TELLING THE STORY

This is truly the stage of creation. No matter how familiar you made

yourself with the story in the privacy of your studio, you will now find

happening something surprising. The story will come to your own ears and

stand revealed to your imagination with the joy of discovery. The truth

is, it was made to be shared with another, and you hadn’t it at all until

you gave it away. What spontaneity rewards you! How you find yourself

rising to the occasion—your own latent capabilities, the expanding

possibilities in the story, the response of your audience!

Let us take up the topic, _telling the story_, under the practical heads:

(1) _Choosing or meeting story-telling time_;

(2) _The story-teller’s part_;

(3) _Controlling canons of the story-teller’s part_.

(1) _Choosing or meeting story-telling time._ “To everything,” says

Ecclesiastes, “there is a season and a time for every purpose under the

heaven ... a time to weep and a time to laugh ... a time to keep silence

and a time to speak.”

Is there an ideal time for telling a story? Assuredly; at this time the

story comes to the listener with more pleasure, or stronger appeal to

the feelings. But the “pedagogical” story-teller, parent or teacher,

must take care not to mistake suitable occasion. The error is not that

the story-teller may have, like the Ancient Mariner, a tale of sin and

virtue to tell to the soul that must hear it. To say that the story

must not be narrowed to didactic purpose is not to exclude altogether

the story that may work spiritual reformation. The trouble is that the

story-teller sometimes precipitates irritation rather than reformation

by untimeliness. The moment when the child is defiant or angry and the

teacher or parent cross is not the psychological moment for such a story.

It is at the turn in the tide of feeling that the story-teller may send

into the wavering stream the saving grace of the tale.

There are times when the pupils are “on” for a mental frolic; these are

the times for the play or “funny” stories. Sometimes, in order to quicken

desirable response, the teacher or parent will judge it better to run

counter to the mood of the children. She will sharpen the wits of dull

children with a humorous story, or broaden the horizon of the narrowly

matter-of-fact with a tale of adventure or of supernatural occurrence.

Celebrations or memorials call out appropriate stories. The early

Hebrew father took advantage of his sons’ questions about the festivals

celebrated in their midst to tell the great Bible story. The Christian

Church sometimes narrates the lives of the saints to her children on

feast days to inspire the heroism of holy living. Things observed in

nature, and home and school circumstances, will suggest many stories. And

when all has been said about special times, it remains true that almost

any time in the wonder years of childhood is story time.

But the teacher may say, “Story-telling time means precisely

eleven-fifteen on Tuesday morning; the individual teacher has nothing

to say about it.” The thing to do, then, is to induce the story-telling

mood at eleven-fifteen Tuesday morning. What we should urge here between

ourselves is the obligation to give place heartily at this time to the

story. No matter how ill things may have gone and how cross we ourselves

may have become, we must now let pleasurable anticipation take possession

of the classroom.

(2) _The story-teller’s part._ The rôle of story-teller is simple yet

subtle, more easily shown than explained. The story-teller is recounter

of a happening, real or fictitious, merry or pathetic, that because of

its appeal to the imagination and sympathies has been given currency

in language. To share with another the glimpse of life it gives the

imagination, the feeling it arouses, the æsthetic satisfaction it yields,

was man’s reason for telling it. The story-teller’s part, then, is so to

employ and interpret the medium of currency as to free this force.

_Beginning the story._ The story-teller should begin the story with

the air of having something interesting and enjoyable to tell. If the

contents of the story had not been interesting, they would never have

made a story; the story-teller may depend on this intrinsic interest.

He should have also the air of leisure; story-telling is one of the

social arts of leisure and pleasure; besides, stories record significant

occurrences, which should be given the emphasis of time. His initial

manner should give hint of the spirit of the particular story he is to

tell. The first phrase, “There were five-and-twenty tin soldiers,” sounds

the playful martial spirit of Hans Andersen’s “Brave Tin Soldier;” the

story-teller echoes it in martial bearing and in martial swing and ring

in his speech, in, of course, the playful manner of a story about a

little toy soldier. Mother-love broods through the story of “The Wolf

and the Seven Kids;” the story-teller suggests, in voice and eyes and

fostering posture, its loving pride and anxiety. Should the story-teller

begin in rather obvious make-believe-matter-of-fact style, his eyes

hinting fun, the children will chuckle in delighted anticipation of a

nonsense or a humorous story. The wholly impassive manner adopted by some

story-tellers in telling “funny” stories to adult audiences will not do

with children. The adult’s enjoyment consists largely in his ability to

remake as fun what the teller is representing as sober fact. Children,

because of their lack of knowledge and experience, need more leading.

