatred
for me, or dost thou store up the food in some granary for selfish
greed?”

And the Great Being made answer in a sweet human voice: “I hate thee
not, O Brahmin. Nor do I store the rice in a granary for selfish greed.
But this thing I do. Each day I pay a debt which is due--each day I
grant a loan, and each day I store up a treasure.”

Now the Brahmin could not understand the words of the Buddha (because
true wisdom had not entered his heart), and he said: “I pray thee, O
Wondrous Bird, to make these words clear unto me.”

And then the Parrot-King made answer: “I carry food to my ancient
parents who can no longer seek that food for themselves: thus I pay
my daily debt. I carry food to my callow chicks whose wings are yet
ungrown. When I am old they will care for me--this my loan to them. And
for other birds, weak and helpless of wing, who need the aid of the
strong, for them I lay up a store; to these I give in charity.”

Then was the Brahmin much moved, and showed the love that was in his
heart. “Eat thy fill, O Righteous Bird, and let thy Kinsfolk eat too,
for thy sake.” And he wished to bestow a thousand acres of land upon
him, but the Great Being would only take a tiny portion round which
were set boundary stones.

And the Parrot returned with a head of rice, and said: “Arise, dear
Parents, that I may take you to a place of plenty.” And he told them
the story of his deliverance.

       *       *       *       *       *

MY thanks are due to:

Mrs. Josephine Dodge Darkam Bacon, for permission to use an extract
from “The Madness of Philip,” and to her publishers, Charles Scrivener.

To Messrs. Houghton Mifflin, for permission to use extract from “Thou
Shalt Not Preach,” by Mr. John Burroughs.

To Messrs. Macmillan & Co., for permission to use “Milking Time” of
Miss Rossetti.

To Messrs. William Sharp, for permission to use passage from “The
Divine Adventure,” by “Fiona MacLeod.”

To Miss Ethel Clifford, for permission to use the poem of “The Child.”

To Mr. James Whitcomb Riley and the Robbs Merrill Co., for permission
to use “The Treasure of the Wise Man.”

To Rev. R. L. Gales, for permission to use the article on “Nursery
Rhymes” from the _Nation_.

To Mr. Edmund Gosse, for permission to use extracts from “Father and
Son.”

To Messrs. Chatto and Windus, for permission to use “Essay on Child's
Play” (from _Virginibus Puerisque_) and other papers.

To Mr. George Allen & Co., for permission to use “Ballad for a Boy,” by
W. Cory, from “Ionica.”

To Professor Bradley, for permission to quote from his essay on “Poetry
and Life.”

To Mr. P. A. Barnett, for permission to quote from “The Commonsense of
Education.”

To Professor Ker, for permission to quote from “Sturla the Historian.”

To Mr. John Russell, for permission to print in full, “A Saga.”

To Messrs. Longmans Green & Co., for permission to use “The Two Frogs,”
from the Violet Fairy Book, and “To Your Good Health,” from the Crimson
Fairy Book.

To Mr. Heinemann and Lady Glenconner, for permission to reprint “The
Water Nixie,” by Pamela Tennant, from “The Children and the Pictures.”

To Mr. Maurice Baring and the Editor of _The Morning Post_, for
permission to reprint “The Blue Rose” from _The Morning Post_.

To Dr. Walter Rouse and Mr. J. M. Dent, for permission to reprint from
“The Talking Thrush” the story of “The Wise Old Shepherd.”

To Mr. James Stephens, for permission to reprint “The Man and the Boy.”

To Mr. Harold Barnes, for permission to use version of “The Proud Cock.”

To Mrs. Arnold Glover, for permission to print two of her stories.

To Miss Emilie Poulson, for permission to use her translation of
Björnsen's poem.

To George Routledge & Son, for permission to use stories from “Eastern
Stories and Fables.”

To Mrs. W. K. Clifford, for permission to quote from “Very Short
Stories.”

To Mr. W. Jenkyn Thomas and Mr. Fisher Unwin, for permission to use
“Arthur in the Cave” from the Welsh Fairy Book.

       *       *       *       *       *

The following stories are not a representative list: this I have
endeavoured to give with the story-list preceding. These stories are
mostly taken from my own _répertoire_, and have so constantly been
asked for by teachers that I am glad of an opportunity of presenting
them in full.

Episode from “Sturla the Historian,” to illustrate the value of the art
of story-telling.

Saga, by John Russell.

St. Christopher, in the version taken from the “_Legenda Aurea_.”

“Arthur in the Cave,” from the “Welsh Fairy Book.”

“Hafiz the Stone-cutter” (adapted from the Oriental).

“To Your Good Health,” from The Crimson Fairy Book.

“The Proud Cock,” from the Spanish.

“Snegourka,” from the Russian.

“The Water Nixie,” by Pamela Tennant.

“The Blue Rose,” by Maurice Baring.

“The Wise old Shepherd,” from “The Talking Thrush.”

       *       *       *       *       *

I had intended, in this section, to offer an appendix of titles
of stories and books which would cover all the ground of possible
narrative in schools; but I have found, since taking up the question,
so many lists containing standard books and stories, that I have
decided that this original plan would be a work of supererogation,
since it would be almost impossible to prepare such a list without the
certainty of over-lapping. What is really needed is a supplementary
list to those already published--a specialized list which has been
gathered together by private research and personal experience. I have
for many years spent considerable time in the British Museum, and some
of the principal Libraries in the United States, and I now offer the
fruit of that labour in the miscellaneous collection contained in this
chapter. Before giving my own selection, I should like to say that for
general lists one can use with great profit the following:




LIST OF BOOKS


SOURCES OF NORSE STORIES FOR STORY-TELLERS.

  Cycles of Stories from the Norse. Part I: Historical Tales. Part
    II: Norse Myths. Part III: Völsunga Saga. Part IV: Frithiof Saga.
  Snorro Sturluson. Stories of the Kings of Norway; done into English
    by William Morris. Page 83-117.
  Snorro Sturluson. A History of the Norse Kings; done into English
    by Samuel Laing. Pages 11-35.
  Snorro Sturluson. Younger Edda. Pages 72, 73, 114-127, 128-130,
    131-139, 160-164, 184-187, 189-192.
  Morris. Story of Sigurd the Volsung.
  Völsunga Saga. By Eirikr and William Morris.

Other sources from modern books can be found in Mabie, Wilmot Buxton,
Keans Tappah, Cartwright Pole, Johonnut Anderson. Some of these are
suitable for children themselves, and contain excellent reading matter.

NOTE.--I most gratefully acknowledge these sources supplied by the
courtesy of Pittsburg Carnegie Library.

  List of stories in compilation by Anna C. Tyler (Supervisor of
    Story-telling in New York).
  Heroism. A reading list for boys and girls.

Both these lists are published by the New York Library, and I have had
permission to quote both, by the courtesy of the Library.

In that admirable work, “Story-Telling in School and Home,” by Evelyn
Newcomb Partridge and George Everett Partridge, published by William
Heinemann, besides a valuable analysis of the Art of Story-Telling,
there is an excellent list of books and stories.


LIST OF BOOKS CONTAINING STORIES OR READING MATTER FOR CHILDREN.

The following list is not of my own making. I have taken it on the
recommendation of Marion E. Potter, Bertha Tannehill and Emma L. Teich,
who have compiled the list from twenty-three other lists. I again have
made a shorter list of the titles, and acknowledge most gratefully the
kind permission of the H. W. Wilson Company (Minneapolis) to quote from
their book. The original work, which contains 3,000 titles, is well
known in the United States under the title of “Children's Catalogue.”
It is a book which ought to be in every School and Training College
Library, and I hope my fragmentary selection may make it better known
in my own country. I regret that I am unable to give publishers or
reference marks for this American list.

