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FOR THE STORY TELLER
* * * * * *
BOOKS BY
CAROLYN SHERWIN BAILEY
DAILY PROGRAM OF GIFT AND OCCUPATION WORK
FOR THE CHILDREN’S HOUR
FIRELIGHT STORIES
STORIES AND RHYMES FOR A CHILD
SONGS OF HAPPINESS
* * * * * *
FOR THE STORY TELLER
Story Telling and Stories to Tell
by
CAROLYN SHERWIN BAILEY
[Illustration]
1913
Milton Bradley Company
Springfield, Mass.
New York Boston Philadelphia Atlanta San Francisco
Copyright, 1913,
By Milton Bradley Company,
Springfield, Mass.
PREFACE
The new-old art of story telling is being rediscovered. We are finding
that the children’s daily story hour in school, in the neighborhood
house, and at home is a real force for mental and moral good in their
lives. We are learning that it is possible to educate children by means
of stories.
Story telling to be a developing factor in a child’s life must be
studied by the story teller. There are good stories and there are poor
stories for children. The story that fits a child’s needs to-day may
not prove a wise choice for him to-morrow. Some stories teach, some
stories only give joy, some stories inspire, some stories just make a
child laugh. Each of these story phases is important. To discover these
special types of stories, to fit stories to the individual child or
child group, and to make over stories for perfect telling has been my
aim in writing this book.
Through telling stories to many thousands of children and lecturing to
students I have found that story telling is a matter of psychology. The
pages that follow give my new theory of story telling to the teacher or
parent.
CAROLYN SHERWIN BAILEY.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE APPERCEPTIVE BASIS OF STORY TELLING 1
II. THE STORY WITH A SENSE APPEAL 23
III. WHEN THE CURTAIN RISES 41
IV. USING SUSPENSE TO DEVELOP CONCENTRATION 57
V. STORY CLIMAX 83
VI. TRAINING A CHILD’S MEMORY BY MEANS OF A STORY 105
VII. THE INSTINCT STORY 122
VIII. THE DRAMATIC STORY 142
IX. STORY TELLING AN AID TO VERBAL EXPRESSION 171
X. STIMULATING THE EMOTIONS BY MEANS OF A STORY 191
XI. IMAGINATION AND THE FAIRY STORY 212
XII. MAKING OVER STORIES 231
XIII. PLANNING STORY GROUPS 245
STORIES FOR TELLING
THE CAP THAT MOTHER MADE, adapted from Swedish Fairy Tales 8
GOODY TWO SHOES 16
THE THREE CAKES, from Monsieur Berquin’s L’Ami des Enfants 35
THE PRINCE’S VISIT, Horace E. Scudder 52
THE TRAVELS OF A FOX, Clifton Johnson 60
LITTLE LORNA DOONE, adapted from Richard Blackmore 68
LITTLE IN-A-MINUTE 76
OLD MAN RABBIT’S THANKSGIVING DINNER 92
THE GREAT STONE FACE, adapted from Nathaniel Hawthorne 98
LITTLE TUK, Hans Christian Andersen 115
THE SELFISH GIANT, Oscar Wilde 133
THE GINGERBREAD BOY (dramatized), Carolyn Sherwin Bailey 153
THE TOWN MOUSE AND THE COUNTRY MOUSE (dramatized),
Carolyn Sherwin Bailey 163
THE WOODPECKER WHO WAS SELFISH, adapted from an Indian Folk Tale 181
THE LITTLE RABBIT WHO WANTED RED WINGS, adapted from a
Southern Folk Tale 185
THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE, adapted from Miss Mulock 201
THE BLUE ROBIN, Mary Wilkins Freeman 219
THE GIRL WHO TROD ON THE LOAF, Hans Christian Andersen 238
FOR THE STORY TELLER
CHAPTER I
THE APPERCEPTIVE BASIS OF STORY TELLING
Apperception is a formidable and sometimes confusing term for a very
simple and easy-to-understand mental process. I once told Seumus
MacManus’ deliciously humorous story of Billy Beg and his Bull to
a group of foreign boys and girls in one of New York’s East Side
Settlement Houses. The children listened with apparent appreciation,
but, halfway along in the story, it occurred to me to ask them if they
had ever seen a bull. No one answered me at first. Then Pietro, a
little dusky-eyed son of Italy, raised a grimy hand.
“I seen one last summer when we was on a _fresh-air_,” he said. “It’s a
bigger cow, a bull is, with the bicycle handle-bars on her head.”
Pietro’s description of a bull was an example of apperception, the
method by means of which a new idea is interpreted, classified, “let
into” the human mind. He knew the class, _cows_. He also knew the
class, _bicycles_. He did not know the class, _bulls_--at least vividly
enough to be able to put the idea into terms of a verbal explanation
and description. So he did the most natural thing in the world, the
only possible mental process in fact by means of which children or
adults classify the _new_. He interpreted it in terms of the old,
explaining the unfamiliar idea, bull, by means of the familiar ideas,
cow and a bicycle.
This, then, is apperception. _It is the involuntary mental process
by means of which the human mind makes its own the strange, the
new, the unfamiliar idea by a method of fitting it into the class
of familiar ideas already known._ Apperception is a means of quick
mental interpretation. It is the welcoming of strangers to the
mind-habitation, strangers who come every day in the guise of
unfamiliar names, terms, scenes, and phrases, and determining in which
corner of the brain house they will fit most comfortably. The most
natural process is finally to give these new ideas an old mind corner
to rest in, or an old brain path in which to travel.
A child’s mind at the age when he is able to concentrate upon listening
to a story, three or four years of age--kindergarten age--is not a very
crowded house. It is a mind-house tenanted by a few and very simple
concepts which he has made his own through his previous home, mother
and play experiences. He is familiar with his nursery, his pets, his
family, his toys, his food, his bed. If he is a country child he knows
certain flowers, birds and farm animals, not as classes--flower, bird
and animal--but as _buttercup_, _robin_ and _sheep_. If he is a city
child his mind has a very different tenantry, and he thinks in terms of
_street_, _subway_, _park_, _fire engine_, _ambulance_. These to the
city child are also individual ideas, not classes. He knows them as
compelling, noisy, moving ideas which he has seen and experienced, but
they do not at all appeal to him as classes.
The story of “The Three Bears” is an obviously interesting one to
children upon entering school. It has its basis of interest in its
apperceptive quality, and it illustrates better than almost any other
story for children those qualities which bring about quick mental
interpretation on the part of the listener. The unusual, strange,
hazardous characters in the story, the three bears, are introduced to
the child in old, comfortably familiar terms which catch his interest
from the first sentence of the story. It is extremely doubtful if the
story of three bears set in a polar or forest environment would ever
have been popular so long or made so many children happy as has the
story of the historical three bears who lived in a house, ate porridge
from bowls, sat in chairs and slept in beds. Nor are these the only
apperceptive links between the life of the bears and that of the child.
There is a tiny bear in the story, the size, one may presuppose, of the
child who is listening to the story. The to-be-classified idea, _bear_,
is presented to children in this old folk tale in terms of already
known ideas, _house_, _porridge_, _chair_, _bed_ and _tiny_. Very
few story tellers have appreciated the underlying psychologic appeal
of the story of “The Three Bears,” but it illustrates a quality in
stories that we must look for if we wish to make the story we select a
permanency in the child’s mental life.
_The apperceptive basis of story telling consists in study on the part
of the story teller to discover what is the store of ideas in the minds
of the children who will listen to the story._
Has the story too many new ideas for the child to be able to classify
them in terms of his old ideas? On the other hand, has it one or two
new thoughts so carefully presented through association with already
familiar concepts that the child will be able to make them his own and
give them a permanent place in his mind with the old ones?
A child’s mind is an eery place for an adult to try and enter.
Teachers, kindergartners and story tellers are a little prone to
think that a knowledge of one child’s mental content gives them the
power to know the mind of the child-at-large. Our psychologists have
given us studies of child mind, not child minds. This mind hypothesis
is, perhaps, sufficient for the general working out of systems of
teaching, but success in the delicate art of story telling means a
most critical study and observation of the minds of the special group
of children who will hear the story. The story teller must ask herself
these questions:
“What do these children _know_?”
“Have they any experience other than that of the home on which to bank?”
“Do they come from homes of leisure or homes of industry?”
“Have they had a country or a city experience?”
“Have they passed from the stage of development when toys formed their
play interest to the game stage in which chance and hazard interest
them more deeply?”
“Are they American children, familiar with American institutions, or
are they little aliens in our land, unfamiliar with and confused by our
ways?”
When she has satisfactorily answered these questions, the story teller
will select her story having for its theme, atmosphere and _motif_ an
idea or group of ideas that will touch the child’s mental life as she
has discovered it and by means of which it will find a permanent place
in his mind through its comfortable friendliness and familiarity.
The child who has come directly from his home and the sheltering arms
of his mother or nurse should not, at first, be taken far afield
through the lands of fairies and giants. If he is told a fairy story,
it should have for its content the sweet, homely qualities that
characterize the home. I am using as a good example of the apperceptive
story, “The Cap that Mother Made.” The child listeners are carried,
it is true, to the palace of a King and are formally introduced to a
Princess, but this is brought about through the familiar symbols of the
home: _mother_, _brothers_, the _farmer_, and the queer little _cap_
with its red and green stripes and blue tassel. Although Anders, the
story hero, spends a happy hour at the Princess’ ball, he finally finds
his way home again, and the story has an apperceptive appeal which
is unusual. It is full of precious, familiar concepts that establish
an association in the child’s mind between fairyland and home. After
hearing the story, he will be very apt always to remember a palace as
a very charming place to visit, but not to stay in, when one may go
home to mother.
THE CAP THAT MOTHER MADE
Once upon a time there was a little boy named Anders, who had a new
cap. And a prettier cap you never have seen, for mother herself had
knit it; and nobody could make anything quite so nice as mother did. It
was altogether red, except a small part in the middle which was green,
for the red yarn had given out; and the tassel was blue.
His brothers and sisters walked about squinting at him, and their faces
grew long with envy. But Anders cared nothing about that. He put his
hands in his pockets and went out for a walk, for he wished everybody
to see how fine he looked in his new cap.
The first person he met was a farmer walking along by the side of a
wagon load of wood. He made a bow so deep that his back came near
breaking. He was dumbfounded, I can tell you, when he saw it was nobody
but Anders.
“Dear me,” said he, “if I did not think it was the gracious little
count himself!” And then he invited Anders to ride in his wagon.
But when one has a pretty, red cap with a blue tassel, one is too fine
to ride in a wagon, and Anders walked proudly by.
At the turn of the road he met the tanner’s son, Lars. He was such a
big boy that he wore high boots, and carried a jack-knife. He gaped and
gazed at the cap, and could not keep from fingering the blue tassel.
“Let’s trade caps,” he said. “I will give you my jack-knife to boot.”
Now this knife was a very good one, though half the blade was gone and
the handle was a little cracked; and Anders knew that one is almost a
man as soon as one has a jack-knife. But still it did not come up to
the new cap which mother had made.
“Oh, no, I’m not so stupid as all that; no, I’m not!” Anders said.
And then he said good-by to Lars with a nod; but Lars only made faces
at him, for he had not been to school much, poor boy; and, besides, he
was very much put out because he could not cheat Anders out of his cap
which mother had made.
Anders went along, and he met a very old, old woman who courtesied till
her skirts looked like a balloon. She called him a little gentleman,
and said that he was fine enough to go to the royal court ball.
“Yes, why not?” thought Anders. “Seeing that I am so fine, I may as
well go and visit the King.”
And so he did. In the palace yard stood two soldiers with shining
helmets, and with muskets over their shoulders; and when Anders came to
the gate, both the muskets were leveled at him.
“Where may you be going?” asked one of the soldiers.
“I am going to the court ball,” answered Anders.
“No, you are not,” said the other soldier, stepping forward. “Nobody is
allowed there without a uniform.”
But just at this instant the princess came tripping across the yard.
She was dressed in white silk with bows of gold ribbon. When she saw
Anders and the soldiers, she walked over to them.
“Oh,” she said, “he has such a very fine cap on his head, and that will
do just as well as a uniform.”
And she took Anders’ hand and walked with him up the broad marble
stairs where soldiers were posted at every third step, and through
the beautiful halls where courtiers in silk and velvet stood bowing
wherever he went. For no doubt they thought him a prince when they saw
his fine cap.
At the farther end of the largest hall a table was set with golden cups
and golden plates in long rows. On huge silver dishes were piles of
tarts and cakes, and red wine sparkled in shining glasses.
The princess sat down at the head of this long table; and she let
Anders sit in a golden chair by her side.
“But you must not eat with your cap on your head,” she said, putting
out her hand to take it off.
“Oh, yes, I can eat just as well,” said Anders, holding on to his
cap; for if they should take it away from him nobody would any longer
believe that he was a prince; and, besides, he did not feel sure that
he would get it back again.
“Well, well, give it to me,” said the princess, “and I will give you a
kiss.”
The princess was certainly beautiful, and Anders would have dearly
liked to be kissed by her, but the cap which mother had made he would
not give up on any condition. He only shook his head.
“Well, but see,” said the princess; and she filled his pockets with
cakes, and put her own gold chain around his neck, and bent down and
kissed him.
But he only moved farther back in his chair and did not take his hands
away from his head.
Then the doors were thrown open, and the King entered with a large
number of gentlemen in glittering uniforms and plumed hats. The King
himself wore a purple mantle which trailed behind him, and he had a
large gold crown on his white curly hair.
He smiled when he saw Anders in the gilt chair.
“That is a very fine cap you have,” he said.
“So it is,” replied Anders. “Mother knit it of her very best yarn, and
everybody wishes to get it away from me.”
“But surely you would like to change caps with me,” said the King,
raising his large, heavy crown from his head.
Anders did not answer. He sat as before, and held on to his red cap
which everybody was so eager to get. But when the King came nearer to
him, with his gold crown between his hands, then Anders grew frightened
as never before. If he did not take good care, the King might cheat him
out of his cap; for a King can do whatever he likes.
With one jump Anders was out of his chair. He darted like an arrow
through all the beautiful halls, down all the marble stairs, and across
the yard.
He twisted himself like an eel between the outstretched arms of the
courtiers, and over the soldiers’ muskets he jumped like a little
rabbit.
He ran so fast that the princess’s necklace fell off his neck, and all
the cakes jumped out of his pockets. But his cap he still had. He was
holding on to it with both hands as he rushed into his mother’s cottage.
His mother took him up in her lap, and he told her all his adventures,
and how everybody wanted his cap. And all his brothers and sisters
stood around and listened with their mouths open.
But when his big brother heard that he had refused to give his cap for
the King’s golden crown, he said that Anders was stupid. Just think how
much money one might get for the King’s crown; and Anders could have
had a still finer cap.
That Anders had not thought of, and his face grew red. He put his arms
around his mother’s neck and asked:
“Mother, was I stupid?”
His mother hugged him close and kissed him.
“No, my little son,” said she. “If you were dressed in silver and gold
from top to toe, you could not look any nicer than in your little red
cap.”
Then Anders felt brave again. He knew well enough that mother’s cap was
the best cap in all the world.
_From Swedish Fairy Tales._
This story is only an example of many others that may be selected
and fitted to the mental status of the individual child or group of
children who make up the story circle. I had great difficulty one
season in gaining and holding the attention of a group of particularly
rough boys to whom I was telling stories in a neighborhood house. To
my surprise, they listened most attentively to an adaptation of “The
King of the Golden River,” and clamored to have it repeated. Looking
into the reason for their keen interest in the story, which really took
them quite far afield in its descriptions and plot, I discovered that
the incident of the holy water had gripped my audience. The boys were
Romanists and they found a point in the story which touched their own
lives, in the visits of the brothers and Gluck to the priest. I never
afterward found difficulty in holding the attention of this special
group of boys. I had been able to establish a bond of sympathy between
the boys and the story characters.
Touching a child’s life through the medium of a story is like a
friendly hand clasp. An Irish folk tale told to a group of little
sons and daughters of Erin, one of the Uncle Remus tales told to
a kindergarten circle of little negroes, the story of one of our
Italian operas adapted to the understanding of Sicilian and Neapolitan
children, one and all mean enriching those child lives. How could the
Gaelic tale fit the Italian group, though, or the story of the opera
make an appeal to the little negro boys and girls?
Successful story telling means, then, a careful consideration of the
apperceptive basis of the story, first of all. This, reduced to very
simple terms, means studying the mental life of a child and selecting
for his first stories those that have a well-defined association
through their word pictures, dialogue and plot with the child’s own
previous experience. When the story teller makes the question of
apperception the first consideration in selecting her stories, she will
find that her appeal to the children will be an active and successful
one.