Stories like “The Three Bears” correspond in spirit to nursery rhymes

like “This little pig went to market;” they should be kept as childlike,

mimetic, rhythmic, and playful. Southey gives the key to the spirit of

“The Three Bears” in the setting. Every detail shows how well he caught

the child-note: interest in wild animals, the bear a favorite; tendency

to dramatic mimicry; response to rhythm; pleasure in possessions, this

very complete “house of their own,” kept by bears, delights the children.

A hero story like “Jack the Giant Killer” calls for a bold spirit.

“Snow-White and Rose-Red” sounds the domestic note: cheerful fireside

group; mother reading from a “large book,” children spinning, animals

lying near. The setting here, though long, may easily be made attractive

by the story-teller’s own pleasure in every detail.

The characters also should be introduced with hint of their personality.

“Snow-White and Rose-Red were as happy, as busy and cheerful,” says the

story-teller, showing cheerful pleasure in them, “as any two children

in the world.” “Snow-White,” softening voice and eyes, “was more quiet

and gentle; Rose-Red,” adopting a livelier manner, “liked better to run

about the fields and pick flowers and chase butterflies.” “There was

once a widow who had two daughters; one of them,” says the story-teller,

smiling in the pleasure goodness and beauty, whether physical or

spiritual, always excite in us, “was pretty and industrious; the other,”

voice and face expressing disapproval of her, “was ugly and idle.” “A

certain man had a donkey,” says the story-teller, with such suggestion

of possibilities in the donkey evident in forward posture, in face and

voice, that the listener at once suspects that, as Hans Andersen would

put it, that donkey “became worth talking about.”

The story-teller begins then, as both prophet and sibyl, telling yet,

especially at this stage, not “giving it away.” He must let the story

reveal and the child discover; this is the joy of it.

_Building out the story._ Having laid the foundation upon which he

is to build the happening, the story-teller should, as a rule, in

building fashion pause. He then enters upon the action, carrying it

forward, slowly or rapidly, according as its course demands, arousing

suspense and increasing the interest in the outcome. How he does

this will be suggested farther on. As the story proceeds he must of

course treat character consistently. Sensibility to the nature of the

particular character he is interpreting will enable him to voice and

conduct it appropriately. Nothing more than suggestion is in place. The

story-teller’s fairy voice may be light and tinkling like silver bells,

his witch made graphic through pointed, hag-like chin and fingers and

stooped body, his fox smooth and sly, his wolf snarling, his giant, as

said before, big-voiced and ponderous. He can hardly fail to catch the

steely high voice and proud manner Hans Andersen intended for the vain

but delightful Darning Needle.

After, as a rule, pausing to give effect to the climax of the action, the

story-teller passes in many stories to a brief but clear explanation of

enchantment, and winds up the whole happily, leaving the child supremely

pleased.

(3) _Controlling canons of the story-teller’s part._ Some of the chief

canons governing the story-teller are _directness_, _spontaneity_,

_graphicness_, _reserve_, _skill in the use of the voice_, _simplicity_.

_Directness_ is the principle of immediateness, by virtue of which

_story_ and _listener_ are brought into contact. It has its roots in

the social and magnetic nature of the art. In its fullest sense it is

comprehensive of all the other canons.

Directness concerns both the outer and the inner self of the story-teller.

The part played by the outer self is simple. Before beginning his story

the story-teller should “go to” and “gather” his listeners. He does this

by assuming the physical position and mental attitude of communicator.

A person who has anything to tell another that he thinks will move or

please him does not stand aloof. The story-teller should not stand

aloof. He may place himself in front of his listeners, at such a point

as will enable him to command all. Before beginning he will get the

listening attention by invitation of posture and direct face to face

look, or by the magnetic force of the story now animating his whole

person. Some story-tellers then begin to address themselves to someone

near by whom they feel to be the most responsive listener, or whom they

wish to interest, then address a wider and wider circle until they are

reaching everyone. Others project the story into the ears of someone in

the middle of the group, making this the radiating point from which to

grasp all.

The story-teller through his outer self must observe the principle of

directness in another way. In looks and actions his external self must

help to convey the spirit of the story: posture, facial expression,

gesture, voice must not contradict but declare what the lips are saying.