  About Old Story-tellers. Mitchell, D. G.
  Boys' Iliad. Perry.
  Jack among the Indians, and Other Stories. G. B. Grinnell.
  Adventure Stories. Hale, E.
  Young Alaskans. Hough, E.
  Aztec Treasure House. Janvier.
  Last Three Soldiers. Skelton, W.
  Under the Lilacs. Alcott, Louisa.
  Moral Pirates. Livingstone, A. W.
  Classics Old and New. Alderman, E. A.
  Boy of a Thousand Years Ago. Comstock, H. R.
  All About Japan. Brane, B. M.
  All About the Russians. Lockes, E. C.
  Children of the Palm Lands. Allen, A. E.
  Italian Child Life. Ambrose, Marietta.
  American Hero Stories. Tappan, E. M.
  Chinese Boy and Girl, Headland, Y. T.
  Viking Tales of the North. Anderson, R. B.
  Animal Stories Re-told from St. Nicholas. Carter, M. H.
  Short Stories of Shy Neighbours. Kelly, M. H.
  Hundred Anecdotes of Animals. Billingham, P. T.
  Books of Saints and Friendly Beasts. Brown, A. F.
  Stories of Animal Life. Holden, C. F.
  Story of a Donkey (Abridged). Segur, S.
  Children of the Cold. Schnatka, F.
  Stories from Plato and other Classic Writers. Burt, M. E.
  Tenting on the Plains. Custer, E.
  To the Front. King, C.
  Stories of Persian Heroes. Firdansi.
  Nelson and his Captains. Fitchett, William H.
  Danish Fairy and Folk Tales. Bay, J. C.
  Evening Tales. Ortoli, F.
  Legends of King Arthur and his Court. Greene, F. N.
  Story of King Arthur. Pyle, H.
  New World Fairy Book. Kenedy, H. A.
  Myths of the Red Children. Wilson, G. L.
  Old Indian Legends. Zitkala, Sa.
  Folk Tales from the Russian. Blumenthal, V. K.
  Wagner Opera Stories. Barker, Grace.
  Lolanu, the Little Cliff-dweller. Bayliss (Mrs. Clara Kern).
  Big People and Little People of Other Lands. Shaw, E. R.
  Children's Stories of the Great Scientists. Wright, H. C.
  Fairy Tales. Lansing, M. F.
  Light Princess, and Other Stories. Macdonald, George.
  Classic Stories for the Little Ones. Mace, J., and McClurey, L. B.
  Old World Wonder Stories. O'Shea, M. V.
  Japanese Fairy Tales Re-told. Williston, T. P.
  Famous Indian Chiefs I Have Known. Hovard, O. O.
  Fanciful Tales. Stockton, F. R.
  Boys' Book of Famous Rulers, from Agamemnon to Napoleon. Farmer, Mrs.
    Lydia Hoyt.
  Favourite Greek Myths, Hyde, T. S.
  Children's Life in the Western Mountains. Foote, Mary (Hallock).
  Gods and Heroes. Francillon, Robert Edward.
  Sa-Zada Tales. Fraser, William Alexander.
  Story of Gretta the Strong. French, Allen.
  Lance of Kanana (Story of Arabia). French, Henry Willard.
  Home Life in all Lands. Morris, C.
  Held Fast for England. Henty.
  Plutarch's Lives. Ginn, Edwin.
  King's Story Book. Gomme, Lawrence.
  Little Journeys to Balkans, European Turkey and Greece. George, M. M.
  Herodotus. White, J. S.
  Classic Myths in English Literature. Gayley, C. M.
  Favourite Greek Myths. Hyde, L. S.
  Stories from the East. Church, A. T.
  Herodotus. Church, A. T.
  Men of Iron. Pyle, H.
  Boys' Heroes. Hale, Edward Everett.
  Strange Stories from History. Eggleston.
  Stories of Other Lands. Johannot, J.
  Book of Nature Myths. Holbrook, Florence.
  Stories of Great Artists. Home, Olive Brown, and Lois, K.
  Russian Grandmother's Wonder Tales. Houghton, Mrs. Louise (Seymour).
  Stories of Famous Children. Hunter, Mary van Brunt.
  Stories of Indian Chieftains. Husted, Mary Hall.
  Stories of Indian Children. Husted, Mary Hall.
  Golden Porch: A Book of Greek Fairy Tales. Hutchinson, W. M. L.
  Indian Boyhood. Eastman, C. H.
  Indian History for Young Folk. Drake, F. S.
  Indian Stories Re-told from St Nicholas. Drake, F. S.
  One Thousand Poems for Children. Ingpen, Roger.
  My Lady Pokahontas. Cooke, J. E.
  In the Sargasso Sea. Janvier, T. A.
  Childhood of Ji-Shib. Jenks, Albert Ernest.
  Stories from Chaucer told to the Children. Kelman, Janet Harvey.
  Stories from the Crusades. Kelman, Janet Harvey.
  New World Fairy Book. Kenedy, Howard Angus.
  Stories of Ancient People. Arnold E. T.
  Stories of Art and Artists. Clement, C.
  Mabinogion (Legends of Wales). Knightley.
  Heroes of Chivalry. Maitland, L.
  Cadet Days: Story of West Point. King, Charles.
  Household Stories for Little Readers. Klingensmith, Annie.
  Boy Travellers in the Russian Empire. Knox, Thomas Wallace.
  Boy Travellers on the Congo. Knox, Thomas Wallace.
  Fairy Book. Laboulaye, Eduard Réné Lefebre.
  Fairy Tales of All Nations. Translated by M. I. Booth. Laboulaye,
  Eduard Réné Lefebre.
  Middle Five (Life of Five Indian Boys at School). La Flesche, Francis.
  Wonderful Adventures of Nils. Lagerlöf, Selma.
  Land of Pluck. Dodge, M. M.
  Land of the Long Night. Du Chaillu, P. B.
  Schoolboy Days in France. Laurie, André.
  Schoolboy Days in Japan. Laurie, André.
  Schoolboy Days in Russia. Laurie, André.
  When I was a Boy in China. Lee, Yan Phon.
  Fifty Famous Stories Re-told. Baldwin.
  Stories from Famous Ballads. Lippincott.
  Wreck of the Golden Fleece. Leighton, Robert.
  Children's Letters, Written to Children by Famous Men and Women.
    Colson, E., and Chittenden, A. G.
  A Story of Abraham Lincoln. Hamilton, M.


LITTLE COUSIN SERIES.

  Our Little Swedish Cousin. Coburn, C. M.
  Our Little Chinese Cousin. Headland, I. T.
  Our Little Arabian Cousin. Mansfield, B. M.
  Our Little Dutch Cousin. Mansfield, B. M.
  Our Little Egyptian Cousin. Mansfield, B. M.
  Our Little English Cousin. Mansfield, B. M.
  Our Little French Cousin. Mansfield, B. M.
  Our Little Hindu Cousin. Mansfield, B. M.
  Our Little Scotch Cousin. Mansfield, B. M.
  Our Little Alaskan Cousin. Nixon, Roulet M. F.
  Our Little Australian Cousin. Nixon, Roulet M. F.
  Our Little Brazilian Cousin. Nixon, Roulet M. F.
  Our Little Grecian Cousin. Nixon, Roulet M. F.
  Our Little Spanish Cousin. Nixon, Roulet, M. F.
  Our Little Korean Cousin. Pike, H. L.
  Our Little Panama Cousin. Pike, H. L.
  Our Little African Cousin. Wade, M. H.
  Our Little Armenian Cousin. Wade, M. H.
  Our Little Brown Cousin. Wade, M. H.
  Our Little Cuban Cousin. Wade, M. H.
  Our Little Eskimo Cousin. Wade, M. H.
  Our Little Hawaiian Cousin. Wade, M. H.
  Our Little Indian Cousin. Wade, M. H.
  Our Little Irish Cousin. Wade, M. H.
  Our Little Italian Cousin. Wade, M. H.
  Our Little Japanese Cousin. Wade, M. H.
  Our Little Jewish Cousin. Wade, M. H.
  Our Little Norwegian Cousin. Wade, M. H.
  Our Little Philippine Cousin. Wade, M. H.
  Our Little Porto Rican Cousin. Wade, M. H.
  Our Little Siamese Cousin. Wade, M. H.
  Our Little Turkish Cousin. Wade, M. H.
  Our Little Canadian Cousin. Macdonald, E. Roberts.