GOODY TWO SHOES
SELECTED FOR ITS APPERCEPTIVE APPEAL
Of course Goody Two Shoes was not her real name. In fact, her father’s
name was Meanwell, and he had once been rich, and prosperous, and one
of the most well-to-do farmers in the parish, but he lost his money.
However it happened one could hardly tell, but his farm was seized, and
he was turned out with his wife, and Tommy, and little Marjery, with
none of the necessaries of life to support them.
Care and discontent shortened the days of Farmer Meanwell. He was
forced from his family and taken with a violent fever of which he died.
Marjery’s poor mother died soon, too, of a broken heart, and Marjery
and her little brother were left alone in the wide world; so they
started off together, hand in hand, to seek their fortunes.
They were both very ragged, and though Tommy had two shoes, Marjery
had but one. They neither had anything to support them save what they
picked from the hedges, or got from the poor people; and they slept
every night in a barn. Their relations, who were rich folk, took no
notice of them, because they were ashamed to own such a poor little
ragged girl as Marjery and such a dirty little curly-pated boy as Tommy.
But there was a very worthy clergyman named Mr. Smith who lived in the
parish where little Marjery and Tommy were born; and having a relation
come to see him who was a charitable man, he sent for these children.
The gentleman ordered little Marjery a new pair of shoes, gave Mr.
Smith some money to buy them clothes, and said he would take Tommy and
make of him a little sailor. He had a new jacket and trousers made for
Tommy, and he was soon ready to start for London.
It was hard indeed for Tommy and Marjery to part. Tommy cried, and
Marjery cried, and they kissed each other a hundred times. At last
Tommy wiped off Marjery’s tears with the end of his jacket and bid her
cry no more, for he would come to her again when he returned from sea,
and he began his journey with the kind gentleman while Marjery went
crying to bed. And the instant that Marjery awoke the next morning, the
shoemaker came in with the new shoes for which she had been measured.
Nothing could have helped little Marjery bear the loss of Tommy more
than the pleasure she took in her two shoes. You remember she had worn
only one shoe before, and a ragged one at that. She ran out to Mrs.
Smith as soon as they were put on, and stroking down her ragged apron
cried out, “Two shoes, Madam, see, two shoes!” And so she behaved to
all the people she met, and she obtained the name of Goody Two Shoes.
With Tommy gone there was not a great deal for Goody Two Shoes to
do, so she made up her mind that she would learn to read. Now in the
long ago days when this little girl lived, one had to pay quite a sum
of money to go to a dame’s school and be taught how to cross stitch,
and to bow politely, and to read. Only rich children could go, but
Goody Two Shoes would meet the little boys and girls as they came
from school, and learn from them and then sit down and read until
they returned. After a while she had taught herself more than they
had learned of the dame, and she resolved to go the rounds of all the
farms and teach the little children who were too poor to go to school.
And such a clever, pleasant way of teaching children to read as Goody
Two Shoes invented! With her knife she cut some wooden sets of letters
with which the children were to spell and make sentences by laying
them together. These wooden letters she put in a basket and with the
basket over her arm she became a little trotting tutoress who was known
through all the countryside for her kindness and patience.
Each morning she would start out at seven and run up to the door of a
farmhouse.
Tap, tap, tap!
“Who is there?” the mother of the house would ask.
“Only little Goody Two Shoes,” Marjery would answer, “come to teach
Billy his A B C’s.”
“Oh, little Goody,” the mother would cry, opening the door wide. “I
am glad to see you. Billy wants you sadly, for he has learned all his
lesson.”
Little Billy would come out and have a new spelling lesson set him with
the basket of letters, and then Goody would go on to Farmer Simpson’s.
“Bow, wow, wow!” said the dog at the door.
“Sirrah,” Mistress Simpson would say, “why do you bark at Little Two
Shoes? Come in. Here’s Sally wants you sadly, for she has learned all
her lesson.”
Then out came the little one.
“Good morning, Goody,” she would say.
“Good morning, Sally,” Goody Two Shoes would answer; “have you learned
your lesson?”
“Yes, that’s what I have,” the little one would say, as she took the
letters and spelled _pear_, and _plum_, and _top_, and _ball_, and
_puss_, and _cow_, and _lamb_, and _sheep_, and _bull_, and _cock_, and
_hen_.
“Good,” said Marjery, and she hurried on to Gaffer Cook’s cottage.
Here a number of poor children were met to learn to read and they all
crowded around Marjery at once. So she pulled out her letters and asked
the little boy next to her what he had for dinner. He answered, _bread_.
“Well, then,” said she, “set the first letter.”
So he pulled out a big B, and soon the other letters, and there stood
the word as plain as possible.
“And what had you, Polly Comb, for your dinner?” asked Goody Two Shoes.
“Apple-pie,” answered Polly as she spelled her word.
The next child had potatoes, the next beef and turnips, which were
spelled with many other words until the lesson was done, and Goody set
them a new task, and went on.
The next place she came to was Farmer Thompson’s, where there were a
great many little ones waiting for her.
“Oh, little Miss Goody Two Shoes,” said one of them, “where have you
been?”
“I have been teaching,” said Goody, “longer than I intended, and am
afraid I am come too soon for you now.”
“No, but indeed you are not,” replied the other, “for I have got my
lesson, and so has Sally Dawson, and so have we all,” and they capered
about as if they were overjoyed to see her.
“Why, then,” said she, “you are all very good; so let us begin our
lessons.”
She was indeed a wise and painstaking little tutoress for a long, long
time. At last Dame Williams, who kept the village school for little
gentlemen and ladies, became very old and infirm, and wanted to give up
teaching. So the trustees sent for Little Two Shoes to examine her and
see if she were able to keep the school.
They found that little Marjery was the best scholar and had the best
heart of any one who wanted to be the teacher, and they gave her a most
favorable report.
So Goody Two Shoes’ troubles and travels were over. She taught the dame
school for the rest of her days, and never lacked for shoes or anything
else needful.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 1765.
_Adapted._
STORIES SELECTED BECAUSE OF THEIR GENERAL APPERCEPTIVE APPEAL TO A
CHILD UPON ENTERING SCHOOL
THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT _Mother Goose_
THE THREE BEARS _Folk Tale_
THE THREE LITTLE PIGS “ “
LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD “ “
THE GOAT AND THE SEVEN LITTLE KIDS “ “
THE LITTLE RED HEN “ “
THE TOWN MOUSE AND THE COUNTRY MOUSE _Æsop’s Fables_
THE ELVES AND THE SHOEMAKER _The Brothers Grimm_
THE TOP AND THE BALL _Hans Christian Andersen_
HOW THE HOME WAS BUILT _Maud Lindsay, in Mother Stories_
THE LITTLE GRAY GRANDMOTHER _Elizabeth Harrison, in Story Land_
THE PIG BROTHER _Laura E. Richards, in The Golden Windows_
GRANDFATHER’S PENNY _In For the Children’s Hour_
TINY TIM _Adapted from Dickens, in For the Children’s Hour_
CHAPTER II
THE STORY WITH A SENSE APPEAL
The senses are the only avenues to the brain by means of which the
outside world makes its way into a little child’s inner consciousness.
A baby’s brain is an almost unexplored, untracked place, empty save
for a few instinct paths--certain motor tracts tenanted by inherited
memories which lead him to cry, to nurse, and to perform some other
reflex movements. This condition of the mind does not last long,
however. The baby opens his eyes and sees the sunlight dancing in a
yellow patch of gold upon the wall above his bed. Instantly, like a
telegraphic message, there is delivered at the baby’s brain an idea,
unnamed at first but ineffaceable--_color_. When he sees a red ball
suspended by a string in front of his eager eyes, a second message
is delivered at his mind-house, differentiating and localizing the
first impression--_color_ versus _color_.The formal names, _red_ and
_yellow_, do not enter into the process at all and are indeed quite
unnecessary. The baby differentiates _red_ and _yellow_ months before
he knows the color names.
The baby hears his mother’s voice and he receives by means of another
telegraphic message the percept, _sound_. He touches a piece of ice, or
his warm bottle, and learns by means of this direct contact, _cold_ and
_warm_. His nostrils admit the pleasurable odors of his scented bath,
the dainty powder used for making his body comfortable or the bunch of
roses that stands on his mother’s table, and he receives a new set of
brain stimuli as he differentiates odors.
These are all such simple mental operations that we have rather taken
them for granted, forgetting that Nature’s method of forcing, letting
in impressions to the child’s mind, is the only way for us to give him
knowledge. _The surest way of educating a child is through an appeal to
his senses._ In a large degree this matter of sense training has been
exemplified in hand work by the disciples of Froebel and Montessori,
but the _sense story_ has been completely overlooked. _We have made
little effort to appeal to a child’s mind through the story that has
sense images of sight, touch, sound or taste to strengthen the mind
impression which it makes._
If we analyze the story that has interested us most in a current
magazine, we shall discover that, somehow, it made a direct appeal
to our senses. It may have had the setting of some old garden, the
description of which made us, in imagination, smell the clove pinks,
roses, French lilacs and mignonette that grew in some garden of our
childhood. Perhaps it was a _sound_ story, giving us such speaking word
pictures of bird songs, violin tones or even the human notes of voices
that we almost _heard_ the story instead of seeing it. On the other
hand, the sense appeal of the story may have been that of _color_, of
_food_--any sense stimulus that routed from their brain corners our
old sense impressions and set them to working again. And it is almost
impossible to gauge the effect upon cerebration of these stored-up
sensory images.
That whiff of odor from a city flower cart brings suddenly to my mind
an incident that I had not been cognizant of for years--the memory of
a certain long-ago day when I purloined my Grandmother’s scissors and
cut off two of my curls to make a wig for a hairless rag doll. What is
the connection between this day of badness of my childhood and a dingy
city flower wagon? Ah, I have it! There was a pot of Martha Washington
geraniums in the room where I sat when I cut my hair. My small, serge
sleeve brushed the leaves as I held the curls triumphantly to the light
and the pungent odor found a permanent place in my mind, side by side
with the other memory, ineffaceable, always ready to produce a recall.
Dr. Van Dyke once said that if he were able to paint a picture of
Memory, he would picture her asleep in a bed of mint. He illustrated
the value of sensory stimuli in fiction. One gauge of a perfectly
constructed piece of fiction is its sense content. Does it include such
writing as will make the reader _see_, _taste_, _smell_ and _hear?_ So,
in stories for children we must apply the same test.
_A child’s story, to interest, should have a strong sense appeal._
Many of the old, handed-down jingles and folk tales are full of
_eating_ and _drinking_, _smelling_ delectable odors, _hearing_ the
sounds of child life and _seeing_ over again child scenes. Therein
lies their world appeal and the reason for their ancient and obvious
popularity.
“The Queen of Hearts,
She made some _tarts_.”
“Little Tommy Tucker, _sings_ for his _supper_;
What shall he _eat_? _White bread and butter_.”
“_Ding, dong bell_, Pussy’s in the well.”
“Hark, hark, the dogs do _bark_,
The beggars are coming to town.”
“Rockaby baby, your cradle is _green_.”
“The rose is _red_,
The violet _blue_,
Sugar is _sweet_
And so are you.”
One might go on indefinitely quoting lines of Mother Goose that tickle
a child’s fancy and are undying in their appeal for the sole reason
that they are sensual in the broader understanding of the term. They
include simple, direct references to the mental concepts that the
child has gained through his senses. Practically all that the normal,
natural child has accomplished, mentally, up to the age of three or
four years, has been to note bright colors, to handle everything he has
come in contact with,--not, as so many persons suppose, for purposes
of mischievous destruction, but rather to touch each object and make
its feeling an integral part of his ego,--to eat and drink and to use
his nostrils as a dog does. What more natural than that his beginnings
in English should have for their basis a sense content that will help
the child to _name_, put into words his previously acquired but unnamed
sense impressions?
Miss Emilie Poulsson’s finger plays for little children have for their
basic appeal the stimulating of a child’s ability to recall previously
acquired sense impressions. In addition, the finger movements with
which the child illustrates these rhymes give the added association of
the sense of touch to strengthen and vivify the child’s interest in and
memory of the rhyme stories. To illustrate:
“Here’s a ball for baby,
_Big_ and _soft_ and _round_.
Here’s the baby’s hammer,
Oh, how he can _pound_.
Here’s the baby’s _music_,
_Clapping_, _clapping_ so.
Here are baby’s soldiers
Standing in a row--”
As the child grows beyond the age when Mother Goose and Finger Plays
appeal to him, he still finds his greatest interest in those stories
which stimulate his acquired sensory images. The mental operation of
apperception described in the last chapter is so inclusive a process,
covering, as it must of necessity, memory and perception, that it
explains the appeal of the sense story to the mind of a child. Many
of the stories quoted at the end of the chapter as being of universal
interest to all children find their common points of interest in their
sense pictures, so quickly grasped and so warmly welcomed by the child
mind whose sense doors are always flung wide open.
It is to be questioned whether or not the story of “The Little Red
Hen” would have been awarded such immortality if its heroine had been
a plain _hen_ and not _red_. Having been dyed with the crimson pigment
of the imagination, however, by some old-world story teller, she has
taken her cheerful, cackling way through the streets of childhood,
an undying, classic fowl of fiction because she is colored. So it
is with Elizabeth Harrison’s wonderful allegory of “The Little Gray
Grandmother.” She might have been described in the story as a spirit,
a fairy, a mythical character who influenced for good the lives
of Wilhelm, Beata and the others. But instead of _describing_ her
invisibility--Miss Harrison _paints_ it, colors her story heroine with
the shades of intangible things. She is a little _gray_ grandmother and
her clothes are sea fog and her veil is of smoke. She is an animated
part of the seashore home and is made of gray mist. What could be more
artistic than the sense appeal of this story?
Why do children--all children--listen, gaping and ecstatic, to the
account of the many and hazardous adventures of the Gingerbread Boy?
Why do they beg to have the story told over again, even after they
have heard it so many times that they know it by heart. Its universal
popularity is not due to its folklore quality. Neither is it due to its
plot and treatment, although these undoubtedly strengthen it. Its big
appeal, however, is to the child’s sense of taste. The story arouses
tasting images in the child’s mind, that are pleasurable and strong.
... “A chocolate jacket and cinnamon seeds for buttons! His eyes were
made of fine, fat currants; his mouth was made of rose-colored sugar
and he had a gay little cap of orange-sugar candy”--Sara Cone Bryant
says in describing her Gingerbread Man. So, from this delectable,
luscious paragraph about his make-up, to the climax of the story when
the Gingerbread Man is devoured by the fox, the child hearers _eat_ in
imagination all the way.
“Why the Chimes Rang” makes a different and more ethical sense appeal
to the child’s mind. The story stimulates in the listeners a deep
interest in the old chime of bells that has hung silent for so long a
time in the tower. One longs to hear them and waits anxiously for the
miracle that will start their pealing. At the story climax, when an
unselfish offering laid upon the altar works the wonder, it is possible
to listen, in imagination, to the bells’ sweet music.
But why make this sense appeal to the child mind through the medium of
a story, the story teller asks?
There are two very real and definite uses to which the sense story may
be put.
Such sense stories as “The Little Red Hen,” “The Gingerbread Boy” and
many others of similar character may be told not only to give pleasure
to the child of kindergarten age who finds delight in their sensual
content, but they have a very real value in _resurrecting the dormant
brain of a mentally deficient child_. More and more attention is being
given every year to the education of the feeble-minded child, both at
home and in the public schools. We are discovering that it is possible
to rouse to action a child’s sleeping brain by means of intensive sense
training. We are teaching him to smell, taste, see color, discriminate
forms and textiles, to open the telegraphic circuit of his senses. We
are putting the world of realities into the arms of the feeble-minded
child to touch, feel, taste, smell, see. So we educate him, but we
must carry out the same system of sense training in his stories,
selecting for his hearing those stories that make verbal and recall his
previously acquired sense impressions.
There is one other use to which we may put the sense story. _It is
a means of strengthening any child’s imagination._ The same mental
operation by means of which a baby associates the idea _cold_ with a
block of ice, helps the child to feel the cold of Andersen’s “Little
Match Girl.” In the first instance the association of _cold_ and ice
means self-preservation for the baby. He wishes to avoid an unpleasant
sensation, so he does not touch the ice, but his former experience of
touching it has left an ineffaceable image in his mind. In the second
instance, the image _cold_ is recalled in the mind of the child by the
story and the result is a very different mental process. The child is
able through the sensory stimulus of the story to feel with the little
match girl, to put himself in her place, to understand her condition,
because it is brought to him in a familiar term--_cold_.