It is in recognition of the relation between the external self of the

story-teller and his story that some story-tellers “make up,” or put

on appropriate costume. This has its power and charm. But for the

“everydayness” of story-telling in home and school it is undesirable,

unnecessary, and impracticable. What is necessary is something less

troublesome but more important: such domination, or absorption, of

the external self by the spirit of the story as will subdue it to the

story-teller’s use. This will help to induce the right feeling response.

Feeling, as everyone knows, is “catching.” Fun will call out fun; pathos,

pathos; gladness at beauty, goodness, or truth, like joy. The whole being

of the Ancient Mariner told his story. Simple stories do not demand

emotional intensity, but the principle remains. The student will find it

helpful to sit opposite Tadema’s “Reading Homer,” to get an idea of the

recounter’s abandon.

The principle of directness as it applies through the inner self of the

story-teller is as easy to understand. The story-teller must not allow

any intruding mental state or circumstance, any intruding “self,” to come

between the story and the listener. Such a self may be

(1) The diffident or embarrassed self of the self-conscious

story-teller.

(2) The vain or affected self of the insincere story-teller.

(3) The weakening self of the patronizing story-teller.

(4) The non-seeing self of the non-spontaneous story-teller.

(5) The non-sensible, or non-artistic, self of the “sledge

hammer” story-teller.

(6) The non-communicating self of the “acting” story-teller.

(7) The misinformed self of the lifeless story-teller.

(1) The self-conscious self is not hard to overcome. Diffidence arises

from a false modesty, due to the story-teller’s failure to realize his

obligation to the child and to the story. His part now is not to occupy

himself with mistrust of his own ability, but to bend all his energies

to interpreting the story for the listener. Embarrassment may be due

to natural shyness or to lack of ease in the art of story-telling. If

due to the first, it should also disappear as the story-teller realizes

his obligation; if to the second, time and practice will probably cure

it. It is well to throw off embarrassment vigorously at the outset and

plunge into the story; it is surprising how easy and complete will be the

victory.

(2) Vain insincerity is a more serious intrusion. It shows itself usually

in an affected manner and a false ring in the voice. The story-teller is

not engaged in telling the story, but in exhibiting himself. The children

will at once sense such a fraud. The pity is that they should ever have

had the chance to do so; it is often the beginning of insincerity in

them. This story-teller also must strive to realize his important office.

(3) A patronizing story-teller is as great an obstruction. His manner

is unctuous and “glawming.” It dwarfs the listener, belittling him and

undermining his frankness. Hear how the great queen did in Morris’s tale:

“Then she held him a little season on her weary and happy breast,

And she told him of Sigmund and Volsung and the best sprung from

the best;

_She spake to the new-born baby as one who might understand_.”

The spirit of the italicized words should be the story-teller’s guide.

Watch the child the first time he comes under the sway of the patronizing

story-teller, how he eyes the babying smile meant to be engaging, how he

holds aloof. The story-teller must trust the child and trust the story.

He chooses the story for its suitability in arousing and directing the

child’s imagination, sympathies, or æsthetic sense. Having made the

selection on this basis, his part now is to be, not officious meddler, no

matter how well meaning, but communicator.

The patronizing story-teller is inclined to “thin out” the story. There

is a proper kind of remaking allowable in telling a story or in fitting

it to younger or older audiences. If too much is necessary, the story

is probably not in any degree suitable; it might better be left until

the children are older. There are for the meantime plenty of stories

more nearly available. Some modes of simplification of the content

allowable are: omission of details in description and omission of minor

characters and incidents, in some cases to be added later; preparatory

talk or explanation, reduced to its very lowest terms; conversation or

explanation after the telling, to be followed soon by another telling.

The form may be made easier by simplification of the complicated

sentences or unchildlike modes of speech, by very sparing use of running

explanation, by use of roundabout easier phrase to be replaced by the

directly descriptive word.

The power and the glory for the listening child are more surely in

the message as the _seer_, yourself or another story inventor, saw

and delivered it, than in any garbled paraphrase of it, all that many

attempting story-telling can manage. Their opportunity lies in the field

of interpretation, unless they are genuinely engaged in changing the

story or in themselves telling a different story or in truly artistic

simplification. Have faith in the little child: in his sensibility to

artistic fitness, in his intelligence, in his ready sympathy. Have faith

in the story.