  Little Folk in Brittany. Haines, A. C.
  Little Folks of Many Lands. Chance, L. M.
  Little Lives of Great Men. Hathaway, E. V.
  Little Men. Alcott, L. M.
  Little Royalties. McDougall, I.
  Little Stories of France. Dutton, M. B.
  Little Stories of Germany. Dutton, M. B.
  Lives of Girls who Became Famous. Bolton, S. K.
  Beasts of the Field. Long, William Joseph.
  Wood-Folk at School. Long, William Joseph.
  Long Ago in Greece. Carpenter, E. J.
  Peasant and Prince. Martineau, H.
  Boy Courier of Napoleon. Sprague, W. C.
  Wonder Stories from the Mabinogion. Brooks, E.
  Old Farm Fairies.[55] McConk, Henry Christopher.
  Tenants of an Old Farm.[55] McConk, Henry Christopher.
  At the Back of the North Wind. MacDonald, George.
  Princess and the Goblin. MacDonald, George.
  Cave Boy of the Age of Stone. McIntyre, Margaret A.
  Magna Carta Stories. Gilman, A.
  Early Cave Men. Dopp, K. E.
  Later Cave Men. Dopp, K. E.
  Stories of Roland. Marshall, H. E.
  Crofton Boys. Martineau, Harriet.
  Peats on the Fiord. Martineau, Harriet.
  Peasant and Prince. Martineau, Harriet.
  Child Stories from the Masters. Menafee, Maud.
  Miss Muffet's Christmas Party. Crotchers, S. M.
  Historical Tales: Greek. Morris, Charles.
  Historical Tales: Russian. Morris, Charles.
  Bed-Time Stories. Moulton, Louise Chandler.
  New Bed-Time Stories. Moulton, Louise Chandler.
  Modern Reader's Bible (Children Series). Moulton, F. R. G.
  My Air-Ships. Santos-Dumont.
  Old Norse Stories. Bradish, S. P.
  Through Russian Snows. Henty, G.
  Nine Worlds: Stories from Norse Mythology. Lichfield, M. E.
  Fairy Tales, Narratives and Poems. Norton, George Eliot.
  Modern Vikings. Boyeson, H. H.
  Boyhood in Norway. Boyeson, H. H.
  Old Greek Stories Told Anew. Peabody, J. B.
  Arabian Nights Re-told. Peary, Mrs. Josephine (Diebitsh).
  Heroic Ballads. Montgomery, D. H.
  English Ballads. Perkins, Mrs. Lucy Fitch.
  Boys' Iliad. Perry, Walter Copland.
  Boys' Odyssey. Perry, Walter Copland.
  Tale of Peter Rabbit. Potter, B.
  Tale of Squirrel Nutkin. Potter, B.
  Stories of Old France. Pitman, Leila Webster.
  Boys' and Girls' Plutarch. White, J. S.
  Greek Lives from Plutarch. Byles, C. E.
  My Lady Pokahontas. Cooke, J. E.
  Poems for Children. Rossetti, C. G.
  Children's Book. Scudder, H. E.
  Scottish Chiefs. Porter, Jane.
  Legends of the Red Children. Pratt, Mara Louise.
  Little Nature Studies for Little Folk. Burroughs, John.
  Giant Sun and His Family. Proctor, Mary.
  Stories of Starland. Proctor, Mary.
  Revolutionary Stories Re-told from St. Nicholas. Pyle, Howard.
  Old Tales from Rome. Zimmern, A.
  Stories of the Saints. Chenoweth, C. V. D.
  Sandman: His Farm Stories. Hopkins, W. T.
  Sandman: His Sea Stories. Hopkins, W. T.
  Sandman: His Ship Stories. Hopkins, W. T.
  Schooldays in France. Laurie, A.
  Schooldays in Italy. Laurie, A.
  Schooldays in Japan. Laurie, A.
  Schooldays in Russia. Laurie, A.
  William of Orange (Life Stories for Young People). Schupp, Otto Kar.
  Sea Yarns for Boys. Henderson, W. T.
  Story of Lord Roberts. Sellar, Edmund Francis.
  Story of Nelson. Sellar, Edmund Francis.
  Tent Life in Siberia. Kenman, G.
  Stories from English History. Skae, Hilda I.
  Boys who Became Famous Men (Giotto, Bach, Byron, Gainsborough, Handel,
    Coleridge, Canova, Chopin). Skinner, Harriet Pearl.
  Eskimo Stories. Smith, Mary Emily Estella.
  Some Curious Flyers, Creepers and Swimmers. Johannot, J. Bush Boys.
    Reid, M.
  New Mexico David, and Other Stories. Lummis, C. F.
  Child's History of Spain. Bonner, J.
  Historical Tales: Spanish. Morris, C.
  Story of the Cid. Wilson, C. D.
  Life of Lincoln for Boys. Sparhawk, Frances Campbell.
  Pieces for Every Occasion. Le Rou, C. B.
  Stories from Dante. Chester, N.
  Stories from Old English Poetry. Richardson, A. S.
  Stories from Plato and Other Classic Writers. Burt, M. E.
  Stories in Stone from the Roman Forum. Lovell, I.
  Stories of Brave Days. Carter, M. H.
  Stories of Early England. Buxton, E. M. Wilmot.
  Stories of Heroic Deeds. Johannot, J.
  Stories of Indian Chieftains. Husted, M. H.
  Stories of Insect Life. Weed, C. M., and Mustfeldt, M. E.
  Stories of the Gorilla Country. Du Chaillu, P. B.
  Stories of the Sea told by Sailors. Hale, E. E.
  Stories of War. Hale, E. E.
  Story of Lewis Caroll. Bowman, I.
  Story of Sir Launcelot and his Companions. Pyle, H.
  Queer Little People. Stowe, Harriet Beecher.
  In Clive's Command. Strang, Herbert.
  George Washington Jones (Christmas of a Little Coloured Boy). Stuart,
    Ruth McEnery.
  Story of Babette. Stuart, Ruth McEnery.
  Old Ballads in Prose. Tappan, Eva.
  Lion and Tiger Stories. Carter, M. H.
  True Tales of Birds and Beasts. Jordan, D. S.
  Typical Tales of Fancy, Romance and History from Shakespeare's Plays.
    Raymond, E.
  Young People's Story of Art. Whitcomb, Ida Prentice.
  Young People's Story of Music. Whitcomb, Ida Prentice.
  Tales of Laughter. Wiggin, K. Douglas.

The following miscellaneous list of books and stories is my own. I
do not mean that none of them have appeared in other lists, but the
greater number have been sifted from larger lists which I have made
during the last ten years, more or less.

For English readers I have given the press-marks in the British Museum,
which will be an economy of time to busy students and teachers. I have
supplied, in every case where it has been possible, the source of
the story and the name of the publisher for American readers, but my
experience as a reader in the libraries of the States brings me to the
conclusion that all the books of educational value will either be found
in the main libraries or procured on application even in the small
towns.

In many cases the stories would have to be shortened and re-arranged.
The difficulty of finding the sources and obtaining permission has
deterred me from offering for the present these stories in full.

This being a supplementary list to more general ones, there will
naturally be absent a large number of standard books which I take for
granted are known. Nevertheless, I have included the titles of some
well-known works which ought not to be left out of any list.


TITLES OF BOOKS CONTAINING TRANSLATIONS AND ADAPTATIONS OF CLASSICAL
STORIES.

  The Children of the Dawn. Old Tales of Greece. E. Fennemore
    Buckley. 12403 f. 41. Wells, Gardner, Darton & Co.
  Kingsley's Heroes. 012208. e. 22/26. Blackie and Son. (See List of
    Stories.)
  Wonder Stories from Herodotus. (Excellent as a preparation for the
    real old stories.) N. Barrington d'Almeida. 9026.66. S. Harper
    Brothers.


TITLES OF BOOKS CONTAINING CLASSICAL STORIES FROM HISTORY RE-TOLD.

  Plutarch's Lives for Boys and Girls. Re-told by W. H. Weston.
    10606. d. 4. T. C. and E. C. Jack.
  Tales from Plutarch. By Jameson Rawbotham. 10606. bb. 3. Fisher
    Unwin.


SOURCES OF INDIAN STORIES AND MYTHS.

For an understanding of the inner meaning of these stories, and as a
preparation for telling them, I should recommend as a useful book of
reference:

  Indian Myths and Legends. By Mackenzie. 04503. f. 26. Gresham
    Publishing House.

The following titles are of books containing stories for narration:

  Jacob's Indian Tales. 12411. h. 9. David Nutt.
  Old Deccan Days. Mary Frere. 12411. e.e. 14. John Murray.
  The Talking Thrush. W. H. D. Rouse. 12411. e.e.e. 17. J. M. Dent.
  Wide Awake Stories. 12411. b.b.b. 2. Steel and Temple.
  Indian Nights' Entertainment. Synnerton. 14162. f. 16. Eliot Stock.
  Myths of the Hindus and Buddhists. By Sister Nevedita and Amanda
    Coomara. K.T.C. Swamy. A. I. George Harrap Company. (This volume is
    mainly for reference.)
  Buddhist Birth Stories. T. W. Rhys Davids. 14098. d. 23. Trubner Co.
  Stories of the Buddha Birth. Cowell, Rouse, Neil, Francis. 14098. dd.
    8. University Press, Cambridge.