The story teller who makes the wisest use of the sense story sees to it
that the color, sound, taste or odor described in the story is used as
a _means to an end_. One does not wish to stimulate sense images in a
child’s mind for the simple operation of “making his thinking machine
work” in old paths. What we must do is to utilize his sense impressions
to strengthen new brain paths. Fortunately nearly all of the stories
for children that have a sensory content utilize this mode of writing
to strengthen the climax of the story. It only remains for the story
teller to select her _color_, _sound_, _taste_, _odor_ or _touch_
story to meet the special needs of her children. The following story is
an excellent illustration of utilizing the sense of taste to point a
moral:
THE THREE CAKES
Once upon a time there was a little boy named Henry, who was away from
his home at a boarding school.
He was a very special kind of boy, forever at his book, and he happened
once to get to the very tip top of his class. His mother was told of
it, and when it came morning, she got up early and went to speak with
the cook as follows:
“Cook, you are to make a cake for Henry, who has been very good at
school.”
“With all my heart,” said the cook, and she made a cake. It was as
big as--let me see--as big as the moon. It was stuffed with nuts, and
raisins, and figs, and candied fruit peel, and over it all was an icing
of sugar, thick, and smooth, and very white. And no sooner was the cake
home from the baking than the cook put on her bonnet and carried it to
the school.
When Henry first saw it, he jumped up and down. He was not patient
enough to wait for a knife, but he fell upon the cake tooth and nail.
He ate and ate until school began, and after school was over he ate
again with his might and main. At night he ate until bedtime, and he
put the cake under his bolster when he went to bed and he waked and
waked a dozen times that he might take a bite.
But the next day when the dinner bell rang, Henry was not hungry, and
was vexed to see how heartily the other children ate. His friends asked
him if he would not play at cricket, tan, or kits. Ah! Henry could not;
so they played without him, and Henry could scarcely stand upon his
legs. He went and sat down in a corner, and the head master sent for
the apothecary to come with all his phials of physic. After some days
Henry was well again, but his mother said that she would never let him
have another cake.
Now there was another scholar in the same school, whose name was
Francis. He had written his mother a very pretty letter without one
misspelled word or blot, and so his mother, like the mother of Henry,
sent him a great cake.
Francis decided that he would not be so unwise as to follow the example
of Henry, so he took the cake, which was so heavy that he could hardly
lift it, and he watched to see that no one was looking, and he slipped
up to his chamber and put the cake in his box under lock and key. Every
day at play time he used to slip away from his companions, go upstairs
on tiptoe, and cut off a tolerable slice of his cake which he would eat
by himself. For a whole week did he keep this up, but alas--the cake
was so exceedingly large! At last the cake grew dry, and quickly after
it became moldy. Finally the maggots got into it, and Francis, with
great reluctance, was obliged to throw it away.
There was a third little gentleman who went to the same school as
Henry and Francis, and his name was Gratian. One day his mother, whom
he loved very dearly, sent him a cake because she also loved him. No
sooner had it arrived than Gratian called his friends all about him,
and said:
“Come! Look at what my mother has sent me. You must, each one, have a
piece.” So the children all got around the cake as bees resort to a
flower, just blown, and Gratian divided the cake with a knife into as
many pieces as he had invited boys, with one piece over, for himself.
His own piece he said he would eat the next day, and he began playing
games with the boys.
But a very short time had passed, as they were playing, when a poor man
who was carrying a fiddle came into the school yard. He had a very
long, gray beard, and he was guided by a little dog who went before
him, for the old man was blind.
The children noticed how dexterous was the little dog in leading, and
how he shook a bell which hung underneath his collar, as if to say:
“Do not throw down or run against my master!”
When the two had come into the yard, the old man sat down upon a stone,
and said:
“My dear little gentlemen, I will play you all the pretty tunes that I
know, if you will give me leave.”
The children wished for nothing half so much as to hear the music, so
the old man put his violin in tune and then played over jigs and tunes
that had been new in former times.
But Gratian, who was standing close to him, noticed that while he
played his jolliest airs, a tear would often roll down his cheeks. And
Gratian asked him why he wept.
“Because,” said the old man, “I am hungry. I have not any one in the
world to feed me, or my faithful dog.”
Then Gratian felt like crying, too, and he ran to fetch the cake which
he had saved to eat himself. He brought it out with joy, and as he ran
along he said:
“Here, good man, here is some cake for you.”
Then Gratian put the cake into the old man’s hands and he, laying down
his fiddle, wiped his eyes and began to eat. At every piece he put into
his mouth he gave a bit to his faithful little dog, who ate from his
hand; and Gratian, standing by, had as much pleasure as if he had eaten
the cake himself.
_From the French of Monsieur Berquin’s L’Ami des Enfants--1784_
STORIES SELECTED BECAUSE OF THEIR SENSE APPEAL TO THE CHILD’S MIND
THE GINGERBREAD BOY _Sara Cone Bryant, in How to Tell Stories
to Children_
JOHNNY CAKE _In Firelight Stories_
THE TWO LITTLE COOKS _Laura E. Richards, in Five Minute Stories_
WHAT WAS HER NAME? _Laura E. Richards, in Five Minute Stories_
THE COOKY _Laura E. Richards, in The Golden Windows_
THE MOUSE PIE _Folk Tale_
THE MOUSE AND THE SAUSAGE _Frances Hodgson Burnett, in St. Nicholas_
TINY HARE AND THE ECHO _Anne Schutze, in Little Animal Stories_
WHY THE SEA IS SALT _Sara Cone Bryant, in How to Tell Stories
to Children_
THE PROUD LITTLE GRAIN OF WHEAT _Frances Hodgson Burnett,
in Saint Nicholas_
THE STORY THE MILK TOLD _Gertrude Hayes Noyce, in
In the Child’s World_
THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN _Sara Cone Bryant, in How to Tell Stories
to Children_
OLD PIPES AND THE DRYAD _Frank Stockton, in Fanciful Tales_
THE BIG RED APPLE _Kate Whiting Patch, in For the Children’s Hour_
THE CHRISTMAS CAKE _Maud Lindsay, in More Mother Stories_
CHAPTER III
WHEN THE CURTAIN RISES
A tired-out, unenthusiastic school teacher in one of our large public
schools was recently endeavoring to secure the attention of her class
for a story. This story hour was, for her, just one lap in the march of
the day’s routine, a period to be finished as soon as possible, and she
began it in a stereotyped way.
“I am going to tell you a story, children,” she said, “and I want every
child in the room to sit up straight, put his feet _flat_ on the floor
and fold his hands. When everybody is ready, I will begin.”
In contrast one is reminded of another teacher, who opened her story
hour in a different way. In point of fact, she did not really _open_
it at all in the formal understanding of the word. Nor did she have
any specified period of the day for telling stories. When her class
was fatigued and needed a note of relaxation, when they were restless
and needed calming, when they seemed to need inspiration, she gave
the signal for books and pencils to be put away and with no further
introduction she took the children with her to Story Land for a
space, _opening her story in so interesting a way_ that she compelled
attention without asking for it.
The instance of the first story teller is an example of securing a
child’s _voluntary attention_.
The second story teller illustrated a method of securing a child’s
_involuntary_, almost unconscious _attention_.
Especially in the case of the little child who is beginning his school
work, and even up to the more mature years of childhood, voluntary
attention, _that mental operation in which the will is called upon
to open the doors of the senses and let in knowledge_, is almost
too much for us to ask of a child. The wonderful machinery of the
mind has provided another and much more economic means of knowledge
acquisition. _Certain mind stimuli will set the whole wireless system
of perception, association and memory going_ without any effort on
the part of the story teller save that of discovering the stimuli.
In other words, we must secure _involuntary attention in children
through studying their interests_. The story that opens with _headlines
of child interest_ as compelling as those of one of our yellow news
sheets will hold a child’s attention without his being in the least
conscious of his attitude of mind toward it. Voluntary attention, the
mind attitude toward a story that is brought about by folded hands and
straight backs, is very likely to lapse, to develop a will-o’-the-wisp
character and finally lose itself. _Concentrated attention can be
secured in children only through the medium of appealing to child
interest._
The successful story teller will bear in mind the fact, in selecting
stories to tell, that the good story for children of any age, and
adults too, for that matter, should have one of the qualities that
characterize a successful drama. _It must catch the attention of
the audience the moment the curtain rises._ There must be no long
explanation, no descriptive scenes and painful dragging in of the plot.
Children do not care a rap for the creating of atmosphere. They do not
care how long ago the story events happened, or why they happened. What
they are eager for is a quick story appeal made the second that the
story curtain rolls up.
_Each story told to children ought to be selected having in mind its
beginning._ The story teller must ask herself another set of questions:
“_Does the story interest begin with my first paragraph, my first
sentence, my first word?_”
“_Will the opening of my story find an apperceptive basis for attention
in the minds of my children?_”
“_Has my story a sense appeal in the first sentence?_”
Any one of these qualities of story opening will help to win the
sympathy of the child audience and will find a ready response in
involuntary attention.
A class of little street boys waged continued warfare upon one of
the New York Settlement Houses. They broke the windows, mobbed the
Settlement children and carefully evaded the police. The Settlement
story teller decided, one night, to open the doors of the house to the
gang of boys and see if it would not be possible to win them over to
an interest in the work of the Settlement and lead them to obey the
laws of society through stories. The boys entered the building like a
besieging army. They shouted, stamped, stampeded into the room that had
been assigned them and throwing down chairs and overturning tables they
proceeded to produce a scene of Bedlam. The story teller made no effort
to control the boys. She secured for herself a place of vantage in the
center of the room. When there was an instant’s lull in the uproar that
the boys were making, as they took breath for more rowdyism, she said
in a low, even tone of voice:
“There was once a little Indian boy who rode fifty miles on the
cow-catcher of an engine.”
Then she waited and the boys waited, too, breathlessly eager for her
next words. When she saw that she had caught the interest of her
audience, she proceeded with the story in the same even, low voice,
not so much telling the boys a story, apparently, but just _telling a
story_, every sentence of which painted a word picture and the whole
being a graphic series of moving pictures unrolled on a story film
before her audience. She gave the story facts about the Indian lad who
had never seen a locomotive and stole a daring ride on one because he
thought it was a fire-horse. One by one the boys seated themselves
quietly on the chairs or on the floor to listen. Several lay flat upon
the floor, crawling stealthily nearer to the story teller as their
interest in the story deepened. Throughout the entire telling of the
story the room was absolutely still, and when the climax came the boys
asked for another story. From that evening they were the Settlement’s
stanch allies.
It would have been impossible to secure the voluntary attention of
these boys. The fact that some one wanted to tell them a story would
have probably inspired them to more lawlessness. If the story teller
had begun the story after this fashion:--
“Fifty years ago there were few railways in the western part of
our country. The prairies were peopled by Comanche tribes who were
unfamiliar with the inventions of civilization, and the first train
that ran through an Indian settlement inspired an Indian lad to a
strange deed”--
Not a boy would have listened. This form of story beginning is
_bad_ and phenomenally common in many stories for children. It is
an example of _words_, not _interest stimuli_. It explains a story
situation instead of _presenting_ it. A story to secure the involuntary
attention of children should have the quality of a crashing orchestral
overture, a thunder clap, a pistol shot--so unexpected, compelling, and
penetrating will it be.
“_There was once a little Indian boy who rode fifty miles on the
cow-catcher of an engine!_”
Could there be a more stimulating story beginning for a group of boys
than this? There is an apperceptive appeal in the Indian lad. He was
not a man, not a chieftain, but just a little lad like themselves.
There is an immediate sense appeal in the steam-engine image that the
story beginning brings to their minds. Smoke, smell, bell ringing,
whistle blowing, steam escaping, and the rattle of iron wheels on
iron tracks are all recalled to a boy’s mind in one glorious bit of
imagination whose only stimulus is the word _engine_. Then, to clinch
the apperceptive and sensory appeal of the sentence, is the quick
introduction of a new story interest--the Indian boy did a deed that
they, in their wildest dreams, had never considered--he rode an engine.
If a story, otherwise good, opens poorly--is too wordy, too
descriptive, too pedantic--study the story carefully for its main
interest and, selecting just the right words to convey this overture
of interest, begin _there_. It will be discovered that certain of the
classic, favorite tales of childhood fulfill this story test. They open
compellingly and carry the interest that was stimulated in the first
paragraph clear through to the end.
“There were once five and twenty tin soldiers who were all brothers,
for they had been made out of the same old tin spoon.”
Hans Christian Andersen used the child’s instinctive love of counting
his toys, and a bit of humor that tickles a child’s fancy, when he
wrote this opening paragraph of his wonderful old allegory, “The
Faithful Tin Soldier.”
“Once upon a time there lived a cat and a parrot and they thought they
would ask each other to dinner, turn and turn about.”
This folk tale of “The Greedy Cat” opens with a strong sense appeal.
The children’s interest aroused in the first sentence by means of the
progressive dinner arrangement of the famous cat is sustained to the
last word of the story.
“He was a wee little duck with a very long tail, so he was called
Drakestail. Now Drakestail had some money of his very, very own and the
King asked if he might take it. So Drakestail loaned all his money to
the King--”
In this old folk tale, the gist of which is the merry adventures of a
duck, the story interest begins with the first sentence. The children
are introduced, with no unnecessary preliminaries of description or
explanation to the hero, Drakestail, and then they are plunged into
the story itself, interesting and direct in its appeal.
“Some children were at play in their playground one day, when a herald
rode through the town, blowing a trumpet and crying aloud: ‘The King!
The King is coming!’”
In this story, Laura E. Richards’ “Coming of the King,” to be found in
her collection of short stories, “The Golden Windows,” a strong sense
appeal commands the child’s involuntary attention at the beginning of
the story. The familiar figures, children at play in their playground,
are introduced to the sound of a trumpet’s call, instantly attracting
the attention of the child listeners.
Once the story teller has learned story selection, having in mind a
beginning that will hold the attention of her audience from her first
word, her success will be secured. It is also possible to carry this
interest which has been secured for the child the instant that the
curtain rolls up, straight through to the end of the story, because of
its compelling beginning. The opening paragraph of a child’s story
should be the theme, tuned to the key and melody of child interest
about which and on which the rest of the story plays. The noteworthy
dinner of the cat and the mouse forms the keynote for the rest of the
classic adventures of the Greedy Cat. The “wee little duck” and the
avaricious old King whom we meet in the first paragraph are the main
actors in the story drama of Drakestail. The playground of the children
that we see in the first sentence of Mrs. Richards’ “The Coming of the
King,” is the scene of a story miracle almost unparalleled in short
story writing for children.
_Cutting out unnecessary description, avoiding any explanation as to
why you are telling the story, introducing your thunder clap, your
trumpet, your story hero in the first sentence_--this is the way to
begin a story.
“The Prince’s Visit,” by Horace Scudder, is an excellent example of
sustained story interest brought about by means of a compelling story
opening.
THE PRINCE’S VISIT
It was a holiday in the city, for the Prince was to arrive. As soon
as the cannon should sound, the people might know that the Prince had
landed from the steamer, and when they should hear the bells ring
that was as much as being told that the Prince, dressed splendidly,
and wearing a feather in his cap, was actually on his way up the main
street of the city, seated in a carriage drawn by four coal-black
horses, and with the soldiers and music going on before.
It was holiday in the workshops, too, and little Job was listening for
the cannon and the bells. He was only a poor, foolish little lad, and
he did nothing all day long but turn the crank that worked a great
washing machine; but when he heard the boom of the guns, he shuffled
out and made his way home.
Ever since he had heard of the Prince’s coming, Job had dreamed of
nothing else. He bought a picture of the Prince and pinned it up on the
wall over his bed; and when he came home at night, tired and hungry, he
would sit down by his mother, who mended holes in the laundry clothes,
and talk about the Prince until he could keep his eyes open no longer;
and then his mother would kiss him and send him to bed.
To-day he hurried so fast that he was quite out of breath when he
reached the old house where he lived.
“The cannon went off, mother!” he cried. “The Prince is come!”
“Everything is ready, Job,” said his mother. “You will find all your
things in a row on the bed.” And Job tumbled into his room to dress for
the holiday. Everything was there as his mother had said; all the old
things renewed, and all the new things pieced together that she had
worked on so long, and every stitch of which Job had overlooked and
almost directed.
“Isn’t it splendid?” he said as he looked at himself in a mirror. Round
his throat was a white satin scarf that shone in contrast to his dingy
coat, and it was pinned with an old brooch which Job treasured as the
apple of his eye.
“If you’d only let me wear the feather, mother,” he said.
“You look splendidly, Job, and don’t need it,” said she cheerfully;
“and, besides, the Prince wears one, and what would he think if he saw
you with one, too?”
“Sure enough,” said Job, and then he kissed her and started off.
“I don’t believe,” he said as he went up the court, “that the Prince
would mind my wearing a feather; but mother didn’t want me to. Hark,
there are the bells! He must have started!”