Best of all modes, the story may be simplified, not by making it over

into something else, but by making it into itself through interpretation.

(4) Some story-tellers bring an uninformed self to the story. The root of

their difficulty is failure to see and feel the child world. So important

is the principle of insight that it will be taken up at length, under the

heading _spontaneity_.

(5) A story-teller lacking in artistic sensibility does not discern the

story as a form of art, though a naïve form. He intrudes between the

story and the child what, for lack of a better term, the writer called

a “sledge-hammer” self, or a didactic self. It resorts to pedagogical

pounding, dealing largely in stress on words and in the falling

inflection. It vainly attempts to force the story and the child into

contact through the intellect, or sometimes the bugaboo of conscience,

instead of by the open pathway made by freeing the spirit of the story.

One example, by the way, of the tendency to force the didactic note is

the made over version of Southey’s “Three Bears,” in which the story

begins with Silver Locks (the little wee woman of the older version is

coming back) and makes much of her naughtiness, left in Southey’s story

to indirect playful condemnation. This puts her at once in the emphatic

position, robbing the three bears of their rank, and the story and the

children of the play spirit.

(6) The story-teller who confounds dramatization (not dramatic

suggestion) with narration substitutes a detached exhibiting self for the

story-teller’s intimate, communicating self. He fails to tell the story.

This also will be considered at length under another canon.

(7) Finally, an intruding self is the misinformed self of the lifeless

story-teller. It makes story-telling nothing but colorless word-calling.

It arises from a false psychology, resting on the assumption that the

child’s imaginative and emotional life differs in kind from the adult’s

(sound in so far as it condemns strain on the imagination and the

emotions); a false ethics, mistrusting attention to oral form, or to

beauty of speech; wrong habit in speech. Whatever its source, it prevents

the contact of child and story.

The canon of directness, then, requires that both the outer and the

inner self lend themselves to telling the story to the listener without

obstruction.

_Spontaneity_ is the canon of naturalness, by virtue of which the story

has genuine life. It creates the illusion that the story-teller is

spinning his tale from within out, its life having become part and parcel

of his imaginative and emotional experience. It depends upon insight.

The story-teller of childlike tales must “live with our children,” as

Froebel said; he must cultivate sensibility to the child’s world, catch

its spirit of play and happiness and activity, respect its serious moods,

note its affectionate intimacy with animals, cats and dogs and hens and

horses, respond to its humor, feel above all its emotional sincerity

and simplicity. The child carries himself unaffectedly. It is easy to

detect the story-teller who fails of insight into the child’s world. He

is either wholly insensible to its characteristics, or he grotesquely

exaggerates everything. The first method leaves the child unmoved, the

second undermines his sincerity.

The story-teller need not, however, be afraid to give full value to story

materials: to idealize its people and happenings; to make its heroines

frankly good and beautiful, its supernatural properties adequate,

its “great huge bears” satisfyingly huge; to give its seven-leagued

giants voice possibilities that will cause half-quaking, half-chuckling

listeners to shake in their shoes in whole-hearted enjoyment; to make its

porridge pots, that cooked or stopped the minute a certain good little

girl said so, magical. Story art, like all art, idealizes its materials

the moment it selects them; the story-teller in turn holds them up to

view of the imagination. Nor need the adult story-teller be afraid of

illumining the view more fully than might a child teller, by the light

of the adult’s richer knowledge and experience. No, the story-teller is

not to impoverish nor dull the story; but he is to guard against giving

the listener the impression of unsuccessful pretense at it, and against

urging him to strained imagining and feeling. Until, alas, custom stales

him to its false ring, a child condemns the unseeing story-teller, not

recognizing him as kith nor kin.

To satisfy the canon of spontaneity, then, the story-teller must see and

feel the tale he attempts to tell, that he may re-create its spirit.

By _graphicness_ is meant vividness, by virtue of which the story is made

plain to the imagination and quick to the feelings. It is secured by the

various means of oral interpretation (to be considered under another

heading), helped out by facial expression, and sometimes by gesture or by

dramatic suggestion. It is governed by the imperative complementary canon

of _reserve_. _Reserve_ is the canon of artistic restraint; as applied

here, it keeps story-telling the art of communicating, not allowing it to

pass beyond the limits of dramatic suggestion into dramatization.