As selections of this extensive work:

  Eastern Stories and Fables. M. I. Shedlock. George Routledge.
  The Jatakas, Tales of India. Re-told by Ellen C. Babbitt. 012809.
    d. 8. The Century Co.
  Folk-Tales of Kashmir. Knowles. 2318. g. 18. Trübner
    & Co.
  The Jungle-Book. Rudyard Kipling. 012807. ff. 47. Macmillan.
  The Second Jungle-Book. Rudyard Kipling. 012807. k. 57. Macmillan.
  Tibetian Tales. F. A. Shieffner. 2318. g. 7. Trübner & Co.


LEGENDS, MYTHS AND FAIRY-TALES.

  Classic Myths and Legends. A. H. Hope Moncrieff. 12403. ee. 6. The
    Gresham Publishing House.
  Myths and Folk-Tales of the Russians. Curtin. 2346. e. 6. Sampson Low.
  North-West Slav Legends and Fairy Stories. Erben. (Translated by W. W.
    Strickland.) 12430. i. 44.
  Russian Fairy-Tales. Nisbet Pain. 12431. ee. 18. Lawrence and Bullen.
  Sixty Folk-Tales from Slavonic Sources. Wratislau. 12431. dd. 29.
    Elliot Stock.
  Slavonic Fairy-Tales. F. Naake. 2348. b. 4. Henry S. King.
  Slav Tales. Chodsho. (Translated by Emily J. Harding.) 12411. eee. 2.
    George Allen.
  Chinese Stories. Pitman. 12410. dd. 25. George Harrap & Co.
  Chinese Fairy Tales. Professor Giles. 012201. de. 8. Govans
    International Library.
  Chinese Nights' Entertainment. Adèle Fielde. 12411. h. 4.
    G. P. Putnam.
  Maori Tales. K. M. Clark. 12411. h. 15. Macmillan & Co.
  Papuan Fairy Tales. Annie Ker. 12410. eee. 25. Macmillan & Co.
  Cornwall's Wonderland. Mabel Quiller Couch. 12431. r. 13. J. M. Dent.
  Perrault's Fairy Tales. 012200. e. 8. “The Temple Classics.”
    J. M. Dent.
  Gesta Romanorum. 12411. e. 15. Swan Sonnenschein.
  Myths and Legends of Japan. F. H. Davis. 1241. de. 8. G. Harrap & Co.
  Old World Japan. Frank Rinder. 12411. eee. 3. George Allen.
  Legendary Lore of All Nations. Swinton and Cathcart. 1241. f. 13.
   Ivison, Taylor & Co.
  Popular Tales from the Norse. Sir George Webbe Dasent. 12207. pp.
    George Routledge and Son.
  Fairy Tales from Finland. Zopelius. 12431. df. 2. J. M. Dent.
  Fairy Gold. A Book of Old English Fairy Tales, chosen by Ernest Rhys.
    12411. dd. 22. J. M. Dent.
  Contes Populaires du Vallon. Aug. Gittée. 12430. h. 44. (Written in
    very simple style and easy of translation.) Wanderpooten Gand.
  Tales of Old Lusitania. Coelho. 12431. e. 34. Swan Sonnenschein.
  Tales from the Land of Nuts and Grapes. Charles Sellers. 12431. c. 38.
    Simpkin, Marshall & Co.
  The English Fairy Book. Ernest Rhys. 12410. dd. 29. Fisher Unwin.
  Zuni Folk Tales. F. H. Cushing. 12411. g. 30. Putnam.
  Manx Fairy Tales. Sophia Morrison. 12410. df. 10. David Nutt.
  Legend of the Iroquois. W. V. Canfield. 12410. ff. 23. A Wessels
    Company.
  The Indian's Book. Natalie Curtis. 2346. i. 2. Harper Brothers.
  Hansa Folk Lore. Rattray. 12431. tt. 2. Clarendon Press.
  Japanese Folk Stories and Fairy Tales. Mary F. Nixon-Roulet.
    12450. ec. 18. Swan Sonnenschein.
  Kaffir Folk Tales. G. M. Theal. 2348. e. 15. Swan Sonnenschein.
  Old Hungarian Tales. Baroness Orczy and Montagu Barstow. 12411. f. 33.
    Dean and Son.
  Evening with the Old Story-tellers. G.B. 1155. e. I (1). James Burns.
  Myths and Legends of Flowers. C. Skinner. 07029. h. 50. Lippincott.
  The Book of Legends Told Over Again. Horace Scudder. 12430. e. 32. Gay
    and Bird.
  Indian Folk Tales (American Indian). Mary F. Nixon-Roulet. 12411. cc.
    14. D. Appleton Company.


ROMANCE.

  Epic and Romance. Professor W. P. Ker. 2310. c. 20. Macmillan. (As
    preparation for the selection of Romance Stories.)
  Old Celtic Romances. P. W. Joyce. 12430. cc. 34. David Nutt.
  Heroes of Asgard. Keary. 012273. de. 6. Macmillan & Co.
  Early British Heroes. Hartley. 12411. d. 5. J. M. Dent & Co.
  A Child's Book of Saints. W. Canton. 12206. r. 11. J. M. Dent.
  A Child's Book of Warriors. W. Canton. 04413. g. 49. J. M. Dent.
  History of Ballads. Professor W. P. Ker. From “Proceedings of British
    Academy.” 11852. Vol. 6 (9).
  History of English Balladry. Egbert Briant. 011853. aaa. 16.
    Richard G. Badger, Gorham Press.
  Book of Ballads for Boys and Girls. Selected by Smith and Soutar.
    11622. bbb. 3. 7. The Clarendon Press.
  A Book of Ballad Stories. Mary Macleod. 12431. p. 3. Wells, Gardner &
    Co.
  Captive Royal Children. G. T. Whitham. 10806. eee. 2. Wells, Gardner,
    Darton & Co.
  Tales and Talks from History. 9007. h. 24. Blackie & Son.
  Stories from Froissart. Henry Newbolt. 9510. cc. 9. Wells, Gardner,
    Darton & Co.
  Pilgrim Tales from Chaucer. F. J. Harvey Darton. 12410. eee. 14.
    Wells, Gardner & Darton.
  Wonder Book of Romances. F. J. Harvey Darton. 12410. eee. 18. Wells,
    Gardner & Darton.
  Red Romance Book. Andrew Lang. 12411. bbb. 10. Longmans, Green & Co.
  The Garden of Romance. Edited by Ernest Rhys. 12411. h. 17.
    Kegan Paul.
  The Kiltartan Wonderbook. Lady Gregory. 12450. g. 32. Maunsel & Co.
  The Story of Drake. L. Elton. 10601. p. (From “The Children's Heroes”
    Series.)
  Tales from Arabian Nights. 012201. ff. 7/1. Blackie & Sons.
  King Peter. Dion Calthrop, 012632. ccc. 37. Duckworth & Co.
  Tales of the Heroic Ages: Siegfried, Beowulf, Frithjof, Roland.
    Zenaide Ragozin. 12411. eee. G. P. Putnam.


TITLES OF MISCELLANEOUS BOOKS CONTAINING MATERIAL FOR NARRATION.

  Strange Adventures in Dicky Birdland. Kearton. 12809. ff. 45. Cassell
    & Co.
  Then and Now Stories: Life in England Then and Now; Children Then and
    Now; Story-Tellers Then and Now. W.P. 2221. Macmillan & Co.
  A Book of Bad Children. Trego Webb. 012808. ee. Methuen & Co.
  Land of Play. Ada Wallas. 12813. r. 8. (The story of a Doll-Historian,
    much appreciated by children.) Edward Arnold.
  Tell It Again Stories (For very young children). Elizabeth Thompson
    Dillingham and Adèle Pomers Emerson. 012808. cc. 15. Ginn and Co.
  The Basket Woman. Mrs. Mary Austin. Houghton Mifflin Co.
  The Queen Bee, and Other Stories. Evald. (Translated by C. C. Moore
    Smith.) P.P. 6064 c. Nelson and Sons.
  The Children and the Pictures. Pamela Tennant. 12804. tt. 10. William
    Heinemann.
  Stories from the History of Ceylon for Children. Marie Musaus Higgins.
    Capper & Sons.
  Nonsense for Somebody by A. Nobody. 12809. n. 82. Wells, Gardner & Co.
  Graphic Stories for Boys and Girls. Selected from 3, 4, 5, 6 of the
    Graphic Readers. 012866. f. Collins.
  Child Lore. 1451. a. 54. Nimmo.
  Windlestraw (Legends in Rhyme of Plants and Animals). Pamela
    Glenconner. 011651. e. 76. Chiswick Press.
  Deccan Nursery Tales. Kinaid. Macmillan.
  The Indian's Story Book. Richard Wilson. Macmillan.
  Told in Gallant Deeds. A Child's History of the War. Mrs. Belloc
    Lowndes. Nisbet.