It was a long way from Job’s house to the main street, and he would
have to hurry if he were going to see the grand procession. On he
shambled, knocking against the flag-stones, and nearly falling down at
every step. He was now in a cross street, which would bring him before
long to the main street, and he even thought he heard the distant music
and the cheers of the crowd.
But just then he stumbled upon something which tripped him. He would
have hurried on, but he heard a cry, and a groan of pain. He looked
back, and he saw what he had stumbled over. It was a poor beggar boy,
without home or friends, dirty and unsightly enough, and clad in ragged
clothing, and he was lying on the sidewalk, too ill to move. As Job
turned, the boy looked up at him and stretched out his hands, but he
was too weak to speak.
“He is sick!” said Job. “Hilloa!” but every one was intent upon the
procession, and no one heard him.
“The Prince is coming,” he said; and he turned as if to run. But the
beggar would not away from his eyes.
“He is sick,” said Job again, bending down, “I will take him home to
mother.”
“Hurrah! Hurrah! There he is! The Prince! The Prince!”
In the carriage drawn by four coal-black horses rode the Prince; and he
was dressed in splendid clothes and he wore a feather in his cap.
Job wiped the tears from his eyes as he heard the music and the
cheering so far away, but he lifted the little beggar boy in his
arms--and started for home.
And as he passed along the street with his burden, he heard a sound
of beautiful music as if all the angels were singing together, and he
looked up into the blue sky above the chimneys and roofs of the city,
and he saw the angels with the Prince in the midst of them moving by,
and they were all smiling on him, poor, simple Job.
So Job saw the Prince pass, too.
HORACE E. SCUDDER.
_From “Dream Children.” Used by special permission of Houghton,
Mifflin Company._
LIST OF STORIES IN WHICH THE STORY INTEREST IS TO BE FOUND IN THE FIRST
PARAGRAPH
THE FAITHFUL TIN SOLDIER _Hans Christian Andersen_
THE GREEDY CAT _Sara Cone Bryant, in How to Tell Stories
to Children_
HOW DRAKESTAIL WENT TO THE KING _In Firelight Stories_
THE COMING OF THE KING _Laura E. Richards, in The Golden Windows_
WHY THE MORNING GLORY CLIMBS _Sara Cone Bryant, in How to Tell
Stories to Children_
PETER RABBIT _Beatrix Potter_
THE LITTLE JACKALS AND THE LION _Sara Cone Bryant, in Stories
to Tell to Children_
LITTLE HALF CHICK _Sara Cone Bryant, in Stories
to Tell to Children_
THE SNOW MAN _Hans Christian Andersen_
THE BABY QUEEN _Annie Hamilton Donnell, in For the Children’s Hour_
MR. FROG AND MR. ELEPHANT _In Firelight Stories_
THE THREE BILLY GOATS GRUFF _In Firelight Stories_
BRE’R RABBIT AND THE LITTLE TAR BABY _Joel Chandler Harris, in
Nights with Uncle Remus_
CHAPTER IV
USING SUSPENSE TO DEVELOP CONCENTRATION
Because we have discovered that a story is able to do much for a
child; make him feel comfortable and at home in a new environment
because it brings to his mind so compellingly the well-known and loved
surroundings of some former environment, stimulate his senses to added
activity, and secure his involuntary attention, we are going one step
farther. We will make a fresh discovery. We will find a story quality
that will develop sustained attention in children; will give them the
power to concentrate. Not only will our story open with such a clarion
note of interest that it will compel involuntary attention but after
this overture, this _crash_ of interest, the perfect child’s story
will swing into a different sort of construction that will hold the
attention secured by its previous yellow headlines of interest.
One story quality more than any other develops this sustained interest
on the part of the children who are listening to it--the _quality of
suspense_.
What is suspense?
It is so necessary a story quality that it seems to explain itself.
Suspense means, _making the children wait for the rest of the story_.
It means that _the different scenes, the events that go to make up the
story, are told in the order of their relative interest appeal to the
child mind_. The child listens, attends involuntarily as the story
proceeds because _he wants to know what is coming next_. Each scene
of the story is unfinished for him; he must wait for a fulfillment of
what he expects, looks for, longs for in the story. One sentence, one
paragraph makes him _curious_ to hear the following one. The story
structure is like a child’s stringing of beads. Upon a white thread of
interest the colored glass balls which go to make up the whole circlet
of the story plot are strung, as a child would pick them out, each
inadequate and incomplete without its component--one bead slipped down
to make a place for the next one.
_Suspense is the story quality that stimulates curiosity and in this
way develops concentrated thinking on the part of the child._
Certain old folk stories have the quality of suspense developed to a
high degree and through their accumulative, _building on_ character of
construction compel every child’s attention. It is wise to look for
this quality in selecting stories to tell to the very young child whose
ability to attend for any length of time is undeveloped. Through the
involuntary, sustained interest he develops, through listening to the
story he becomes able to fix his attention upon other human affairs.
An old nursery tale of New England, reported by Clifton Johnson,
illustrates with unusual vividness the use of suspense in sustaining
a story interest that holds the attention of any child up to the last
word of the story.
THE TRAVELS OF A FOX
A fox was digging behind a stump, and he found a bumble-bee. The fox
put the bumble-bee in a bag and he traveled.
The first house he came to he went in, and he said to the mistress of
the house:
“May I leave my bag here while I go to Squintum’s?”
“Yes,” said the woman.
“Then be careful not to open the bag,” said the fox.
But as soon as the fox was out of sight, the woman just took a little
peep into the bag and out flew the bumble-bee, and the rooster caught
him and ate him up.
After a while the fox came back. He took up his bag and he saw that the
bumble-bee was gone, and he said to the woman:
“Where is my bumble-bee?”
And the woman said:
“I just untied the bag, and the bumble-bee flew out, and the rooster
ate him up.”
“Very well,” said the fox, “I must have the rooster, then.”
So he caught the rooster and put him in his bag, and traveled.
And the next house he came to he went in, and said to the mistress of
the house:
“May I leave my bag here while I go to Squintum’s?”
“Yes,” said the woman.
“Then be careful not to open the bag,” said the fox.
But as soon as the fox was out of sight, the woman just took a little
peep into the bag, and the rooster flew out, and the pig caught him and
ate him up.
After a while the fox came back, and he took up his bag and he saw
that the rooster was not in it, and he said to the woman: “Where is my
rooster?”
And the woman said:
“I just untied the bag, and the rooster flew out, and the pig ate him.”
“Very well,” said the fox, “I must have the pig, then.”
So he caught the pig and put him in his bag, and traveled.
And the next house he came to he went in, and he said to the mistress
of the house:
“May I leave my bag here while I go to Squintum’s?”
“Yes,” said the woman.
“Then be careful not to open the bag,” said the fox.
But as soon as the fox was out of sight, the woman just took a little
peep into the bag, and the pig jumped out, and the ox ate him.
After a while the fox came back. He took up his bag and he saw that the
pig was gone, and he said to the woman:
“Where is my pig?”
And the woman said:
“I just untied the bag, and the pig jumped out, and the ox ate him.”
“Very well,” said the fox, “I must have the ox, then.”
So he caught the ox and put him in his bag, and traveled.
And the next house he came to he went in, and he said to the mistress
of the house:
“May I leave my bag here while I go to Squintum’s?”
“Yes,” said the woman.
“Then be careful not to open the bag,” said the fox.
But as soon as the fox was out of sight, the woman just took a little
peep into the bag, and the ox got out, and the woman’s little boy
chased him away off over the fields.
After a while the fox came back. He took up his bag, and he saw that
the ox was gone, and he said to the woman:
“Where is my ox?”
And the woman said:
“I just untied the string, and the ox got out, and my little boy chased
him away off over the fields.”
“Very well,” said the fox, “I must have the little boy, then.”
So he caught the little boy and he put him in his bag, and he traveled.
And the next house he came to he went in, and he said to the mistress
of the house:
“May I leave my bag here while I go to Squintum’s?”
“Yes,” said the woman.
“Then be careful not to open the bag,” said the fox.
The woman was making cake, and her children were around her asking for
some.
“Oh, mother, give me a piece,” said one; and, “Oh, mother, give me a
piece,” said the others.
And the smell of the cake came to the little boy who was weeping and
crying in the bag, and he heard the children asking for cake and he
said: “Oh, mammy, give me a piece.”
Then the woman opened the bag and took the little boy out, and she put
the house-dog in the bag in the little boy’s place. And the little boy
stopped crying and had some cake with the others.
After a while the fox came back. He took up his bag and he saw that it
was tied fast, and he put it over his back and traveled far into the
deep woods. Then he sat down and untied the bag, and if the little boy
had been there in the bag things would have gone badly with him.
But the little boy was safe in the woman’s house, and when the fox
untied the bag the house-dog jumped out and ate him all up.
_An old nursery tale of New England. Reprinted by permission of
Clifton Johnson._
The point of interest for children in this story lies in their wonder
as to what is going to happen next. It begins with a note of the
unusual.
“How strange for a fox to put a bumble bee in a bag,” the children say.
“Will the next sentence tell us why he did it?”
Then a number of questions present themselves to the child mind.
“Will the woman untie the bag?”
“Will the person at _this_ house do the same thing?”
“Is it possible that _every_ woman will open the bag?”
Another series of questions confronts the child.
“What manner of beast will the fox take at _this_ house and put in his
bag?”
And so the suspense is sustained until the children’s curiosity is
satisfied at the end of the story. Not alone has the story been a bit
of mental gymnastics for the child, it has given him added mental power
in the listening. Above and behind the mental process of waiting to see
what unusual and unexpected scene of the story drama will be presented
to him next, _he has been exercising his will in concentrating upon
the process of waiting_. His power of sustained attention has been
strengthened materially and ineffaceably.
For the very young child, the suspensive element in story telling must
be very simple. It will consist often in _repetition_, the pleasureable
recurrence in the story of certain _sounds_ that the child likes and
is willing to wait for--sort of half way houses on the story road they
are, where his mind wheels may stop and rest awhile--sign posts that
lead the way to the end of the road. Sometimes this story suspense for
the little folks is brought about through a jingle introduced into
the story and repeated with certain changes as in the old folk tale
of “The Cat and the Mouse.” Again suspense is brought about by means
of a change of intonation on the part of the story teller. She adapts
her voice to the needs of the story as in “The Three Bears” to the
inexpressible delight of the children. This is a primitive sort of
suspense quality to be found in the most elemental stories for children
but it has its important place in the discipline of the child mind.
The little child’s first attempts to attend have a butterfly quality.
His mind flies from one stimulus to another with no very long stop
anywhere. This is as it should be, for the world of sensations in which
the child is plunged as an _ego_ is a varied, crowded world and there
is temptation offered him to sip each flower, smell each new odor,
touch everything and see everything with which he comes in contact. But
a suspensive story holds him to one related set of images for a brief
space and through this concentration, however simple it may be, he is
developing the power of willed attention.
As children grow older, the suspense quality for which we must look in
their stories will not consist in _repetition of sounds, jingles and
phrases_, but in their _sequence of events leading toward some unknown
climax_. This is a more difficult and subtle form of suspense to
secure. Here, the beads are strung upon their thread, not in groups of
white interspersed with occasional red ones, but rather in the order of
the rainbow in bands of color that complement and complete each other.
Any description of this more highly developed suspensive story would be
absolutely inadequate, for the quality has to be _felt_ by the story
teller first and then _felt for_ by her.
An adapted version of the story of the first meeting of John Ridd and
Lorna Doone taken from the novel, “Lorna Doone,” gives an illuminating
exemplification of the kind of suspense that holds a child breathless,
_waiting for the unknown something that is to follow_. The story
teller should endeavor to discover and introduce some suspense, either
elemental, as in the case of the folk tale, or of the more elusive
quality, illustrated in this story, into all her stories.
LITTLE LORNA DOONE
Almost everybody knows how pleasant and soft the fall of land is round
about Plover’s Barrows Farm. There are trees and bright green grass
and orchards full of contentment, and you can scarce espy the brook,
although you hear it everywhere. But it is there, where the valley
bends and the stream goes along with it, and pretty meadows slope their
breast, and the sun spreads on the water. And nearly all the land until
you come to Nicholas Snow’s belonged to the Ridd farm--to little John
Ridd’s father.
John’s mother had long been ailing and not well able to eat much. Now
John chanced to remember that once at the time of the holidays he had
brought his dear mother from Tiverton a jar of pickled loaches; and she
had said that in all her life she had never tasted anything fit to be
compared with them.
So, one St. Valentine’s Day, in the forenoon, without saying a word to
any one, John started away to get some loaches for his mother just to
make her eat a bit.
It was a bitter cold day, but John doffed his shoes and hose and put
them in a bag about his neck, and left his little coat at home that
he might walk better. When he had traveled two miles or so he found
a good stream flowing softly into the body of the brook. The water
was freezing, and John’s toes were aching, and he drew up on the bank
and rubbed them well with a sprout of young sting-nettle, and having
skipped about a little was inclined to eat a bit. As he ate, his
spirits rose, so he put the bag round his neck again and buckled his
breeches far up from the knee, and crossing the brook, went stoutly up
under the branches which hung so dark on the Bagworthy River.
The day was falling fast behind the brown of the hilltops, and the
trees seemed giants ready to beat the boy. And every moment as the sky
was clearing up for a white frost, the cold of the water underfoot on
the fells got worse and worse, until John was fit to cry with it. And
so, in a sorry plight, he came to an opening in the bushes where a
great black pool lay in front, whitened at the sides with foam froth.
The boy shuddered, and drew back, not at the pool itself, but at the
whirling manner and wisping of white threads upon it in circles, round
and round; and the center, black as jet. He did not stop to look much
for fear, though, but crawled along over the fork of rocks where the
water had scooped the stone out, and shunning the ledge from whence it
rose like the mane of a white horse into the broad black pool, softly
he let his feet slip into the dip and rush of the torrent.
But John had reckoned without his host, for the green waves came down
like great bottles upon him, and his legs were gone from under him in
a minute. He was borne up upon a rock, and he won a footing, but there
was no choice left except to climb somehow up that hill of water or
else be washed down into the pool and whirl around until it drowned
him, for there was no chance of going back by the way he had come down.
So John started carefully, step by step, stopping to hold on by the
cliff when he found a resting place, and pant a while. But the greatest
danger came when he saw no jeopardy, but ran up a patch of black ooze
weed which stuck out in a boastful manner not far from the summit.
Here he fell, and was like to have broken his knee cap, but his elbow
caught in a hole in the rock and so he managed to start again.
But the little boy was in a most dreadful fright now, and at last the
rush of water drove him back again into the middle. Then he made up his
mind to die at last; only it did seem such a pity after fighting so
long, to give in. The light was coming upon him, and again he fought
toward it, when suddenly he felt fresh air, and fell into it headlong.
When John came to himself, his hands were full of young grass and mold,
and a little girl was kneeling at his side and rubbing his forehead
tenderly.
“I am so glad,” she whispered softly, as John opened his eyes and
looked at her. “Now you will try to be better, won’t you?”
The little boy had never heard so sweet a sound as came from between
her red lips while she knelt and gazed at him; nor had he ever seen
anything so beautiful as the large dark eyes, full of pity and wonder.
His eyes wandered down the black shower of her hair; and where it fell
on the turf, among it, like an early star, was the first primrose of
the season.
“What is your name?” she said, “and how did you come here? Oh, how
your feet are bleeding! I must tie them up for you. And no shoes or
stockings! Is your mother very poor, boy?”
“No,” said John, a little vexed. “We are rich enough to buy all this
great meadow if we choose. Here are my shoes and stockings.”
“Why, they are quite as wet as your feet. Oh, please let me manage
them. I will do it very softly.”
“Oh, I don’t mind that,” said John, “but how you are looking at me. I
never saw any one like you before. My name is John Ridd. What is your
name?”
“Lorna Doone,” she answered in a low voice as if afraid of it, and
hanging her head so he could see only her forehead and eyelashes; “if
you please, my name is Lorna Doone, and I thought you must have known
it,” and her blushes turned to tears and her tears to long, low sobs.
“Don’t cry,” said John, “whatever you do. I will give you all my fish,
Lorna, and catch some more for my mother; only don’t be angry with me.”
Young and harmless as she was, her name alone made guilt of her; yet
there was John, a yeoman’s son, and there was she, a little lady born.
Though her hair had fallen down, and some of her frock was touched
with wet, behold, her dress was pretty enough for the queen of all the
angels. All from her waist to her neck was white, plaited in close like
a curtain, and the dark soft tresses of her hair, and the shadowy light
of her eyes made it seem yet whiter.
“John,” she said, “why did you ever come here? Do you know what the
robbers would do to us if they found you here with me?”
“Beat us, I dare say,” said John, “or me at least. They could never
beat you.”
“No, they would kill us both, and bury us here by the water because you
have found your way up here. Now please go; oh, please go!”