It is the greater degree of artistic reserve that divides story-telling

sharply from dramatization and gives it its special magnetic charm

and enduring strength. The essence of dramatization is sensible

actualization, the essence of story-telling is imaginative suggestion.

The story tells, yet leaves to the listener exhaustless discovery.

At each re-telling the story allures the listener’s imagination to

catch added import. The listener maturing into the adult may penetrate

a specific detail in the childlike allegory and uncover a symbol of

everlasting life, eternal youth or truth or beauty, and having found it,

he can never with listening exhaust the depths of it. Is it fanciful to

conjecture whether it be some response to this imperishable integrity

that urges children to demand the same tale over and over again?

Psychology has discerned in them wiseacres learning the realities of life

through play. Why not also through story?

Dramatic suggestion as an aid to language and subordinate to it is,

however, in place. It was indulged in freely by primitive story-tellers.

Children use it instinctively. Hint of happening, by show of action;

or glimpse of character, by posture, facial expression, suggestion in

tone, is sufficient. Such hint at once makes the situation or character

plain to the imagination. The queen in Hans Andersen’s “Princess on the

Pea,” for example, is well brought into the story by the story-teller’s

taking on a look of shrewdness, with perhaps shaking of the head, before

he tells what the queen thinks of this “real” princess who presents

herself thus bedraggled. In doing this the story-teller must preserve

the appearance and intention of narration. As soon as some students of

story-telling attempt dramatic suggestion they lose the listener and

lapse into playing rather than telling. Even when dialogue or monologue

demands a degree of impersonation the story-teller must keep in mind that

it is for the purpose of _telling_ the story to the listener. He _shows_,

or _illustrates_, looking back to insure that the listener is following,

or to make communication. After the story-teller’s pantomime of surprise

and delight at finding the shoes, in “The Elves and the Shoemaker,” for

example, he looks at his listeners to communicate his feeling to them and

invite their corresponding emotion, then makes verbal communication to

them.

Suggestive gesture may also be used to make language graphic. (Beginners

often neglect to keep the hands free for gesture they may be impelled

to use.) For the sake of the child we must recover, if we have lost it,

the speaking face, animated body, and eloquent hand of our childhood.

As the word gains in meaning, we resort to gesture more sparingly.

Gesture should precede the word. Watch the unconscious child in his use

of gesture; he tells with the hand and body before he tells with the

word. Some beginners drop a gesture so quickly that they might as well

have done without it, others sustain it too long. Gesture is used, as

a rule, for one of two chief purposes, demonstration or appeal to the

imagination or feelings. When the story-teller is using it to show shape

or size or place, he does not need it any longer after he has done this.

If he is using it to send the imagination of his listeners out or to

appeal to their emotions, he must sustain it until it has accomplished

its effect. Sometimes a quick strong gesture makes powerful appeal to

the imagination; sometimes sustained gesture serves as aftermath, still

telling to the imagination. Gesture must not appear detached from the

story-teller, that is, put on from the outside; it should come from

within, in the story-teller’s effort to tell. It is helpful, too, to

note that gesture partakes of the imitativeness of art,—thus we speak of

_kingly_ gesture, _commanding_ gesture, _witchlike_ gesture. When dealing

with things that address themselves to the expanding imagination, gesture

should be indefinite and broadly suggestive rather than definitive.

Too prescriptive an indication of the size of the bears in “The Three

Bears,” for example, dwarfs for some generous imaginations the delightful

hugeness of the great huge bear and the irresistible littleness of the

little small wee bear. Free sweeping gesture is in place in the heroic

legend.

Suggestive posture is another means of giving vividness. The story-teller

might learn much from the painter and the sculptor about the eloquence

of pose. The Pre-Raphaelite school of painting was no doubt guilty of

extravagance, but in pose and facial expression it caught some of the

secrets of artistic suggestion. We know how the sculptor, too, represents

listening, or surprise, or courage. The sculptor is, of course, very

much more dependent on posture than is the speaker. But posture should

help the story-teller, just as do tone and quality and rate of voice.

It will not do, for example, to settle back heavily in the seat while

telling, “Out popped the gingerbread boy and—” It must not be forgotten,

however, that pose also is under the imperative restriction of reserve;

narration is not the static art of posing. Constant or violent change in

posture, too, except in particular stories demanding it, is out of place;

story-telling is the quiet if animated and graphic art of communication.