I much regret that I have been unable to find a good collection of
stories from history for Narrative purposes. I have made a careful
and lengthy search, but apart from the few I have quoted the stories
are all written from the _reading_ point of view, rather than the
_telling_. There is a large scope for such a book, but the dramatic
presentation is the first and chief essential of such a work. These
stories could be used as supplementary to the readings of the great
historians. It would be much easier to interest boys and girls in the
more leisurely account of the historian when they have once been caught
in the fire of enthusiasm on the dramatic side.

The following is a list of single stories chosen for the dramatic
qualities which make them suitable for narration. For the Press-marks
and the publishers it will be necessary to refer back to the list
containing the book-titles.


CLASSICAL STORIES RE-TOLD.

  The Story of Theseus (To be told in six parts for a series).
    How Theseus Lifted the Stone.
    How Theseus Slew the Corynetes.
    How Theseus Slew Sinis.
    How Theseus Slew Kerkyon and Procrustes.
    How Theseus Slew Medea and was acknowledged as the Son of Ægeus.
    How Theseus Slew the Minotaur.
      (From Kingsley's Heroes. 012208. e. 22/26. Blackie & Son.)
  The Story of Crœsus.
  The Conspiracy of the Magi.
  Arion and the Dolphin.
    (From Wonder Tales from Herodotus. These are intended for reading,
      but could be shortened for effective narration.)
  Coriolanus.
  Julius Cæsar.
  Aristides.
  Alexander.
    (From Plutarch's Lives for Boys and Girls. These stories must be
      shortened and adapted for narration.)
  The God of the Spears: The Story of Romulus.
  His Father's Crown: The story of Alcibiades.
    (From Tales from Plutarch. F. J. Rowbotham. Both these stories to
      be shortened and told in sections.)


INDIAN STORIES.

  The Wise Old Shepherd.
    (From The Talking Thrush. Rouse.)
  The Religious Camel.
    (From the same source.)
  Less Inequality than Men Deem.
  The Brahman, the Tiger and the Six Judges.
  Tit for Tat.
    (From Old Deccan Days. Mary Frere.)
  Pride Goeth Before a Fall.
  Harisarman.
    (From Jacob's Indian Fairy Tales.)
  The Bear's Bad Bargain.
  Little Anklebone.
  Peasie and Beansie.
    (From Wide Awake Stories. Flora Annie Steel.)
  The Weaver and the Water Melon.
  The Tiger and the Hare.
    (From Indian Nights' Entertainment. Synnerton.)
  The Virtuous Animals.
    (This story should be abridged and somewhat altered for narration.)
  The Ass as Singer.
  The Wolf and the Sheep.
    (From Tibetian Tales. F. A. Schieffur.)
  A Story about Robbers.
    (From Out of the Far East. Page. 131. Lafcadio Hearn. 10058. de. g.
     Houghton and Mifflin.)
  Dripping.
    (From Indian Fairy Tales. Mark Thornhill. 12431. bbb. 38. Hatchard.)
  The Buddha as Tree-Spirit.
  The Buddha as Parrot.
  The Buddha as King.
    (From Eastern Stories and Fables. George Routledge.)
  Raksas and Bakshas.
  The Bread of Discontent.
    (From Legendary Lore of All Nations. Cathcart and Swinton.)
  A Germ-Destroyer.
  Namgay Doola (A good story for boys, to be given in shortened form).
    (From The Kipling Reader. 1227. t. 7. Macmillan.)
  A Stupid Boy.
  The Clever Jackal (One of the few stories wherein the Jackal shows
    skill combined with gratitude).
  Why the Fish Laughed.
    (From Folk Tales of Kashmir. Knowles.)


COMMON SENSE AND RESOURCEFULNESS AND HUMOUR.

  The Thief and the Cocoanut Tree.
  The Woman and the Lizard.
  Sada Sada.
  The Shopkeeper and the Robber.
  The Reciter.
  Rich Man's Potsherd.
  Singer and the Donkey.
  Child and Milk.
  Rich Man Giving a Feast.
  King Solomon and the Mosquitoes.
  The King who Promised to Look After Tennel Ranan's Family.
  Vikadakavi.
  Horse and Complainant.
  The Woman and the Stolen Fruit.
    (From An Indian Tale or Two. Swinton. 14171. A. 20. Reprinted from
      Blackheath Local Guide.)


TITLES OF BOOKS CONTAINING STORIES FROM HISTORY.

  British Sailor Heroes.
  British Soldier Heroes.
    (From the Hero Reader. W.P. 53 ⅓. William Heinemann.)
  The Story of Alfred the Great. A. E. McKillan.
  Alexander the Great. Ada Russell: W.P. 66/5.
  The Story of Jean d'Arc. Wilmot Buxton. W.P. 66/1.
  Marie Antoinette. Alice Birkhead. W.P. 66/2.
    (All these are published by George Harrap.)


STORIES FROM THE LIVES OF SAINTS.

  The Children's Library of the Saints. Edited by Rev. W. Guy Pearse.
    Printed by Richard Jackson.
    (This is an illustrated penny edition.)
  From the Legenda Aurea. 012200. de.
    The Story of St. Brandon (The Episode of the Birds). Vol 7, page 52.
    The Story of St. Francis. Vol. 6, page 125.
    The Story of Santa Clara and the Roses.
    Saint Elisabeth of Hungary. Vol. 6, page 213.
    St. Martin and the Cloak. Vol. 6, page 142.
  The Legend of St. Marjory.
    (_Tales Facetiæ._ 12350. b. 39.)
  Melangell's Lambs.
    (From The Welsh Fairy Book. W. Jenkyn Thomas. Fisher Unwin.)
  Our Lady's Tumbler. (Twelfth Century Legend told by Philip Wicksteed.
    012356. e. 59.)
    (J. M. Dent. This story could be shortened and adapted without
      sacrificing too much of the beauty of the style.)
  The Song of the Minster.
    (From William Canton's Book of Saints. K.T.C. a/4. J. M. Dent.
      This should be shortened and somewhat simplified for narration,
      especially in the technical ecclesiastical terms.)
  The Story of St. Kenelm the Little King.
    (From Old English History for Children.)
  The Story of King Alfred and St. Cuthbert.
  The Story of Ædburg, the Daughter of Edward.
  The Story of King Harold's Sickness and Recovery.

I commend all those who tell these stories to read the comments made on
them by E. A. Freeman himself.

    (From Old English History for Children. 012206. ppp. 7. J. M. Dent.
      Everyman Series.)


STORIES DEALING WITH THE SUCCESS OF THE YOUNGEST CHILD.

(This is sometimes due to a kind action shown to some humble person or
to an animal.)

  The Three Sons.
    (From The Kiltartan Wonderbook. By Lady Gregory.)
  The Flying Ship.
    (From Russian Fairy Tales. Nisbet Pain.)
  How Jesper Herded the Hares.
    (From The Violet Fairy Book. 12411. ccc. 6.)
  Youth, Life and Death.
     (From Myths and Folk Tales of Russians and Slavs. By Curtin.)
  Jack the Dullard. Hans Christian Andersen.
    (See list of Andersen Stories.)
  The Enchanted Whistle.
    (From The Golden Fairy Book. 12411. c. 36.)
  The King's Three Sons.
  Hunchback and Brothers.
    (From Legends of the French Provinces. 1241. c. 2.)
  The Little Humpbacked Horse. (This story is more suitable for reading
    than telling.)
    (From Russian Wonder Tales. By Post Wheeler. 12410. dd. 30. Adam
      and Charles Black.)
  The Queen Bee. By Grimm. (See full list.)
  The Wonderful Bird.
    (From Roumanian Fairy Tales. Adapted by J. M. Percival. 12431. dd.
    23. Henry Holt.)


LEGENDS, MYTHS, FAIRY TALES AND MISCELLANEOUS STORIES.