“I never saw any one like you, Lorna, and I must come back again
to-morrow, and so must you. I will bring you such lots of things--there
are apples still--and I caught a thrush--and I will bring you the
loveliest dog--”
“Hush!”
A shout came down the valley, and Lorna’s face was full of terror.
“Do you see that hole?” she cried.
It was a niche in the rock which skirted the meadow. In the fading
twilight John could just see it.
“Look! Look!” She could hardly speak from terror. “There is a way out
from the top of it; they would kill me if I told of it. Oh, here they
come; I can see them!”
The little maid turned white as the snow which hung on the rocks above
her, and she looked at the water and then at John. She began to sob
aloud, but John drew her behind the bushes and close down to the water.
Crouching in that hollow nest they saw a dozen fierce men come down on
the other side of the water.
“Queen! Queen!” they were shouting here and there, and now and then.
“Where is our little queen gone?”
“They always call me ‘queen,’ and I shall have to be their queen by and
by,” Lorna whispered. “Oh, they are crossing, and they are sure to see
us.”
“I must get down into the water,” said John, “and you must go to sleep.”
She saw in a moment how to do it, and there was no time to lose.
“Now mind you, never come again,” she whispered over her shoulder as
she crept away, “only I shall come sometimes.”
John crept into the water and lay down with his head between two blocks
of stone, and all this time the robbers were shouting so that all the
rocks round the valley rang. The boy was desperate between fear and
wretchedness till he caught sight of the little maid, but he knew that
for her sake he must be brave and hide himself.
Lorna was lying beneath a rock not far away, feigning to be fast
asleep. Presently one of the robbers came upon her, and he stopped and
gazed awhile at her fairness and innocence. Then he caught her up in
his arms and kissed her.
“Here our queen is! Here’s the captain’s daughter,” he shouted, “fast
asleep.”
He set her dainty little form upon his great square shoulder, and her
narrow feet in one broad hand; and so he marched away with the purple
velvet of her skirt ruffling his long black beard, and the silken
length of her hair fetched out, like a cloud of the wind behind her.
John crept into a bush for warmth, and then, as daylight sank beneath
the forget-me-not of stars, he knew that it was time to get away,
and he managed to crawl from the bank to the niche in the cliff that
Lorna had shown him. How he climbed up, and crossed the clearing, and
found his way home across the Bagworthy forest was more than he could
remember afterward, because of his weariness.
All the supper was in, and the men sitting at the white table with
Annie and Lizzie near by--and all were eager to begin, save only the
mother. John was of a mind to stay out in the dark by the woodstack,
being so late, but the way his mother was looking out of the doorway
got the better of him, so he went inside and ate his supper, and held
his tongue as to where he had been all day and evening. But if he had
been of a mind he could have told them many things.
RICHARD D. BLACKMORE.
_Adapted._
LITTLE IN-A-MINUTE
ILLUSTRATING STORY SUSPENSE WHICH APPEALS TO YOUNGEST CHILDREN
The big, yellow Sun smiled down upon them and the Singing Brook hummed
pretty little tunes for them to listen to. They were two little boys at
play with a whole, long beautiful day ahead.
They looked almost exactly alike, did these two little boys. Bobby
wore a wide-brimmed sun hat with a blue band around it, and Dicky wore
a wide-brimmed sun hat with a red band around it. Bobby wore a brown
linen sailor suit with blue anchors on the collar and Dicky wore a
brown linen sailor suit with red anchors on the collar. Bobby had a
beautiful toy ship to play with, and Dicky had a beautiful ship, too.
As for the ships, _they_ looked _just_ exactly alike. Each beautiful
toy ship was painted white and green, and each had a big white sail as
wide and pretty as a dove’s wing, and each had a strong little rudder
painted red.
Bobby and Dicky had made a make-believe wharf in the Singing Brook of
sticks and stones and nice black mud. There, anchored at the wharf, lay
the two beautiful toy boats, their white sails flapping and fat with
wind. When their strings were loosed from the wharf, the Whispering
Wind would carry the two little boats way, way down the Singing Brook
to another little make-believe wharf made of sticks and stones and nice
black mud that Bobby and Dicky had made farther on.
So the Sun smiled down more happily and the Singing Brook sang a
merrier tune than the last one and Bobby and Dicky began to play.
“I am going to load my boat with little green apples, Dicky,” said
Bobby. “Perhaps the Old Chipmunk who lives at the foot of the Pine Tree
will go aboard and unload them.”
Bobby began gathering small green apples as fast as he could and
putting them on the deck of his little ship, but Dicky sat on the bank
of the Singing Brook, doing nothing and only watching.
“When are you going to load your ship, Dicky?” Bobby asked as he put in
the last apples.
“In a minute,” Dicky answered, but before the minute had gone, Bobby’s
ship, its white sail flying, had started down the Singing Brook to the
other wharf. Dicky jumped up and loosed his boat from its moorings,
but it was very far behind Bobby’s all the way. The two little boys
hurried softly between the willow trees that stood along the edge of
the Singing Brook. As they came to the other make-believe wharf they
saw the Old Chipmunk creep out of his house at the foot of the Pine
Tree and go out on the wharf to wait for the little ship to come in.
When it came, he unloaded all the cargo of apples and carried them over
to his cellar. But when Dicky’s ship came in, so late and so empty, the
Old Chipmunk did nothing but smell of it. Then he sat on the end of the
make-believe wharf in the sunshine and basked and did not even look at
Dicky’s ship again.
“I have thought of something very nice to do, now,” said Bobby as the
two little boys carried their ships back again. “We will play that the
flowers are children and we will give them a ride in our ships.”
“Yes, we will!” agreed Dicky.
So Bobby picked many little flower children; clovers in pink bonnets
and buttercups in wide yellow hats and daisies in gold bonnets with
white strings, and he put them all carefully aboard his ship. But Dicky
only stood by in the grass and watched.
“When are you going to fill your boat with flowers, Dicky?” Bobby asked
as he helped the last flower child aboard.
“In a minute,” Dicky answered, but just then down the Singing Brook
came the Whispering Wind. It filled the little white sails and away
sailed the two little ships, the flower children aboard Bobby’s
fluttering and dancing with the joy of having a boat ride.
The two little boys raced along the bank to watch and they saw a
wonderful thing happen. All the way down the Singing Brook, pretty
passengers joined the flower children on board Bobby’s ship. A gold
butterfly fluttered down to the deck with his yellow and black wings,
kissing the clovers beneath their pink bonnets. A shiny black bumble
bee tumbled down to the deck with his gold, gossamer wings and began to
drone summer stories to the buttercups. A silver dragon fly darted down
to the ship with his rainbow tinted wings to mend the white strings
of the daisies’ caps which had been torn by the frolicsome Whispering
Wind. When Bobby’s ship reached the other wharf it looked like an
excursion boat, but, ah, Dicky’s ship was quite empty. There had been
no flower children on board to call the butterflies, the bumble bees
and the dragon flies.
“I know the nicest play of all, now,” said Bobby after he had helped
the flower children from his ship and put their feet in the Singing
Brook that they might wade there all the rest of the day and keep cool
and fresh and sweet.
“We will take our ships back, Dicky, and have a race.”
“Oh, that will be nice!” Dicky answered, so the two little boys carried
the two ships back and launched them, side by side, in the Singing
Brook.
“_One_--_two_--” began Bobby, but before he said _three_ he heard their
mother’s voice floating over the fields and as far as their playground.
“Bobby, Dicky, come home,” their mother called. “Come home, boys,
dinner is ready.”
“I’m coming, mother,” Bobby called back, putting his hand to his mouth
to make a horn. Then he turned to Dicky who still bent low over the
bank of the Singing Brook and still held in his hand the string that
was tied to the rudder of his ship.
“In a minute,” Dicky answered. Bobby ran off over the fields, and soon
he was out of sight. He knew that there were fat white potatoes and
yellow chicken meat and red cherry dumplings for dinner. Now they were
hot, but they would be cold if he did not hurry.
Down by the Singing Brook Dicky waited to launch his ship once more.
The Whispering Wind filled the sail a third time, and away sailed the
beautiful little toy ship, so pretty with its green and white paint,
and its rudder that was painted red. Dicky ran along beside it, to see
how fast it sailed. Faster and faster sailed Dicky’s ship. It did not
stop when it came to the Pine Tree where the Old Chipmunk was busy in
his cellar sorting out his apples. It did not stop when it came to the
Wading Pool where all the flower children stood, keeping cool and fresh
and sweet. On and on sailed the little ship, for the Whispering Wind
was taking it a long, long way off to the place where the Singing Brook
loses itself in the River and the River goes on down to the Sea.
“Come back. Oh, do come back!” called Dicky to the little ship, but the
ship only sailed the faster.
“_Please_ come back!” cried Dicky as his beautiful ship sailed out of
sight.
_In a minute_, the Whispering Wind called back.
But the little ship never came back.
So Dicky went slowly across the field and home to dinner, but when he
reached home what do you think had happened?
The fat, white potatoes, the yellow chicken meat and the red cherry
dumplings were _cold_.
CAROLYN SHERWIN BAILEY.
STORIES SELECTED BECAUSE OF THEIR SUSPENSIVE QUALITY
THE TEENY TINY LADY _In Firelight Stories_
THE HOBYAHS _In Firelight Stories_
CHICKEN LITTLE _In Firelight Stories_
THE LITTLE BOY WHO FOUND HIS FORTUNE _In Firelight Stories_
THE LITTLE PINK ROSE _Sara Cone Bryant, in Best Stories to Tell
to Children_
LITTLE JACK ROLLAROUND _Sara Cone Bryant, in Best Stories to Tell
to Children_
LITTLE BLACK SAMBO _Helen Bannerman_
THE HARE AND THE HEDGEHOG _Æsop’s Fables_
THE GRADUAL FAIRY _Alice Brown, in The One-Footed Fairy_
HOW JOHNNY CHUCK FOUND THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD _Thornton
Burgess, in Old Mother West Wind_
CHAPTER V
STORY CLIMAX
We have found it helpful to liken the effect that a well-written,
well-told story has upon a child’s mind to the appeal that a successful
drama makes to an audience. We have discovered that the opening
paragraph, the first sentence of a child’s story should have the
quality that characterizes the scene disclosed on the stage when the
curtain rolls up--_compelling interest_. Following this curtain raising
of the story, there should be a series of pictorial scenes that carry
the events that go to make up the story plot, strung upon a slender
thread of curiosity, and giving the element of suspense to the story.
Following out this story structure we come, eventually, to the end. The
curtain must fall at last before the eyes of the child audience and the
closing of the story drama should be as mind stimulating as was its
beginning. This is brought about by studying carefully the story climax.
_The climax of a story should be a complete surprise to the listener
and to the characters in the story, as well._
This quick note of the unexpected coming with compelling suddenness at
the end of our story clinches the interest of the plot and makes the
story indelible on the child’s mind sheet.
Certain well-known instances of climax as exemplified in child stories
will clarify for us its _surprise_ quality.
In one of the older plantation folk tales, Mr. Elephant and Mr. Frog
are pictured as being good friends until Mr. Hare taunts them with
their dissimilarity in size and says that Mr. Frog has boasted of the
fact that Mr. Elephant is his “riding horse.” Then the story continues:
“Mr. Fox and Mr. Tiger and Mr. Lion all followed after Mr. Hare,
crying: ‘Oho, oho, Mr. Elephant is little Mr. Frog’s riding horse.’
“Then Mr. Elephant turned around and he said in a very gruff voice
to Mr. Frog:
“‘Did you tell them, grandson, that I was your horse?’
“And Mr. Frog said in a high, squeaky voice:--
“‘No, no, grandfather.’
“But all the time Mr. Frog was thinking of a trick to play on Mr.
Elephant.
“The next day, Mr. Elephant and Mr. Frog started off for a long
walk. Mr. Frog had heard of a place where the swamps were deep and
muddy. Mr. Elephant knew a place where the bananas grew ripe and
thick. And they spent a pleasant day. On the way home Mr. Frog
hopped up close to Mr. Elephant, and he said in his high, squeaky
voice:--
“‘Grandfather, I have no strength to walk. Let me get up on your
back.’
“‘Climb up, my grandson,’ said Mr. Elephant.
“He put his trunk down for a ladder, and Mr. Frog climbed up.
They had not gone very far when Mr. Frog hopped up close to Mr.
Elephant’s ear, and he said:--
“‘I am going to fall, grandfather. Give me some small cords from
the roadside that I may bind your mouth, and hold myself upon your
back.’
“‘I will, grandson,’ said Mr. Elephant.
“So Mr. Elephant stripped some small cords from a birch tree by
the roadside, and handed them to Mr. Frog. Then Mr. Frog bound Mr.
Elephant’s mouth, and they went on a little farther. It was not
long, though, before Mr. Frog spoke again to Mr. Elephant.
“‘Grandfather,’ he said, ‘find me a small green twig that I may fan
the mosquitoes from your ears.’
“‘I will, grandson,’ said Mr. Elephant, so he broke a small, green
twig from the birch tree, and reached it up to Mr. Frog; and just
then they came toward home.
“‘See Mr. Elephant,’ cried Mr. Hare.
“‘See Mr. Elephant,’ cried Mr. Tiger.
“‘See Mr. Elephant,’ cried Mr. Lion, and all the others, ‘Mr.
Elephant is Mr. Frog’s horse.’
“Mr. Elephant turned himself about, and he saw Mr. Frog on his
back, holding the reins and the whip.
“‘Why, so I am, grandson,’ said Mr. Elephant.
“Then Mr. Frog jumped down to the ground, and he laughed and he
laughed until he nearly split his coat, because he had played a
trick on Mr. Elephant.”
This quotation serves very well to illustrate perfect story climax.
In the beginning of the story, an apparently impossible situation
was suggested. To the child listener it seems incredible that an
elephant could so far forget his dignity as to serve as the steed of
a frog. To the elephant himself, as well, this situation appears to
be incompatible with his social status in the jungle. As the story
advances, each scene prepares a way for the unexpected _dénouement_ and
the climax is found in the surprise to the hearers and to Mr. Elephant
as well when the curtain falls upon him unwittingly playing the part of
“riding horse” to little Mr. Frog.
Hans Christian Andersen’s inimitable allegory of “The Ugly Duckling”
owes a measure, at least, of its popularity to its perfect climax. In
the beautiful word pictures of the story we follow its hero, the Ugly
Duckling, through his series of perilous and sorrowful adventures,
sympathizing with but not anticipating the outcome of them. In no
single one of the scenes of the story do we have a hint of the
glorious ending of the hero’s journeying. Finally comes a quick,
artistic curtain falling:
--“Then he flew toward the beautiful swans. As soon as they saw him
they rushed to meet him with outstretched wings.
“‘Kill me!’ said the Ugly Duckling; but as he bent his head, what
did he see reflected in the water? It was his own image--not a
dark, gray bird, ugly to see--but a graceful swan.
“Then the great swans swam around him and stroked his neck with
their beaks for a welcome. Some little children came into the
garden.
“‘See,’ they cried, clapping their hands.
“‘A new swan has come and he is more beautiful than the others!’”--
This story climax is perfect, also, because it carries the element of
surprise to the story hearers and the story hero, the Ugly Duckling, as
well.
It seems to be almost impossible to find many instances of well
constructed climax in the short story for children. The story teller
must look for climax and in the event of not being able to find it in
the story that she selects for telling, it will be necessary for her
to make over her story ending that it may be a complete surprise to her
listeners, in this way strengthening the plot greatly. Many stories
just _stop_, giving one a feeling of dissatisfaction. There has been
no climax to make of the whole a finished picture, complete in its
minutest detail of light and shade and forming an unerasable vignette,
on the child’s mind.
_Climax knots the thread of the narrative._
Certain child stories, however, stand out as illuminating instances
of what climax means in deepening the mental appeal for the child,
_etching_ the story picture, so to speak. Nathaniel Hawthorne’s “Great
Stone Face,” forms one instance. A careful reading of the story will
disclose Hawthorne’s subtle use of suspense, the art of “making his
audience wait” for his _dénouement_. He makes us see the fertile valley
beneath the great mountain upon whose side there had been sculptured
by Nature, the wonderful stone face. We are carried, breathlessly,
along upon the tide of the narrative through the boy Ernest’s longing
to bear the image of these beautiful features, the futile attempts of
old Gathergold, old Blood-and-Thunder and the others to prove their
likeness to the Great Stone Face until we reach our climax in Ernest’s
own transformation into the great likeness unsuspected by himself or by
us.
It seems to be the great short story writers, only, who have given us
really illuminating instances of climax--surprise ending--in stories
that will appeal to children in a stimulating way. In Hawthorne’s “Snow
Image” the curtain falls upon a _surprise_ situation. Oscar Wilde
leaves us unconsolable at his apparent ending of “The Happy Prince.”