Posture and facial expression, like gesture, should precede the word,

prophesying of it, and sometimes be sustained during pause for effect.

Before leaving this canon, the story-teller should understand that

graphicness should sometimes be veiled under a pervading elusiveness.

Some stories should be wrapped about with the charm of impalpability; the

mystery of them is the secret of their appeal. This is the atmosphere for

the romantic fairy tale, like “The Sleeping Beauty,” and for many of the

legends and romances.

We are now ready to sum up the canon of graphicness. We have defined it

as the dynamic principle of vividness by virtue of which the story is

made plain to the imagination. It is secured by the supreme agency of

speech, aided sometimes, in greater or less degree, by posture, gesture,

facial expression, and dramatic suggestion. It is under the imperative

restriction of the canon of reserve.

In an art defined as story-telling _the skillful use of the voice_ is

the chief technique to be mastered, and, alas, the least regarded. It

is, however, gaining ground. Story-tellers are finding it increasingly

reasonable to believe there is close connection between what is to be

told and how it is told. While it is true that so strong is the vitality

of the _what_ that it will usually triumph in some degree over the _how_,

this is no sound argument for abandoning it to that fate. It is also

true, because of the social nature of language, that the listener will do

much, no matter how dull the how, to inform and transform the what in

the light of his own knowledge and experience. This is precisely in just

measure what he is to do. But this argument also is weak.

Man tries to utter his meaning, to give sound to the sense of his

thought. All students of words appear to agree to this as a primary

creative principle. And in the utterance of language he employs

instinctively what some story-tellers condemn as the “show” tricks of

elocutionists: suggestive quality or pitch of voice; slow or rapid rate

of speaking; grouping, inflection, and pause. Mastery of this instinctive

use of speech in its fullness and perfection, as a means to an end,

is what is meant by mastery of oral technique. Whatever the method of

mastery, direct or indirect, surely the end should be granted.

It has taken many people a long time to convince themselves that

the speaking voice is in need of proper exercise and training. They

have expected too much of the speaker. The living person back of the

speech, the personality, is the chief element in speech; without the

speaker to utter his meaning, speech would be nothing but empty word

mouthing. But they should give the speaker at least as much fair play

as has the singer, training in the use of the voice. The set jaw, wrong

coördination, the half-open throat, the closed glottis, or “voice box,”

the immobile lip (whose remedy, by the way, is not mouthing), the thick

tongue,—all these, causing indistinctness, nasality, throatiness, are

impediments to speech. So are throat or nasal or dental obstructions. So

is incorrect breathing.

The nice art of enunciation and articulation is worth mastery. Phonics

appears to some people like a science of very small things. It has not

only an æsthetic value, but, if you must separate them, an intellectual

value. Masters of enunciation and articulation give not only finish

but richer meaning to language. This, again, is no doubt due to the

lively connection between sound and sense. Open mouth and throat well to

pronounce the vowels in _joy_, or _shine_, and confirm the truth of this;

note the force of vowels, consonants, or aspirate pronounced accurately

in _glisten_, _shimmering_, _hushed_, _croaked_, _scream_, _harsh_.

It will be understood of course that the requirements of character

suggestion may demand slurring, chopping off, drawling, and all sorts of

speech vices; when in place they become virtues.

We are fond of using the expression “as natural as breathing.” How many

are breathing as nature would have them? The speaker should be past

master of breathing: be able to expand the diaphragm and fill full and

deep, to supplement this basal stock, as opening the mouth to enunciate a

vowel or to speak a phrase gives easy, unobtrusive opportunity, to expend

breath economically.

The story-teller should “find” his particular voice. To do this he may

read or speak in his ordinary tone and note where it vibrates. This

is his natural, or at least second-nature, voice, working basis for

improvement; re-placing, purifying, strengthening, making flexible.

He should be able to place tone, to give it this or that quality, as the

needs of interpretation may demand. He should be able to keep feeling out

of the voice, and to speak with feeling without violating the principle

of reserve.

Understanding, feeling, and æsthetic appreciation are rooted in the

story-teller, to be sure, but they must be transmitted by the organs of

voice. He will be delighted to find that the physical action of these

organs, if easy and responsive, appears to deepen his own understanding

and feeling and to send them in greater fullness to the listener.

One of the most important principles of oral technique is perspective,

through which the central idea is kept dominant throughout the story.