  How the Herring became King.
  Joe Moore's Story.
  The Mermaid of Gob Ny Ooyl.
  King Magnus Barefoot.
    (From Manx Tales. By Sophia Morrison.)
  The Greedy Man.
    (From Contes Populaires Malgaches. By G. Ferrand. 2348. aaa. 19.
      Ernest Leroux.)
  Arbutus.
  Basil.
  Briony.
  Dandelion.
    (From Legends of Myths and Flowers. C. Skinner.)
  The Magic Picture.
  The Stone Monkey.
  Stealing Peaches.
  The Country of Gentlemen.
  Football on a Lake.
    (From Chinese Fairy Tales. Professor Giles.)
  The Lime Tree.
  Intelligence and Luck.
  The Frost, the Sun and Wind.
     (From Sixty Folk Tales. Wratislaw.)
  The Boy who Slept.
  The Gods Know. (This story must be shortened and adapted for
    narration.)
    (From Chinese Fairy Stories. By Pitman.)
  The Imp Tree.
  The Pixy Flower.
  Tom-Tit Tot.
  The Princess of Colchester.
    (From Fairy Gold. Ernest Rhys.)
  The Origin of the Mole.
    (From Cossack Fairy Tales. Selected by Nisbet Bain. 12431. f. 51.
      Lawrence and Bullen.)
  Dolls and Butterflies.
    (From Myths and Legends of Japan. Chapter VI.)
  The Child of the Forest.
  The Sparrow's Wedding.
  The Moon Maiden.
    (From Old World Japan. By Frank Binder.)
  The Story of Merlin. (For Young People.)
    (Told in Early British Heroes. Harkey.)
  The Isle of the Mystic Lake.
    (From Voyage of Maildun, “Old Celtic Romances.” P. W. Joice.)
  The Story of Baldur. (In Three Parts, for Young Children.)
    (From Heroes of Asgard. M. R. Earle. Macmillan.)
  Adalhero.
    (From Evenings with the Old Story-Tellers. See “Titles of Books.”)
  Martin, the Peasant's Son.
    (This is more suitable for reading. From Russian Wonder Tales. Post
      Wheeler.)


MISCELLANEOUS STORIES.

  Versions of the Legend of Rip Van Winkle.
  Urashima.
    (From Myths and Legends of Japan. Hadland Davis.)
  The Monk and the Bird.
    (From the Book of Legends-Told Over Again. Horace Scudder.)
  Carob. (Talmud Legend.)
    (From Myths and Legends of Flowers. C. Skinner.)
  The Land of Eternal Youth.
    (From Child-Lore.)
  Catskin.
  Guy of Gisborne.
  King Henry and the Miller.
    (From Stories from Ballads. M. Macleod.)
  The Legend of the Black Prince.
  Why the Wolves no Longer Devour the Lambs on Xmas Night.
    (From Au Pays des Legendes. E. Herpin. 12430. bbb. 30. Hyacinthe
      Calliere.)
  The Coyote and the Locust.
  The Coyote and the Raven.
    (From Zuni Folk Tales. Cushing.)
  The Peacemaker.
    (From Legends of the Iroquois. W. V. Canfield.)
  The Story of the Great Chief of the Animals.
  The Story of Lion and Little Jackal.
    (From Kaffir Folk Tales. G. M. Theal.)
  The Legend of the Great St. Nicholas.
  The Three Counsels.
    (From Bulletin de Folk Lore. Liege. Academies, 987 ½.)
  The Tale of the Peasant Demyar.
  Monkey and the Pomegranate Tree.
  The Ant and the Snow.
  The Value of an Egg.
  The Padre and the Negro.
  Papranka.
    (From Tales of Old Lusitania. Coelho.)
  Kojata.
  The Lost Spear. (To be shortened.)
  The Hermit. By Voltaire.
  The Blue Cat. (From the French.)
  The Silver Penny.
  The Three Sisters.
  The Slippers of Abou-Karem.
    (From The Golden Fairy Book. 12411. e. 36. Hutchinson.)
  The Fairy Baby.
    (From Uncle Remus in Hansaland. By Mary and Newman Tremearne.)
  Why the Sole of a Man's Foot is Uneven.
  The Wonderful Hair.
  The Emperor Trojan's Goat Ears.
  The Language of Animals.
  Handicraft above Everything.
  Just Earnings are Never Lost.
  The Maiden who was Swifter than a Horse.
    (From Servian Stories and Legends.)
  Le Couple Silencieux.
  Le Mort Parlant.
  La Sotte Fiancee.
  Le Cornacon.
  Persin au Pot.
    (From Contes Populaires du Vallon. Aug. Gittée. 12430. h. 44.)
  The Rat and the Cat.
  The Two Thieves.
  The Two Rats.
  The Dog and the Rat.
    (From Contes Populaires Malgaches. 2348. aaa. 19. Gab. Ferrand.)
  Rua and Toka.
    (From The Maori Tales. Clark.)
  John and the Pig. (Old Hungarian Tales.)
    (This story is given for the same purpose as “Long Bow Story.” See
      Andrew Lang's Books.)
  Lady Clare.
  The Wolf-Child.
    (From Land of Grapes and Nuts.)
  The Ungrateful Man.
  The Faithful Servant. (In part.)
  Jovinian the Proud Emperor.
  The Knight and the King of Hungary.
  The Wicked Priest.
  The Emperor Conrad and the Count's Son.
    (From the Gesta Romanorum. 1155. e. I.)
  Virgil, the Emperor and the Truffles.
    (From Unpublished Legends of Virgil. Collected by C. G. Leland.
      12411. eee. 15. Elliot Stock.)
  Seeing that All was Right. (A good story for boys.)
  La Fortuna.
  The Lanterns of the Strozzi Palace.
    (From Legends of Florence. Re-told by C. G. Leland. 12411. c.cc. 2.
      David Nutt.)
  The Three Kingdoms.
  Yelena the Wise.
  Seven Simeons.
  Ivan, the Bird and the Wolf.
  The Pig, the Deer and the Steed.
  Waters of Youth.
  The Useless Wagoner.
    (These stories need shortening and adapting. From Myths and Folk
      Tales of the Russian. Curtin.)


MISCELLANEOUS STORIES TAKEN FROM THE ANDREW LANG BOOKS.

  The Serpent's Gifts.
  Unlucky John.
    (From All Sorts of Story Books. 012704. aaa. 35.)
  Makoma. (A story for boys.)
    (From Orange Fairy Book. 12411. c. 36.)
  The Lady of Solace.
  How the Ass Became a Man Again.
  Amys and Amile.
  The Burning of Njal.
  Ogier the Dane.
    (From Red Book of Romance. 12411. bbb. 10.)
  The Heart of a Donkey.
  The Wonderful Tune.
  A French Puck.
  A Fish Story.
    (From The Lilac Fairy Book. 12411. de. 17.)
  East of the Sun and West of the Moon. (As a preparation for Cupid and
    Psyche.)
    (From The Blue Fairy Book. 12411. I. 3.)
  The Half Chick.
  The Story of Hok Lee and the Dwarfs.
    (From The Green Fairy Book. 12411.1. 6.)
  How to Find a True Friend. (To be given in shorter form.)
    (From The Crimson Fairy Book. 12411. c. 20.)
  The Long Bow Story. (This story makes children learn to distinguish
    between falsehood and romance.)
    (From The Olive Fairy Book. 12410. dd. 18.)
  Kanny, the Kangaroo.
  Story of Tom the Bear.
    (From The Animal Story Book.)
  The Story of the Fisherman.
  Aladdin and the Lamp. (This story should be divided and told in two
    sections.)
  The Story of Ali Cogia.
    (From the Arabian Nights Stories of Andrew Lang. All these stories
      are published by Longmans, Green & Co.)


The following titles are taken from the “Story-telling Magazine,”
published 27 West 23rd Street, New York.

  March and the Shepherd.
    (Folk Lore from Foreign Lands. January, 1914.)
  The Two Young Lions.
    (From Fénélon's Fables and Fairy Tales. Translated by Marc T.
    Valette. March, 1914.)
  Why the Cat Spits at the Dog. (November, 1913.)
  The Story of Persephone. By R. T. Wyche. (September, 1913.)
  The Story of England's First Poet. By G. P. Krapp.
      (From In Oldest England, July, 1913.)
  The Three Goats. By Jessica Child. (For very young children. July,
    1913.)
  The Comical History of the Cobbler and the King. (Chap. Book. 12331.
    i. 4.)
    (This story should be shortened to add to the dramatic power.)


The two following stories, which are great favourites, should be told
one after the other, one to illustrate the patient wife, and the other
the patient husband.