The little swallow is dead and the Prince has given away his gold and
jewels.
“So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince who was no
longer beautiful and so no longer useful and they melted the statue
in the furnace.
“‘What a strange thing!’ said the overseer of the workmen at the
foundry. ‘This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We
must throw it away!’
“So they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead swallow was also
lying.”
But as we hold our breath, the climax is flung gloriously out.
“‘Bring me the two most precious things in the City,’ said God to
one of His Angels and the Angel brought him the leaden heart and
the dead bird.
“‘You have rightly chosen,’ said God, ‘for in my garden of Paradise
this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold
the Happy Prince shall praise me.’”
In the story of Cosette and her doll in “Les Misérables,” Victor Hugo
has given us a complete story vignette with a perfectly developed
climax of surprise as Jean Valjean gives to Cosette, the “toad” of
Madame Thenardier’s Kitchen, the doll about which she had dreamed.
Laura Richard’s short stories for children abound in instances of
illuminating climax--no hint of the story ending being given until the
curtain falls. Her story of “The Golden Windows” in which a little
boy sets out upon a journey to find the windows of gold that he sees
beyond the village from his own poor little home and discovers at the
end of the day that his own home windows, viewed from a distance are
gold and those he has found are gray and dull, is an example of Mrs.
Richards’ skilled use of climax to force her story point into the
child’s mind.
The mental appeal of climax is a very real and vital one for the
consideration of the story teller. Once we fix in our minds the two
characteristics of artistic story ending, _surprise to the story
characters and to the children, and an ending that ties the knot of
the narrative_, our story curtain will fall, leaving the children a
lap farther along in their mental development than they were when the
curtain rose.
OLD MAN RABBIT’S THANKSGIVING DINNER
ILLUSTRATING STORY CLIMAX WHICH APPEALS TO YOUNGEST CHILDREN
Old Man Rabbit sat at the door of his little house eating a nice, ripe,
juicy turnip. It was a cold, frosty day, but Old Man Rabbit was all
wrapped up, round and round and round, with yards and yards and yards
of his best red wool muffler so he didn’t care if the wind whistled
through his whiskers and blew his ears up straight. Old Man Rabbit had
been exercising, too, and that was another reason why he was so nice
and warm.
Early in the morning he had started off, lippity, clippity down the
little brown path that lay in front of his house and led to Farmer
Dwyer’s corn patch. The path was all covered with shiny red leaves. Old
Man Rabbit scuffled through them and he carried a great big bag over
his back. In the corn patch he found two or three fat, red ears of corn
that Farmer Dwyer had missed so he dropped them into his bag. A little
farther along he found some purple turnips and some yellow carrots and
quite a few russet apples that Farmer Dwyer had arranged in little
piles in the orchard. Old Man Rabbit went in the barn, squeezing under
the big front door by making himself very flat, and he filled all the
chinks in his bag with potatoes and he took a couple of eggs in his
paws, for he thought that he might want to stir up a little pudding for
himself before the day was over.
Then Old Man Rabbit started off home again down the little brown path,
his mouth watering every time his bag bumped against his back and not
meeting any one on the way because it was so very, very early in the
morning. When he came to his little house he emptied his bag and
arranged all his harvest in piles in his front room; the corn in one
pile, and the carrots in one pile, the turnips in another pile, and the
apples and potatoes in the last pile. He beat up his eggs and stirred
some flour with them and filled it full of currants to make a pudding.
And when he had put his pudding in a bag and set it boiling on the
stove, he went outside to sit awhile and eat a turnip, thinking all the
time what a mighty fine old rabbit he was and so clever, too.
Well, while Old Man Rabbit was sitting there in front of his little
house, wrapped up in his red muffler and munching the turnip, he heard
a little noise in the leaves. It was Billy Chipmunk traveling home to
the stone wall where he lived. He was hurrying and blowing on his paws
to keep them warm.
“Good morning, Billy Chipmunk,” said Old Man Rabbit. “Why are you
running so fast?”
“Because I am cold, and I am hungry,” answered Billy Chipmunk. “It’s
going to be a hard winter, a very hard winter--no apples left. I’ve
been looking all the morning for an apple and I couldn’t find one.”
And with that, Billy Chipmunk went chattering by, his fur standing out
straight in the wind.
No sooner had he passed than Old Man Rabbit saw Molly Mouse creeping
along through the little brown path, her long gray tail rustling the
red leaves as she went.
“Good morning, Molly Mouse,” said Old Man Rabbit.
“Good morning,” answered Molly Mouse in a wee little voice.
“You look a little unhappy,” said Old Man Rabbit, taking another bite
of his turnip.
“I have been looking and looking for an ear of corn,” said Molly Mouse
in a sad little chirping voice. “But the corn has all been harvested.
It’s going to be a very hard winter, a very hard winter.”
And Molly Mouse trotted by out of sight.
Pretty soon, Old Man Rabbit heard somebody else coming along by his
house. This time it was Tommy Chickadee hopping by and making a great
to-do, chattering and scolding as he came.
“Good morning, Tommy Chickadee,” said Old Man Rabbit.
But Tommy Chickadee was too much put out about something to remember
his manners. He just chirped and scolded, because he was cold and he
couldn’t find a single crumb or a berry or anything at all to eat. Then
he flew away, his feathers puffed out with the cold until he looked
like a little round ball, and all the way he chattered and scolded more
and more.
Old Man Rabbit finished his turnip, eating every single bit of it, even
to the leaves. Then he went in his house to poke the fire in his stove
and to see how the pudding was cooking. It was doing very well indeed,
bumping against the pot as it bubbled and boiled, and smelling very
fine indeed. Old Man Rabbit looked around his house at the corn and the
carrots and the turnips and the apples and the potatoes and then he had
an idea. It was a very funny idea indeed, different from any other idea
Old Man Rabbit had ever had before in all his life. It made him scratch
his head with his left hind foot, and think and wonder, but it pleased
him, too; it was such a very funny idea.
First he took off his muffler and then he put on his gingham apron. He
took his best red table-cloth from the drawer and put it on his table
and then he set the table with his gold banded china dinner set. By the
time he had done all this, the pudding was boiled, so he lifted it,
all sweet and steaming, from the kettle and set it in the middle of
the table. Around the pudding, Old Man Rabbit piled heaps and heaps of
corn and carrots and turnips and apples and potatoes, and then he took
down his dinner bell that was all rusty because Old Man Rabbit had very
seldom rung it before, and he stood in his front door and he rang it
very hard, calling in a loud voice.
“Dinner’s ready! Come to dinner, Billy Chipmunk, and Molly Mouse, and
Tommy Chickadee!”
They all came, and they brought their friends with them. Tommy
Chickadee brought Rusty Robin who had a broken wing and had not been
able to fly South for the winter. Billy Chipmunk brought Chatter-Chee,
a lame squirrel, whom he had invited to share his hole for a few
months, and Molly Mouse brought a young gentleman Field Mouse, who was
very distinguished looking because of his long whiskers. When they all
tumbled into Old Man Rabbit’s house and saw the table with the pudding
in the center they forgot their manners and began eating as fast as
they could, every one of them.
It kept Old Man Rabbit very busy waiting on them. He gave all the
currants from the pudding to Tommy Chickadee and Rusty Robin. He
selected juicy turnips for Molly Mouse and her friend, and the largest
apples for Billy Chipmunk. Old Man Rabbit was so busy that he didn’t
have any time to eat a bite of dinner himself, but he didn’t mind
that, not one single bit. It made him feel so warm and full inside just
to see the others eating.
When the dinner was over and not one single crumb was left on the
table, Tommy Chickadee hopped up on the back of his chair and chirped.
“Three cheers for Old Man Rabbit’s Thanksgiving dinner!”
“Hurrah, Hurrah,” they all twittered and chirped and chattered. And Old
Man Rabbit was so surprised that he didn’t get over it for a week. You
see he had really given a Thanksgiving dinner without knowing that it
really and truly was Thanksgiving Day.
CAROLYN SHERWIN BAILEY.
THE GREAT STONE FACE
You had only to lift your eyes, and there it was plainly to be seen,
though miles away, with the sunshine brightening all its features.
What was the Great Stone Face?
It seemed as if an enormous giant had sculptured his own likeness on a
mountain side. There was the broad arch of the forehead, a hundred feet
in height; the nose, with its long bridge; and the vast lips, which,
if they could have spoken would have rolled in thunder from one end
of the valley to the other. True it was that if you came too near, you
lost the outline of the Face and could see only a heap of ponderous
rocks, but when you retraced your steps, the wondrous features could
be seen again, and the people who lived below it believed that their
valley was so fertile because the Great Stone Face looked down upon it
lighting up the clouds, and giving tenderness to the sunshine.
Now there was a little boy named Ernest who lived in the valley, and
his mother had told him a story that her mother had told to her; a
story so very old that even the Indians did not know who had first told
it, unless it had been murmured by the mountain streams, and whispered
by the wind among the tree tops. This was the story--that, sometime, a
child should be born who would become the greatest and noblest person
of his time, and his face, in manhood, should be the exact likeness
of the Great Stone Face. But though the people had watched and waited
until they were weary, no man greater and nobler than his neighbors had
they yet beheld.
“Oh, mother, dear mother!” cried Ernest. “I do hope I shall live to see
him.”
“Perhaps you may,” said his mother doubtfully.
And Ernest never forgot the story. It was always in his mind whenever
he looked upon the Great Stone Face. He grew up in the log cottage,
and was dutiful to his mother, and helped her with his little hands
and more with his loving heart. From a lad he became a quiet youth,
sunbrowned from work in the fields, and well learned, though he never
had any teacher except that Great Stone Face which smiled down upon him
at night when his work was done.
About this time there went a rumor through the valley that the great
man who was to bear a resemblance to the Great Stone Face, had appeared
at last. His name was Gathergold, and he was a very rich merchant and
owned a whole fleet of ships. All the countries of the world had added
to his wealth. The cold regions of the North had sent him furs; hot
Africa had gathered the ivory tusks of her great elephants out of the
forests; the East had brought him spices and teas and diamonds and
pearls. Mr. Gathergold had become so very rich that it would have taken
him a hundred years to count his money so he decided to go back and end
his days in the valley where he was born.
He ordered a wonderful palace of marble so dazzlingly white that it
seemed as if it would melt in the sunshine. When the mansion was done,
the upholsterers came with magnificent furniture, and then a whole
troop of black and white servants who said that Mr. Gathergold would
arrive at sunset.
“Here he comes,” cried the people who were waiting to see him. “Here
comes the great Mr. Gathergold!”
A carriage, drawn by four horses, dashed round the turn of the road.
Within it sat a little old man with a skin as yellow as his own gold.
“The very image of the Great Stone Face!” shouted the people, but
Ernest, who had been watching, too, turned sadly and looked up the
valley, where, in the gathering mist, he could see the wonderful Face,
and the lips seemed to say:
“He will come! Fear not, Ernest; the man will come.”
The years went on, and Ernest was a young man, still good, and true,
and kind. Poor Mr. Gathergold died and was buried, and the oddest part
of the matter was that his wealth all disappeared before he died,
leaving nothing of him but a skeleton covered with a wrinkled yellow
skin; and every one decided that he had never borne the slightest
resemblance to the Great Stone Face.
Then a warworn veteran, who had won great honors on the battlefield
and was named Old Blood-and-Thunder decided to come back to the valley
where he had been born. His neighbors resolved to welcome him with a
salute of cannon and a public dinner, for they were all quite sure Old
Blood-and-Thunder would bear the likeness of the Great Stone Face.
On the day of his arrival Ernest and all the others left their work and
went out to meet Old-Blood-and-Thunder.
“’Tis the same face, to a hair!” cried one man.
“Wonderfully like,” cried another.
Then Ernest saw him. There he was, over the shoulders of the crowd with
glittering epaulets and an embroidered collar and there, too, through
the vista of the forest appeared the Great Stone Face.
“This is not he,” thought Ernest.
More years passed. Ernest was now an older man. He still laboured for
his bread, but he had done so much for his neighbors that it seemed
as if he had been talking with the angels and had gotten a portion of
their wisdom unawares.
The people of the Valley had found out--after a while--that Old
Blood-and-Thunder’s face had not the gentleness of the Great Stone Face
and now they said, again, that its likeness was to appear upon the
broad shoulders of a great statesman.
Old Stony Phiz, he was called, and while his friends were doing their
best to make him President, he set out on a visit to the valley where
he had been born.
Ernest and all the others went out to meet him. A cavalcade came
prancing along the road, with a clattering of hoofs. There was a
band of music, and while the people were throwing up their hats and
shouting, an open barouche came by, drawn by four black horses. Inside
with his massive head uncovered sat the great statesman, Old Stony
Phiz, himself.
“Confess it,” cried some one to Ernest. “The Great Stone Face has met
its equal.”
But Ernest turned away disappointed. The eyes and brow of the great man
had none of the nobleness of the Face on the mountain side.
And Ernest grew to be an old man, but a strange thing happened. He was
no longer an obscure husbandman. Men from the cities began coming to
see him to learn from him the things that he had learned from the Great
Stone Face, things not put down in books, and he was suddenly become
famous.
One day a great Poet came to the Valley and stopped at Ernest’s cottage
to ask shelter for the night.
It was Ernest’s custom each evening to talk to the assemblage of
neighbors in a small nook among the hills near his cottage. To this
spot he and the Poet went at sunset. All about was the pleasant
foliage of many creeping plants, while Ernest’s friends sat in the
grove at his feet and in another direction could be seen the Great
Stone Face with heavy mists about it, like the white leaves around the
brow of Ernest.
At that moment Ernest’s face, as he began to speak, grew wonderfully
grand, and the Poet threw his arms aloft and shouted,
“Behold! Behold! Ernest is himself the likeness of the Great Stone
Face.”
Then all the people looked and saw that what the poet said was true.
The prophecy was fulfilled.
_Through the courtesy of Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin Company, authorized
publishers of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s works._
STORIES SELECTED BECAUSE EACH HAS A WELL-DEVELOPED CLIMAX
MR. FROG AND MR. ELEPHANT _In Firelight Stories_
THE UGLY DUCKLING _Hans Christian Andersen_
THE PRINCESS AND THE PEA _Hans Christian Andersen_
THE HAPPY PRINCE _Oscar Wilde_
LITTLE COSETTE _Victor Hugo, in Les Misérables_
THE GOLDEN WINDOWS _Laura E. Richards, in The Golden Windows_
THE SHUT-UP-POSY _Annie Trumbull Slosson, in Story Tell Lib_
THE BOY THAT WAS SCARED OF DYING _Annie Trumbull Slosson, in
Story Tell Lib_
NAHUM PRINCE _Edward Everett Hale_
THE ANXIOUS LEAF _Henry Ward Beecher, in Norwood_
THE STONE IN THE ROAD _In For the Children’s Hour_
CHAPTER VI
TRAINING A CHILD’S MEMORY BY MEANS OF A STORY
In the first place, what is the mental process by means of which we
recall something stored in the cedar and lavender of our mind chests?
As you pass along a crowded city thoroughfare you are suddenly and
unexpectedly confronted by an old friend. She steps out of a crowd
of strangers and faces you. You recognize her at once as a bit of
long-ago, changed with the years a bit but still, in a measure,
familiar. You are unable though, for an instant’s space, to recall your
friend’s name. In that instant’s pause, however, a mental miracle takes
place illuminating for us the process by means of which the human mind
brings about a recall of an idea.
You clasp your friend’s hand. You look deep into her eyes. You note a
similar perfume permeating her clothing that you knew in former years.
She speaks to you, and you recognize the old, familiar quality of tone
in her voice. Then the miracle happens, and your friend’s name finds
its way to your lips. It is Mrs. B----. You had not really forgotten
Mrs. B’s name. It had been stored away in a cobweb-hung corner of your
mind together with its mental associates; the _touch_ memories of her
hand clasp, the _odor_ memory of her perfume, the _sound_ memory of her
voice. As you again experience these touch, odor and sound stimuli,
Mrs. B’s name rises in their wake like a phoenix long buried in the
ashes of forgetfulness.
_Memory is a process of association of ideas. Not repetition of an
idea, but surrounding it with a host of witnesses gives it permanency
in the mind._
To a greater extent than can possibly be estimated does this
associative quality of memory hold in the case of children. We wish to
teach a kindergarten child that a certain type of flower is known as
a _rose_. We do not repeat to him over and over again, or ask him to
repeat to us, in order to fix this fact in his mind--“_This is a rose.
This is a rose._” Instead, we ask him to smell of the flower, note its
color, the shape of its petals, its peculiar, thorny stem, its leaves.
