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.