  The Fisherman and his Wife. Hans. C. Andersen.
    (See Publishers of Andersen's Stories.)
  Hereafter This.
    (From More English Fairy Tales. By Jacobs. 12411. h. 23. David
      Nutt.)
  How a Man Found his Wife in the Land of the Dead. (This is a very
    dramatic and pagan story, to be used with discretion.)
  The Man without Hands and Feet.
  The Cockerel.
    (From Papuan Fairy Tales. Annie Ker.)
  The Story of Sir Tristram and La Belle Iseult. (To be told in
    shortened form.)
    (From Cornwall's Wonderland. Mabel Quiller Couch.)
  The Cat that Went to the Doctor. The Wood Anemone. Sweeter than Sugar.
  The Raspberry Caterpillar.
    (From Fairy Tales from Finland. Zopelius.)
  Dinevan the Emu.
  Goomble Gubbon the Bustard.
    (From Australian Legendary Lore. By Mrs. Langloh Parker. 12411. h.
      13.)
  The Tulip Bed.
    (From English Fairy Book. Ernest Rhys.)

I have been asked so often for this particular story: I am glad to be
able to provide it in very poetical language.

  The Fisherman and his Wife.
  The Wolf and the Kids.
  The Adventures of Chanticleer and Partlet.
  The Old Man and his Grandson.
  Rumpelstiltskin.
  The Queen Bee.
  The Wolf and the Man.
  The Golden Goose.
    (From Grimm's Fairy Tales. By Mrs. Edgar Lucas. 12410. dd. 33.
      Constable.)


STORIES FROM HANS C. ANDERSEN.

(For young children.)

  Ole-Luk-Oie. (Series of seven.)
  What the Old Man Does is Always Right.
  The Princess and the Pea.
  Thumbelina.

(For older children.)

  It's Quite True.
  Five Out of One Pod.
  Great Claus and Little Claus.
  Jack the Dullard.
  The Buckwheat.
  The Fir-Tree.
  The Little Tin Soldier.
  The Nightingale.
  The Ugly Duckling.
  The Swineherd.
  The Sea Serpent.
  The Little Match-Girl.
  The Gardener and the Family.

The two best editions of Hans C. Andersen's Fairy Tales are the
translation by Mrs. Lucas, published by Dent, and the only complete
English edition, published by W. A. and J. K. Craigie (Humphrey
Milford, 1914).


MISCELLANEOUS MODERN STORIES.

  The Summer Princess.
    (From The Enchanted Garden. Mrs. Molesworth. 012803. d. f. T.
      Fisher Unwin. This could be shortened and arranged for narration.)
  Thomas and the Princess. (A Fairy Tale for Grown-Ups, for pure
    relaxation.) By Joseph Conrad.
    (From Twenty-six Ideal Stories for Girls. 012809. e. 1. Hutchinson
      & Co.)
  The Truce of God.
    (From All-Fellowes Seven Legends of Lower Redemption. Laurence
      Housman. 012630. 1. 25. Kegan Paul.)
  The Selfish Giant. By Oscar Wilde. 012356. e. 59. David Nutt.
  The Legend of the Tortoise.
    (From the Provençal. From Windestraw. Pamela Glenconner.) Chiswick
      Press.
  Fairy Grumblesnooks.
  A Bit of Laughter's Smile. By Maud Symonds.
    (From Tales for Little People. Nos. 323 and 318. Aldine Publishing
      Company.)
  The Fairy who Judged her Neighbours.
    (From The Little Wonder Box. By Jean Ingelow. 12806. r. 21.
      Griffiths, Farren & Co.)


FOR TEACHERS OF YOUNG CHILDREN.

  Le Courage.
  L'Ecole.
  Le Jour de Catherine.
  Jacqueline et Mirant.
    (From Nos Enfants. Anatole France. 12810. dd. 72. Hachette.)
  The Giant and the Jackstraw. By David Starr Jordan.
    (From Una and the Knights. For very small children.)
  The Musician.
  Legend of the Christmas Rose.
    (From The Girl from the Marsh Croft. Selma Lagerlöf. 12581. p. 99.)
    Both these should be shortened and adapted for narration.

I trust that the titles of my stories in this Section may not be
misleading. Under the titles of “Myths, Legends and Fairy Tales,”
I have included many which contain valuable ethical teaching, deep
philosophy and stimulating examples for conduct in life. I regret that
I have not been able to furnish in my own list many of the stories I
consider good for narration, but the difficulty of obtaining permission
has deterred me from further efforts in this direction. I hope,
however, that teachers and students will look up the book containing
these stories.


FOOTNOTES:

[55] Both books dealing with insect life.




INDEX


Adler, Felix, on animal stories, 80

Adventures of a Beetle, 29

Alice in Wonderland, 57, 136

Analysis of motive and feeling, to be avoided, 43

Andersen, Hans C., 2, 15, 16, 21, 29, 31, 34, 39, 41, 44, 45, 62, 63,
80, 112, 116, 123, 124, 138, 150, 156, 232