We help the child to draw a picture of a rose. We ask him to show us
all the roses he can find as we take him to walk in the garden. Then,
when the child has the flower’s color, odor, feeling, form and garden
environment as a crowd of mind witnesses to prove its individuality,
we say “_This is a rose_,” and the child is very apt to remember the
flower.
A well-constructed child’s story has the associative quality that
characterizes the mental process of memorizing. It has one central
theme; an act of heroism, a nature fact, a bit of natural history, a
note of the fantastic or the humorous and around this central theme
are grouped the story associates; the dialogue, the description,
the sensory elements, the surprise of the climax, all of which fix
indelibly in the mind this central theme around which the story is
written.
_Every well told story means an added possibility of a recall in the
child’s mind and strengthens the general process of memory._
Laura Richards’ story of “The Pig Brother” illustrates the type of
story for which the story teller should search in order to train a
child’s memory. The theme of the story, the idea that is to be made a
fixture in the child’s mind, is that of the value of _cleanliness_, and
_order_ in life. The treatment of the theme is constructive, a process
of building up scenes and blocking out unessentials to strengthen and
make permanent the theme in the child’s mind.
“There was once a child who was untidy,” the story begins.
With no wasting of time over details the child who hears the story is
introduced to the theme. There follows a bit of description explaining
the _kind_ of untidiness of the little story hero, how he left his toys
and boots scattered about his play-room, spilled ink and covered his
pinafore with jam. Then the child is confronted by the Tidy Angel who
tells him to go out in the garden and play with his brother while she
puts his nursery back into its former state of orderliness. The child
goes out to the garden but he is in a condition of wonder in regard
to this brother whom he is to seek. He meets a squirrel in the garden
path, and he asks it if it is his brother, but the squirrel denies
all relationship to the child because of his untidiness. Then the
child meets a wren, and asks it the same question, which the bird also
indignantly denies because of the child’s untidy appearance. The child
then interrogates the Tommy Cat who scorns all thought of relationship
to him, telling him to go and look at himself in a mirror. The climax
of the story is found when the child meets a pig who promptly claims
relationship with him and causes the child to go back to his play-room
resolved to be tidy and orderly in the future.
The story has a memory value for children because it presents one idea
with a number of related associates. The story theme of the unpleasant
results of being untidy is never lost sight of, but is presented
over and over again in a series of related scenes so differentiated,
however, by their contrast as to make them permanent in the child’s
mind. We may take these different scenes in the order in which the
author presents them, discovering that each forms a stone in the whole
structure, differing in their value but all taking form and color from
one theme.
Scene 1. The child hero is banished from his play-room and his toys
as a result of his own acts.
Scene 2. The child finds that he has no part in the outside world
of little wild creatures, also because of his untidy habits.
Scene 3. For the same self-inflicted reason, he is disowned by his
friends, the birds.
Scene 4. His house friend, the cat, disowns him because his habits
of personal cleanliness do not accord with her standards.
Scene 5. The child finds the natural consequence of his untidiness
in his welcome by the despised pig which brings about his resolve
to be clean and orderly, hereafter.
Each story scene, as shown in this analysis is carefully planned,
having in mind a grouping of associated ideas that will strengthen
and vivify the image made on the child’s mind by the story theme. As
a result the child who has heard the story of “The Pig Brother” has
gained a store of associated ideas that will be recalled when some one
asks him to pick up his toys or use care in eating. He will remember
that squirrels and birds are orderly in their nest making, that his cat
uses care in regard to her person, that there is a big, unseen force
at work in the world that makes for order--whether one calls it an
Angel, or not, it really exists--and he remembers that a disregard of
this law of order means disaster to the law breaker. The child of the
story escaped from the Pig. He may not be so fortunate if he breaks the
law. So our real child turns over and examines and sorts and weighs
his mental associates of the concept _untidiness_, and makes his own
decision in the negative in a way that would not have been possible
without the carefully associated scenes of the story.
This may seem an over fine analysis of one story but it will help us in
judging other child stories having a regard to their memory value for
the child.
Almost, if not more important a consideration than the writing of
a drama, is the matter of the stage “business” in its successful
production. The manager must decide which movements of his actors,
which exits and entrances, which stage arrangement, lighting and what
scheme of costuming will strengthen the salient idea underlying the
plot of the drama and make it a _memory_ in the minds of the audience.
Stage “business” is a matter of psychology. It means that the stage
manager, the playwright or whoever knows the audience best is going
to plan a mechanical background, a hedge, a wall, of associates that
will make the audience remember the play. A good story should have
“business,” the necessary costuming and lighting.
How shall the story teller apply this memory test in her selection of
stories? How shall she be able to say with authority:
“My children will not forget this story!”
In the first place we should assure ourselves to our complete
satisfaction in selecting a story that it _has a theme_, a _motif_ upon
which we can build the chords of a complete melody. It is doubtful
if the story of “The Greedy Cat” has a sufficient theme to make it
of value as a memory story, although it has a very real place in the
child’s life as a relaxing bit of nonsense. “The Little Pine Tree That
Wished New Leaves” has a well defined theme--that of _contentment_.
The second question that we will ask ourselves will be, _is this story
theme a worth while one for us to give the children as a permanent part
of their mental lives?_ We would hardly wish a child to remember always
about the greed of the gormandizing cat. We would be glad to have him
hang up in his mind house a picture of content as illustrated by the
little green tree that discovered his own leaves to be better than any
others.
Last, we will ask, _is the story theme so compellingly associated with
other ideas that it will become a memory for the child?_ In the case of
the story of the Little Pine Tree, this treatment is carefully adhered
to. Never is the _leaf_ idea lost. Instead, the idea is presented in
the form of gold leaves, leaves of glass, in fact all the strange and
different leaves for which the discontented tree wished. But the gold
leaves are stolen by a miser; the glass leaves are broken in a storm,
and its juicy large leaves are all eaten by a goat. The climax is
reached when the little tree is glad to have back its slender green
needles; and the story is fixed in a child’s mind because of its
associative treatment.
This memory training by means of story telling is a legitimate “short
cut” in teaching. The nature fact, that difficult bit of geography,
that fine point of ethics may all be given a permanent place in the
child’s mind if we can find just the right story to help in fixing
them. The list of stories that follows at the end of this chapter was
selected having in mind in the case of each story, its associative
treatment of one theme worth while as a memory for the child. Hans
Andersen’s story of Little Tuk is a brilliant example of using
associated ideas to set the memory gem of the plot.
LITTLE TUK
Now there was little Tuk. As a matter of fact his name was not Tuk at
all, but before he could speak properly he called himself Tuk. He meant
it for Carl, so it is just as well we should know that. He had to look
after his sister Gustave who was much smaller than he was, and then he
had his lessons to do, but these two things were rather difficult to
manage at the same time.
The poor little boy sat with his little sister in his lap, at the same
time looking at his open geography book which he held in front of him.
Before school time the next morning he had to know the names of all the
towns by heart and everything there was to know about them.
At last his mother came home, for she had been out, and she took little
Gustave. Tuk ran to the window and read as hard as he could, for it
was growing dark fast, and his mother could not afford to buy candles.
“There’s the old washerwoman from the lane,” his mother said as she
looked out of the window. “She can hardly carry herself, and yet she
has to carry the pail from the pump. Run down, little Tuk, and be a
dear boy. Help the old woman!”
Tuk jumped up at once and ran to help her, but when he got home again
it was quite dark and it was useless to talk about candles. He had to
go to bed. He had an old turn-up bed, and he lay in it, thinking about
his geography lesson, the Island of Zealand, and all his teacher had
told him about it. He ought to have been learning the lesson, but of
course, he could not do that now. He put the geography book under his
pillow and he lay there thinking, and thinking--and then all at once
it seemed just as if some one had kissed him on his eyes and nose and
mouth, and he fell asleep.
Yet he was not quite asleep either. It seemed to him as if the old
washerwoman were looking at him with her kind eyes and saying,
“It would be a great shame if you were not to know your lesson. You
helped me, and now I will help you.”
And all at once the book under his head went “cribble, crabble.”
“Cluck, cluck, cluck!” There stood a hen from the town of Kiöge.
“I am a Kiöge hen,” it said, and then it went on to tell him how many
inhabitants there were, and about the battle which had taken place
there.
“Cribble, crabble, bang!” something plumped down; it was a wooden bird,
the popinjay from Præstö. It told him that there were just as many
inhabitants in Præstö as it had nails in its body, and it was very
proud of this.
Now little Tuk no longer lay in bed. Gallop-a-gallop he went. He was
sitting in front of a splendidly dressed knight with a shining helmet
and a waving plume. They rode through the woods to the old town of
Vordingborg, a very large and prosperous town. The castle towered
above the royal city, and lights shone through the windows. There were
songs and dancing within and the king was leading out the stately
young court ladies to the dance. Morning came, and as the sun rose,
the town sank away and the king’s palace, one tower after the other.
At last only a single tower remained on the hill where the castle had
stood, and the town had become tiny and very poor. The schoolboys came
along with their books under their arms, and they said, “two thousand
inhabitants,” but that was not true. There were not so many.
Little Tuk was still lying in his bed. First he thought he was
dreaming, and then he thought he was not dreaming, but there was
somebody close to him.
It was a sailor, a tiny little fellow, who might have been a cadet, and
he said, “Little Tuk! Little Tuk! I greet you warmly from Korsöer which
is a rising town. It is a flourishing town with steamers and coaches.
It lies close to the sea and it has good high roads and pleasure
gardens. It wanted to send a ship round the world but it did not do it,
although it might have. And there is the most delicious scent about the
town because there are beautiful rose gardens close by the gates.”
Little Tuk saw them, the green and red flowering branches, and then
they vanished before his eyes and changed into wooded heights sloping
down to the clear waters of the fjord. A stately old church towered
over the fjord with its twin spires. Springs of water rushed down in
bubbling streams, close by them sat an old king with a golden crown
round his flowing locks. It was King Kroar of the Springs, and little
Tuk was in Roeskilde. Down over the slopes and past the springs
walked hand in hand all Denmark’s kings and queens wearing their
crowns. On and on they went into the old church in time to the pealing
of the bells and the rippling of the springs.
All at once everything vanished--where were they? Now an old peasant
woman stood before little Tuk. She was a weeding woman and came from
Sorö where the grass grows in the market place. She had put her gray
linen apron over her head and shoulders. It was soaking wet; there must
have been rain.
“Yes, indeed, it has been raining,” she said. Then she suddenly shrank
up and wagged her head. It looked as if she were about to take a leap.
“Koax,” she said, “it is wet; it is wet; it is dull as ditch water--in
good old Sorö.” She had become a frog.
“Koax” and then once more she was the old woman.
“One must dress according to the weather,” said she. “It is wet, it is
wet. My town is like a bottle; you get in by the neck and you have to
come out the same way again.”
The old woman’s voice sounded just like the croaking of frogs, or the
creaking of fishing boots when you walk in the swamp. It was always the
same sound, so tiresome, so tiresome that little Tuk fell into a deep
sleep, which was the best thing for him.
But even in this sound sleep he had a dream, or something of the sort.
His little sister, Gustave, with the blue eyes and golden, curly hair,
had all at once become a lovely grown up girl and, without having
wings, she could fly. So Gustave and Tuk flew together right across
Zealand, over the green woods and deep blue waters.
“Do you hear the cock crowing, little Tuk? The hens come flying up from
Kiöge town. You shall have such a big, big chicken yard. You will be a
rich and happy man! Your house shall hold up its head like the king’s
towers, and be richly built up with marble statues like those in Præstö.
“Your name will spread round the world with praise like the ship
which was to have sailed from Korsöer; and it will be known as far as
Roeskilde town.”
Little Tuk seemed to hear all this in his dreams, but he suddenly woke
up. It was bright daylight, and he sprang out of bed and read his book.
He found that he knew all the towns in his geography book almost at
once.
The old washerwoman put her head in at the door, nodded to him and
said--
“Many thanks for your help of yesterday, you dear child. May you have
the wish of your heart!”
But little Tuk hurried off to school with his book under his arm. He
knew that he had already the wish of his heart--he had learned his
geography lesson.
STORIES SELECTED BECAUSE OF THEIR STIMULUS TO A CHILD’S MEMORY
THE LITTLE PINE TREE THAT WISHED FOR NEW LEAVES _In For the
Children’s Hour_
THE STORY OF THE MORNING GLORY SEED _Emilie Poulsson, in In the
Child’s World_
THE SEED BABIES’ BLANKET _Mary Gaylord, in For the Children’s Hour_
ABOUT ANGELS _Laura Richards, in The Golden Windows_
THE CRY FAIRY _Alice Brown, in The One-Footed Fairy_
THE DISAPPOINTED BUSH _Thornton Burgess, in Mother West Wind’s
Children_
HOW THE CAMEL GOT HIS HUMP _Rudyard Kipling, in Just So Stories_
CHAPTER VII
THE INSTINCT STORY
A newly hatched chicken begins its daily work of living and providing
for itself by scratching the earth in a phenomenally short space of
time after it has chipped its shell. A baby notices a kitten and
stretches out its hands to grasp in them a colored flower at almost
the same period of its development as when it smiles at its mother.
The chicken and the baby are alike in being creatures of _instinct_.
The chicken scratches because its mother scratched for a living in the
days of her chicken-hood and so did her mother and as many other hens
and chickens as many previous years as one can count. The baby feels
himself akin with the cat and loves the flower because his ancestors
lived in close comradeship with animals and nature. From these and from
an analysis of many other phases of instinct we may come at a working
definition of the phenomenon.
_Instinct may be defined as inherited memory._
It may be said that a child starts out on his life journey with a
certain amount of brain capital which is his gift at birth. He has
no knowledge of the outside world at birth. Color, sound, heat,
cold and like concepts are unknown to him and he must make them his
through the medium of his senses. The will to use his senses in
the acquiring of useful information constitutes his brain capital,
however. Instinctively he claims brotherhood with the animal world,
and instinctively also he claims kinship with trees and flowers and
winter and summer and birds and the gleaming earth. Pebbles and shells
and sand and seeds interest him with a compellingness beyond our
understanding until we remember that a child is the epitome of all the
ages of the race which have combined to make us and our civilization.
The age when man bartered with pebbles, decorated his person with
shells, lived in a cave and found his food in seeds and berries is
exemplified in the little chap at play on the beach with these same
nature materials.
This mind capital of instinct with which the child comes into the
world may be divided into the instinct to _express ideas in bodily
movements, instinctive interest in animals and nature_, the _instinct_
in _rhythm_, and the _instinct for self-preservation_ (less highly
developed in children than in animals.) There are other and finer
divisions into which the different phases and manifestations of
instinct fall but for purposes of our discussion these more elastic
divisions will serve. The first division, the motor instinct, involves
so much in the matter of a child’s dramatizing of stories that it needs
a chapter devoted wholly to a study of a child’s bodily expression as
stimulated by the images which he has in his mind. The instinct in
rhythm, instinctive love of animals and nature, the self-preservation
and curiosity instincts may be briefly considered in order of their
appearance in the child’s development, having in mind their influence
upon the stories we select for a child’s hearing. A financier makes
it his special study to discover the best uses to which he can put his
capital in order to make it produce for him appreciable dividends. The
story teller, using the child mind capital, _instinct_, as a basis for
her selection of stories will find that there are certain _instinct_
stories that she may select for her use, each one of which gives back
good returns to her along the measure of child interest.
Instinctive interest in rhythmic movements and rhythmic sounds is
found in the very young child. He likes to be _trotted_, sung to in a
monotonous, sing-song fashion; he enjoys clapping his hands in time
to some nursery jingle or ditty. Long after this rhythmic period of
babyhood is past children like to hear stories that have the rhythmic,
repetitional quality, or some jingle introduced that stimulates rhythm.
Predominantly is this rhythmic quality found in Mother Goose and folk
lore. Children, even of kindergarten age, take the greatest delight in
repeating and singing over and over again such rhythmic ditties as:
“Pitty, patty polt; shoe the wild colt.
Here a nail, there a nail, pitty, patty polt.”
“Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man
Bake me a cake as fast as you can,
Pat it and prick it, and mark it with T,
And put it in the oven for Tommy and me.”
“Intry, mintry, cutry corn,
Apple seed and apple thorn,
Wire, brier, limber, lock.
Three geese in a flock.
One flew East and one flew West,
And one flew over the black-bird’s nest.”
The appeal for the child in the case of all such jingles is a _bodily_,
_instinctive_ one. _This instinctive interest in rhythm is the
beginning of bodily expression. The repetition of sounds, even though
they are meaningless, makes the child feel the story._ It gets into
his muscles, so to speak, if we may put a psychological fact into
physiological terms.
Nearly all of the old folk tales are characterized by this rhythmic
swinging-along mode of construction. We all know how children wait
breathlessly, and then fairly bubble over with ecstatic mirth as they
listen to “The Teeny Tiny Lady,” “The House that Jack Built,” and “The
Kid Who Would Not Go.” They literally wait spellbound for such phrases
as:
“I’ll huff, and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house in.”