Proper application of this principle gives the whole story unity and

increasing interest and point. To give the story perspective the

story-teller employs grouping, pause, rate, pitch, and inflection. Space

permits of nothing more than this mere enumeration of these means and

of pointing out a very limited use of one or two. Beginners often err

in grouping. In the story of “The Frog Prince,” for example, they will

say “there was a king,” making this a more or less complete and leading

idea, instead of “there was a king who had beautiful daughters;” at

this point, moreover, by use of the complete falling inflection they

destroy the subordinate relation of this idea to the succeeding one,

“but the youngest was the most beautiful.” Untrained speakers and badly

trained readers overuse the falling inflection. Story-tellers will find

it helpful to practice the sustained, or “forward pointing,” voice.

It is necessary to the proper building out of units of thought. The

story-teller should “make,” for example, the word picture with the voice,

bit by bit, much as the painter does the line and color picture with the

brush, each added detail going toward the whole.

Mastery of pause is important. In ordinary communication the

story-teller, as does everyone else, uses pause a hundred times a day,

but he is inclined at first to overlook its part in story-telling. He

should learn to pause to make clear not only the divisions of single

sentences, but of the whole story, its setting, action, resolution,

and close. He should use it also to set off for dramatic emphasis or

emotional effect significant or climactic circumstances, persons, or

details of action. Pause is one of the simplest and most effective means

of emphasis. Of course, like every other means of speech, it is sometimes

best ignored.

This bare glance at speech technique shows us that the story-teller

should have such command over the agencies of oral transmission as will

enable him to convey the story fully to the listener. Let his point of

departure be the effort to utter his meaning.

When telling stories to young children the story-teller may do more

or less _“leading” of the feelings and the taste_, thus educating the

child to respond to what is playful or brave or humorous or beautiful.

If the story-teller will show pleasure in obedience, fun, good-nature,

loveliness in nature or art, shape, for example, or color, or sound,

or adaptability to use, the imitative listener will respond in like

appreciation. Some beginners find it difficult to do this. Sometimes

the source of the difficulty is bad habit in reading. This affects

story-telling when the story has been prepared from the printed page.

The student comes to the story-telling class with the habit formed of

suppressing in his reading appreciation of excellence or of beauty. Two

students talking together outside of class may do the natural thing;

if describing beauty—loveliness of nature, human loveliness, goodness,

heroism—they show pleasure in it by smiling lip and softly shining eye;

“beauty,” as Wordsworth has it, “makes them glad.” But nine times out of

ten the beginner in story-telling who has prepared the story from a book

allows no appreciation of beauty to get into voice or self as he tells,

for example, “In olden times, when wishing was having, there lived a king

who had beautiful daughters, but the youngest was so lovely that even

the sun himself, who has seen so much, marveled whenever he shone in her

face.” He is not of course to magnify this phrase unduly; he must keep it

in proper perspective.

It is astonishing how imperfectly we talk and tell. As indicated before,

words as they are uttered represent to the young listener, and, so lively

is language, in great degree to the adult also, exactly what the speaker

puts into them. If he utters _bright_ dully, he contradicts truth; if

he pronounces _loved_ coldly, he robs it of the human warmth of itself;

if he mumbles _lovely_, he dwarfs beauty. To correct wrong habit in

speaking, the student of story-telling should cultivate sensibility to

the feeling and æsthetic suggestions in language, and during the stage

of apprenticeship be content to be conscious until more spontaneous

appreciation shall relieve him of watchfulness.

To take another example, in the story of “The Hut in the Wood,” beginners

often fairly shout “night was coming on,” “the owl hooted,” “the trees

rustled.” The thing to be communicated here through the details is

the emotional state of the girl. It is communicated by sympathetic

interpretation: lowering of voice, with suggestion in it of the sounds

heard, accompanied by shrinking in posture and dawning of fear in the

face.

Leading is open to abuse. The more the language of the story tells on its

face when interpreted so as to set free the associations bound up in it,

the more the story-teller must trust it to carry its own effects.

The story-teller is governed most by the supreme canon of _simplicity_.

His must be a peculiarly unelaborate, apparently artless art. In gesture

and facial expression, in dramatic suggestion, in speech, his is that

form or degree of the artistic manner that will carry to the listener

the unaffected, frank, childlike kind of life with which the child story

deals: _not intense in manner_; _not intellectual nor artificial in

gesture_; _not pedantic nor studied in speech_—but _sincere and simple_.