Animal Play, Psychology of, 105

Art, true purpose of, 109

Arthur in the Cave, 165-9

Artifices of story telling, 32


Bacon, J. D. D., 12

Ballad for a boy, 107

Baring, M., 193

Barnes, Earl, 60

Barnett, P. A., 104

Barnett, Mrs. P. A., 70

Barrow, E., 40

Beautiful things need appropriate language, 82

Beetle, the, 125

Beginning, should be striking, 39

Belloc's Cautionary Tales, 56

Béranger, 25

Bible Stories, 67

Björnson's tribute to Andersen, 116

Blazing Mansion, the, 74

Bluebeard, 76

Blue Rose, the, 187

‘Blugginess,’ the thirst for, 85

Books, choice of, 61

Bradley, Professor, 119

Brown, T. E., 17

Buddha, stories of, 87, 127, 200, 203

Buffoonery, to be discouraged, 54

Burroughs, John, 58, 108

Buster Brown, 53

Butterfly, Story of, 45


Call of the Homeland, 71

Calypso, 93

Calthrop, Dion, 92

Carlyle, T., 115

Chap books, 51, 52

Chesterton, G. K., on sentimentality, 46

Child, the, 87

Child Play, 104, 105

Children's Catalogue, 211

Choice of books, 61

Christopher, St., legend of, 162-5

Cid, the, 133

Cinderella, 71, 90, 119, 120

Classical Stories, 218, 223

Class teaching, use of story-telling in, 132

Clifford, Ethel, 88

Clifford, Mrs. W. K., 40, 64

Commonplace, to be avoided, 99

Common sense of Education, 104

Common sense, illustrated in stories, 71, 224

Concealment of emotion by children, 114

Confucius, 60

Co-operation of audience, how to enlist, 37

Cory, W., 107

Coquelin, 27, 34

Crazy Jane, 47

Creative work, value of, 113

Curious Girl, 51

Curtin, Russian Myths, 90

Cymbeline, 94


Danger of side issues, 6

Danger of altering the story for the occasion, 8

Darning Needle, 125

Death, stories dealing with, 86

Death-bed scenes, 55

Defence of Poesy, 5, 91, 110

Detail, excess of, 21

Dick Whittington, 100

Didactic fiction, a low type of art, 4, 59

Dido and Aeneas, 66

Difficulties of the story, 6

Dinkey Bird, the, 64

Direct appeal, danger of, 111

Divine Adventure, the, 81

Dobson, Austin, 21

Don Quixote, 21, 133

Dramatic and poetic elements, 134

Dramatic Excitement, 82

Dramatic joy, 4, 93

Dramatic presentation, of moral value, 59

---- indispensable, 89

Dramatisation, danger of, 111

Drudgery, essential for success, 29


Educational uses of story telling, 4

Effect of story, difficult to gauge, 14

---- how to obtain and maintain, 89

Elements, desirable, 61

---- to be avoided, 42

Eliot, George, 83

Emotions, unable to find expression, 60

Emphasis, danger of, 33

Endings, dramatic, 40

Enfant Prodigue, 18

Environment, 95

Essentials of the story, 25

Ewing, Mrs., 50, 104, 106

Examples for Youth, 56

Experience, the appeal to, 62


Fact and make-believe, 119

Fairchild Family, 44

Fairy tales, 58, 72, 73, 74, 75, 102, 104, 112

---- do not appeal to some, 121

---- mixed with science, to be avoided, 57

---- poor material of, 122

---- potential truth in, 121

---- right age for, 75

Father and Son, 102

Fear, appeals to, 51

Fénélon's Telemachus, 92

Festival Day, true spirit of, 200-3

Fiction, should be used, 109

Field, Eugene, 64, 69

Filial Piety, 203-6

Fleming, Marjorie, 53

Folk lore, tampering with, 76

Freeman, P., poems of, 55

Froebel, 59

Fun, coarse and exaggerated, 53


Gales, R. L., 101

Geography, dramatic possibilities of, 134

Gesture, use and abuse of, 35, 126

Glenconner, Lady, 187

Glover, Mrs. Arnold, 96

Golden Numbers, 71

Goschen, G., 65, 99

Gosse, E., 102

Gregory, Lady, 24

Grimm, 71

Groos, Karl, 105

Grotesque stories, an antidote to sentimentality, 78

Gunnar, Death of, 133


Hafiz the Stone-cutter, 170-2

Harris, Muriel, 56

Harrison, Frederic, 61

Hearn, Lafcadio, 31

Hector and Andromache, 66

Helen and Paris, 8

Heroes of Asgaard, 65

History and fiction, 109, 225

Honey Bee and other Stories, 57

Human interest, 93

Humour, development slow, 136

---- educational value of, 135

---- to encourage the sense of, 4, 73, 224

Hushaby Lady, 69

Hysteria, how encouraged, 60


Ice Maiden, 80

Ideal, translated into action, 4, 110

Illustration of stories, 131

Imagination, appeal by, 20

---- cultivation of, 4, 65, 103

---- Queyrat on, 118

---- Ribot on, 105

Indian Stories, 81, 91, 218

Infant piety, tales of, 55

Irish peasants as an audience, 10


Jack and the Beanstalk, 74, 121

Jacob, More English tales, 72

James, Henry, 27

James, William, 84

Janeway, Mrs., 51

Jesper and the Hares, 72

John and the Pig, 106


Keatinge, on Suggestion, 34

Kimmins, Dr., 130

Kinematograph, dramatic value of, 18, 48

King Peter, 92

Kinship with animals, to be encouraged, 80

Ker, Professor, 157

Kipling, Rudyard, 38, 39, 40, 41, 123, 127


Ladd's Psychology, 108

Lang, Andrew, 72, 73, 85, 230

Laocoon group, 55

Lear's Book of Nonsense, 79

Legends, Myths and Fairy tales, 219, 227

Life, stories of saving, 86

Little Citizens of other Lands, 103

Little Cousin Series, 214

Little Red Riding Hood, 76

Lion and Hare, 126

Loti, 114


Magnanimity, to be encouraged, 107

Mahomet, advice to teachers, 68

McKracken, Mrs. E., 45

Macleod, Fiona, 81

Marsh King's Daughter, 62

Mechanical devices for attracting attention, 32

Memory or improvisation, 123

Memory, the effect of, 63

Mentius, Chinese philosopher, 95

Metempsychosis, 81

Milking time, 68

Mill on the Floss, 83

Milton, 69

Mimicry, use of, 36

Ministering Children, 44

Miscellaneous Stories, 222, 228

Modern Stories, List of, 233

Montessori, on Silence, 131

Moore Smith, C. G., 57

Moral Instruction of Children, 81

Moral tales, 55

Morley, Henry, 58

Morley, Lord, on direct moral teaching, 128

Mother Play, 59

Moulton, Professor, 67


Napoleon, 85, 134

Nebuchadnezzar's golden image, 67

Necker de Saussure, Mme., 20

Nightingale, the, 138-150

Njal, Burning of, 85, 133

Nonsense, a plea for, 79

Norse Stories, 210

Nursery Rhymes, 101


Old people, as an audience, 24

Openings, vivid, 39, 40

Orpheus and Eurydice, 66

Our Lady's Tumbler, 123

Over dramatic stimulation, 48

Over-elaboration, 21

Over explanation, danger of, 23

Over-illustration, danger of, 17


Pandora, story of, 123

Pantomime, stories in, 18

Paris and Helen, 8

Pausing, the art of, 33

Piety Promoted, 57

Planting for Eternity, 115

Plato, on the End of Education, 91

Poetic element, children's unexpressed need, 135

Poetry and Life, 119

Poetry, effect of, 119

Poetry, value of, 69

Polish, importance of, 31

Poor Robin, 55

Priggishness, how to avoid, 51

Preparation for a story, 124

Princess and the Pea, 34, 156-7

Proud Cock, the, 178-180

Psyche, 120

Psychology, 108

Psychological novelist, 108

Pueblo tribe of Indians, 91

Puss in Boots, 108


Quebec and Téméraire, story of, 107

Questions, danger of, 13

Questions of teachers, 117

Questioning the audience, futility of, 130

Queyrat, 19, 23, 63, 106, 113, 118

Quintilian, on the use of the hands, 35


Reading matter for children, 211

Realism, excessive, 49

Repetition of story (by children) inadvisable, 130

Repetition of stories (by lecturers) recommended, 30, 62

Reproduction of stories, 112, 130

Resourcefulness, stories of, 71, 224

Ribot, on the imagination, 34, 105

Riley, Whitcomb, 100

Romance, Books of, 85, 221

Romance, good for children, 66

---- in the streets, 97

Rossetti, Christina, 68

Russell, J., 161

Russian myths and folk tales, 90


Saga, a, 160, 161

Saints, lives of, 225

St. Christopher, Legend of, 162-5

St. Francis and St. Clare, 66

Santa Claus, 122

Sarcasm, excess to be avoided, 44

Satire, excessive, to be deprecated, 44

Saturation, necessity of, 27

Scott, Dr., 71

Scudder, H., 111, 124

Sensationalism, danger of, 47

Sentimentality, 45

Shakespeare, 69, 96

Shepherd, the Obstinate, 172-8

Sherwood, Mrs., 52

Side issues, danger of, 6

Sidney, Sir Philip, 85, 91, 110

Siegfried and Brunhild, 66

Silence, Montessori on, 131

Simplicity, the keynote of story-telling, 2

Smith, Mrs. R. B., 14

Smith, N. A., 71

Snake story, a, 195-200

Snegourka, 180-2

Snow Child, the, 180-2

Somerset, Lady H., 110

Song and Story, 70

Song of Roland, 85

Souvenirs du Peuple, 25

Standard, must be high, 23

Sterne, 44

Stephens, James, 47

Stevenson, R. L., 104, 105, 123

Stories, in full, 138

---- to counteract influence of the streets, 93

---- outside children's experience, futility of, 48

Story telling in school and home, 210

Story Telling Magazine, 231

Sturla, story of, 157-160

Suggestion, 32, 34, 59

Sully, on children, 30, 90

Sunday books, 56

Swineherd, the, 150-156

Sympathy for foreigners, 103

Syrett, N., 118


Talking over a story, 129

Talking Thrush, the, 200

Talks to teachers, 85

Teachers of Young Children, books for, 234

Telemachus, 92

Tell, Wilhelm, 30

Tennant, Pamela, 187

Thackeray, 135

Thomas, W. Jenkyn, 169

Three Bears, 121

Through the Looking Glass, 90

Tiger, Jackal and Brahman, 11

Time, spent on story telling, 117

Tin Soldier, the, 63, 64, 124, 129

Top and Ball, 125

To your good health, 172-8

Treasure of the Wise Man, 100

Troy, tale of, 8

Truth, many-sided, 122

Truth of Stories, 118

Truth and Falsehood, how to distinguish, 106

Two Frogs, the, 193-5


Ulysses, 7, 93

Unfamiliar words, danger of, 10

United States, 31, 33, 49

Unsuitable material for stories, 42

Unusual element, desirable, 64

Unwholesome Extravagance, 53

Utilitarian stories, danger of, 99


Very Short Stories, 64

Virginibus Puerisque, 104

Voice, dramatic power of, 17


Wallas, K., 71

Warlike Excitement, not essential, 87

Water Nixie, the, 183-7

Wide, Wide World, 44

Wiggin, Kate Douglas, 48, 71

Wise Old Shepherd, the, 195-200

Wolf and Kids, 78


Yonge, Miss, 54

Youngest Child, success of, 226




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Transcriber's Note:

Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained. Minor punctuation
inconsistencies have been silently repaired.

Corrections.

The first line indicates the original, the second the correction.

p. 72:

  is “What the Old Man does is alway Right.”
  is “What the Old Man does is always Right.”

p. 91:

  I remember the surprise which which, when I had grown somewhat older
  I remember the surprise which, when I had grown somewhat older

p. 126:

  and practice will make make you more and more critical
  and practice will make you more and more critical

p. 234:

  (From The Girl from the Marsh Croft. Selma Lagelöf. 12581. p. 99.)
  (From The Girl from the Marsh Croft. Selma Lagerlöf. 12581. p. 99.)






End of Project Gutenberg's The Art of Story-Telling, by Marie L. Shedlock