_The Three Little Pigs._
“First she leaped and then she ran,
Till she came to the cow and thus began.”
_The Cat and The Mouse._
“Fallen into the fire, and so will you,
On, little Drummikin, tum, tum, too.”
_The Story of Lambikin._
Sheer nonsense, we say? Possibly, for the ears of adults, but for a
child it means instinct food. This doggerel verse belongs to a certain
stage of his development just as folk songs and war songs of quite as
strange content have come down to us from primitive races; and a very
sure way of securing a child’s involuntary attention to a story is to
select it having in mind its rhythmic content.
Instinctive interest in animals and nature follows the rhythm instinct.
This should not be construed into a statement that science and biology
should be given children in the story form at an early age. Rather
should the world about the child be presented to him on the plane of
kinship, his one-ness with it. He is the little Hiawatha, friend of
the trees, the deer, the birds, and the stars. Through this friendly
introduction to the world of Nature, a child will come to know it,
appreciate it, and eventually understand it.
The animal and nature stories that make the strongest appeal to the
child’s primitive nature instinct are those which, without mis-stating
scientific facts, still make nature of a size with, friendly to,
companionable with the child.
King of animal story tellers was Joel Chandler Harris. His “Nights With
Uncle Remus” is a book of _instinct_, _race_ stories. Bre’r Rabbit
is an immortal _human_ who walks side by side with a child, holding
familiar intercourse with him and telling him the secrets of field
and wood and stream. Rudyard Kipling, in the “Jungle Books” and the
“Just So Stories” has met the _instinct_ story needs of children by
making the wild creatures of the jungle and desert vivid, human and
companionable. The fables of the Chinese, of Bidpai and of Æsop have an
instinctive interest for all children because they are human documents,
an attempted explanation of the moral code, put quaintly by primitive
races into the mouths of animals.
Nature stories that meet the _instinctive_ interests of children are
less easy for the story teller to find than are good animal stories.
The modern nature story that is written about some dry scientific
fact is only a bare husk when a child is crying for real food. It
would be better to tell a child as a plain statement of a universal
fact that the cold mercifully kills the plant that has served its use
of reproduction of species that it may make way for another season’s
cycle of buds and blooms, than to tell a story about Jack Frost who,
airily attired in white, skips about the garden and puts the flowers to
sleep. Better, however, than this former bald statement of the year’s
autumnal death that presages the awakening to new life in the spring
is it to tell children the story of “Ceres and Persephone.” Always,
afterward, will the bleak winter suggest to their minds Persephone’s
sojourn with Pluto and spring will herald her return to her mother, the
flowers springing up for gladness wherever she steps.
_The myth meets every child’s instinctive interest._
It is a type of story that has been left us by every race and people
as the explanation that primitive minds made of natural phenomenon.
Suppose a myth isn’t true. Was the Jack Frost story true; and isn’t
there more real literature and imagery and inspiration in the story of
Persephone than in any modern “Nature-faked” story? As a child stands
on Mount Olympus in company with the gods he gets a vision of the
universe that he would gain in no other way. As he rides in Phaëton’s
chariot searching for the Apples of Hesperides and helps old Atlas hold
the world upon his shoulders he is learning Nature as no text-book can
teach her. As he listens to the murmuring of the trees he hears the
pipes of Pan and the loving whispers of old Baucis and Philemon among
their branches.
We will feed the child’s instincts with the old myths if we wish to
secure his lasting interest in nature.
A trifle more difficult for the story teller to meet is the child’s
instinct for self preservation. In the case of the lower animals this
instinct manifests itself in a perpetual warfare waged tooth and nail
against its life enemies, with a result epitomized, always, in the
survival of the stronger animal. Primitive man waged a similar warfare.
With a peaceful civilization this condition of individual warfare has
been done away with, but the instinct to fight for his rights, to
preserve his _ego_, to keep selfishly for his own certain _things_ is
a part of the child’s mental heritage from his forbears. The rhythm
instinct, the _Nature_ instinct are the gold mine in child development.
The _self_ instinct, while in a measure necessary in fitting a child
for the life struggle, should be, to a certain extent, inhibited. This
inhibition may be brought about through the medium of stories.
Selecting just the right ethical stories to tell a child having in mind
making him unselfish is a delicate matter. Each story should present
some problem in ethics that is likely to come up in the child’s life.
Moreover, the moral of the story should be veiled but made so obvious
by the suspensive treatment and climax of the story, that the child
unconsciously makes it his own and applies the lesson to his own life.
The moral of unselfishness is rather the _result_ of the story than a
part of it as the children make its obvious application to their own
lives.
The well-known folk tale of “The Little Red Hen” teaches a lesson of
unselfishness. The selfish pig, cat and frog are deprived of their
portion of the freshly baked loaf of bread because they had no share
in its making. Kipling’s story, “How the Camel Got his Hump” in the
“Just So Stories” has the same moral of forgetfulness of self. Laura E.
Richards’ story, “The Coming of the King,” beautifully illustrates the
type of story that inhibits the selfish instinct. It draws a wonderful
word picture of the children’s garden made ready for the King and
finally welcoming a beggar in ministering to whose needs, however, the
children find joy.
The most classic of _unselfish_ stories in the English language is
Oscar Wilde’s “Selfish Giant.” It needs no word of introduction or
explanation. It illuminates our dull subject of endeavoring to make
children self forgetful through the stimulus of the ethical story.
THE SELFISH GIANT
Every afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to
go and play in the Giant’s garden.
It was a large, lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there
over the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were
twelve peach trees that in the springtime broke out into delicate
blossoms of pink and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The
birds sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that the children used to
stop their games in order to listen to them. “How happy we are here!”
they cried to each other.
One day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend, the
Cornish ogre, and had stayed with him for seven years. After the
seven years were over he had said all that he had to say, for his
conversation was limited, and he determined to return to his own
castle. When he arrived he saw the children playing in the garden.
“What are you doing there?” he cried in a very gruff voice, and the
children ran away.
“My own garden is my own garden,” said the Giant; “any one can
understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself.” So
he built a high wall all round it, and put up a notice-board.
TRESPASSERS
WILL BE
PROSECUTED.
He was a very selfish giant.
The poor children had now nowhere to play. They tried to play on the
road, but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did
not like it. They used to wander round the high wall when their lessons
were over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside. “How happy we
were there,” they said to each other.
Then the spring came, and all over the country there were little
blossoms and little birds. Only in the garden of the Selfish Giant it
was still winter. The birds did not care to sing in it as there were no
children, and the trees forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful flower put
its head out from the grass, but when it saw the notice-board it was
so sorry for the children that it slipped back into the ground again,
and went off to sleep. The only people who were pleased were the Snow
and the Frost. “Spring has forgotten this garden,” they cried, “so we
will live here all the year round.” The Snow covered up the grass with
her great white cloak, and the Frost painted all the trees silver. Then
they invited the North Wind to stay with them, and he came. He was
wrapped in furs, and he roared all day about the garden, and blew the
chimney-pots down. “This is a delightful spot,” he said, “we must ask
the Hail on a visit.” So the Hail came. Every day for three hours he
rattled on the roof of the castle till he broke most of the slates, and
then he ran round and round the garden as fast as he could go. He was
dressed in gray, and his breath was like ice.
“I cannot understand why the spring is so late in coming,” said the
Selfish Giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at his cold
white garden; “I hope there will be a change in the weather.”
But the spring never came, nor the summer. The autumn gave golden fruit
to every garden, but to the Giant’s garden none. “He is too selfish,”
she said. So it was always winter there, and the North Wind, and the
Hail, and the Frost, and the Snow danced about through the trees.
One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely
music. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the
King’s musicians passing by. It was really only a little linnet singing
outside his window but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in
his garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the
world. Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind
ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open
casement. “I believe the spring has come at last,” said the Giant; and
he jumped out of bed and looked out.
What did he see?
He saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the
children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the
trees. In every tree that he could see there was a little child. And
the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had
covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently
above the children’s heads. The birds were flying about and twittering
with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass
and laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one corner it was still
winter. It was the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was
standing a little boy. He was so small that he could not reach up to
the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all round it, crying
bitterly. The poor tree was still quite covered with frost and snow,
and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above it. “Climb up! little
boy,” said the Tree, and it bent its branches down as low as it could;
but the boy was too tiny.
And the Giant’s heart melted as he looked out. “How selfish I have
been!” he said; “now I know why the spring would not come here. I will
put that poor little boy on the top of the tree, and then I will knock
down the wall, and my garden shall be the children’s playground for
ever and ever.” He was really very sorry for what he had done.
So he crept downstairs and opened the front door quite softly, and
went out into the garden. But when the children saw him they were so
frightened that they all ran away, and the garden became winter again.
Only the little boy did not run, for his eyes were so full of tears
that he did not see the Giant coming. And the Giant strode up behind
him and took him gently in his hand, and put him up into the tree. And
the tree broke at once into blossom, and the birds came and sang on it,
and the little boy stretched out his two arms and flung them around the
Giant’s neck, and kissed him. And the other children, when they saw
that the Giant was not wicked any longer, came running back, and with
them came the spring. “It is your garden now, little children,” said
the Giant, and he took a great axe and knocked down the wall. And when
the people were going to market at twelve o’clock they found the Giant
playing with the children in the most beautiful garden they had ever
seen.
All day long they played, and in the evening they came to the Giant to
bid him good-by.
“But where is your little companion?” he said: “the boy I put into the
tree.” The Giant loved him the best because he had kissed him.
“We don’t know,” answered the children; “he has gone away.”
“You must tell him to be sure and come here to-morrow,” said the Giant.
But the children said that they did not know where he lived, and had
never seen him before; and the Giant felt very sad.
Every afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played
with the Giant. But the little boy whom the Giant loved was never seen
again. The giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for
his first little friend, and often spoke of him. “How I would like to
see him!” he used to say.
Years went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. He could not
play about any more, so he sat in a huge armchair, and watched the
children at their games, and admired his garden. “I have many beautiful
flowers,” he said, “but the children are the most beautiful flowers of
all.”
One winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing. He
did not hate the winter now, for he knew that it was merely the spring
asleep, and that the flowers were resting.
Suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder, and looked and looked. It
certainly was a marvellous sight. In the farthest corner of the garden
was a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms. Its branches were
all golden, and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it
stood the little boy he had loved.
Downstairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden. He
hastened across the grass, and came near to the child. And when he came
quite close his face grew red with anger, and he said, “Who hath dared
to wound thee?” For on the palms of the child’s hands were the prints
of two nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet.
“Who hath dared to wound thee?” cried the Giant; “tell me, that I may
take my big sword and slay him.”
“Nay!” answered the child; “but these are the wounds of Love.”
“Who art thou?” said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he
knelt before the little child.
And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, “You let me play
once in your garden, to-day you shall come with me to my garden, which
is Paradise.”
And when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying
dead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms.
OSCAR WILDE.
STORIES SELECTED BECAUSE OF THEIR INSTINCTIVE INTEREST
RHYTHMIC STORIES:
THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT _Mother Goose_
THE KID THAT WOULD NOT GO _Folk Tale_
THE STORY OF LAMBIKIN _In Firelight Stories_
THE TEENY TINY LADY _In Firelight Stories_
THE STORY OF EPAMINONDAS AND HIS AUNTIE _Sara Cone Bryant, in Best
Stories to Tell to Children_
ANIMAL STORIES AND MYTHS:
NIGHTS WITH UNCLE REMUS _Joel Chandler Harris_
THE JUNGLE BOOKS _Rudyard Kipling_
THE JUST-SO-STORIES _Rudyard Kipling_
THE TALKING BEASTS _Kate Douglas Wiggin and Nora Archibald Smith_
THE LITTLE RED HEN _In For the Children’s Hour_
MYTHS EVERY CHILD SHOULD KNOW _Hamilton Mabie_
STORIES TO INHIBIT THE SELFISH INSTINCT:
THE LITTLE RED HEN _In For the Children’s Hour_
THE COMING OF THE KING _Laura E. Richards, in The Golden Windows_
THE COOKY _Laura E. Richards, in The Golden Windows_
THE STORY OF BABOUSCKA _In For the Children’s Hour_
THE LEGEND OF THE WOODPECKER _In For the Children’s Hour_
PICCIOLA _Celia Thaxter, in Stories and Poems for Children_
CHAPTER VIII
THE DRAMATIC STORY
In the previous chapter we analyzed certain primitive phases of
mental life as manifested in the instinctive acts of children. These
manifestations of instinct form a basis for our story selection,
guiding us toward a final and certain goal of child interest.
One phase of instinct was left out of our discussion except as it
was touched upon primarily in the analysis of a child’s instinctive
interest in rhythm. This is the instinct to express through bodily
movements the ideas that have found a permanent place for themselves in
the mind.
Little E, three years old, was told by her nurse the folk tale of “The
Old Woman and Her Pig.” She had heard very few stories, and this one
seemed to delight her beyond words. She laughed and clapped her hands
over it, and begged to have it repeated and retold even a third time.
She made no comment upon the text of the story, however. A week later,
she was left alone in her nursery for a short period during the morning
and her mother, busy with household duties upon the floor below,
thought that she heard E’s voice. Going, quietly, to the door of the
nursery she saw E standing, dramatically, in the center of the room,
holding a toy broom under her arm, and shaking her finger at a small
china pig that stood on the floor in front of her. As she did this, she
said in the exact words of the story that had been told her:
“Piggy won’t get over the stile, and I shall not get home to-night.”
“What are you doing, E?” her mother asked in some surprise.
E looked up in wonder as if she, herself, knew a reason for her actions
but one that needed no explanation. Finally she spoke:
“I’m _doing_ a story, mother,” she replied.
This incident of E’s instinctive and almost unconscious dramatization
of a story which she had heard and whose images had become fixed in
her mind illustrates a very common characteristic of a child’s mental
life, the instinctive impulse to vitalize the mental life by putting
it into terms of _expression_. It is true that instinctive expression
as commonly defined includes in its first manifestations only certain
_unlearned_ motor responses, those forms of expression that are ours
without previous training or experience. A child cries at a pain,
laughs when he is tickled, starts in fear at a sudden and loud noise.
These are the primitive forms of instinctive expression, but beyond
these and through the use of certain child stories that are full of
action, compelling dialogue, and quick movement comes a development of
the dramatic instinct in childhood of wonderful value to the teacher.
Why do we want to make use of the dramatic instinct in childhood?
First, because this instinct to _do_, to _act_, to _express_ is so
common a part of each child’s mental content upon entering school that
it forms part of our previously discussed child brain capital. The
instinct to _do_ a story, to give it expression in terms of bodily
movement would not be given a child unless it had some value for the
educator.
Second, we want to utilize the dramatic instinct of childhood,
because it is a very sure way of helping a child to gain _poise_,
_self-control_, and a complete _mastery of his environment_. The
ability to give adequate expression through speech or action to the
mental life characterizes the well-developed individual as opposed to
the victim of self-consciousness. It means grace of body and freedom of
verbal expression.
What qualities differentiate the dramatic child story from that story
which is not as well adaptable for child acting?
Primarily, the story that we select for purposes of dramatization
should have the quality of being _visual_--that is, it should be
so full of simple, pictorial scenes, episodes and events that it
will bring to the minds of the children a definite sequence of word
pictures, stimulative to action. This “moving picture” quality is found
in the old folk tales, the fables of Æsop and La Fontaine. Here the
stage setting of the stories is simple and easily pictured by the
child listeners. The story events find an immediate and permanent place
in the child’s mind and a possible outlet in action because of their
apperceptive quality.
The story of “The Little Red Hen” is an interesting type of the story
that lends itself to child dramatizing because of its _visual_ quality.
There is a series of home scenes; the little Red Hen’s garden, her
house, her kitchen, all familiar and easily seen by children but
illuminated with the interest of mystery because of the Hen, herself,
and her friends, the Cat and the Frog. “The Elves and the Shoemaker”
is also a good story for child acting, while among the most dramatic
visual fables are “The Town Mouse and The Country Mouse,” “The Lion
and the Mouse,” “The Lark and Her Young Ones” and “The Hare and the
Tortoise.”
The second quality that the story teller should have in mind in
selecting stories for child dramatizing is _simplicity_ of dialogue.
The story actors should converse, if not in childlike manner, at
least in a simple, easy-to-understand vocabulary that will add to a
child’s store of words but will not tax him too much in reproduction.
Here, again, we must turn to folk tales and fables for simple,
straightforward, rich dialogue. Quite naturally and without apparent
effort children verbalize the dialogue of “The Little Red Hen” after
hearing the story once or twice.
“Who will build my fire?” she said.
“Not I!” said the Frog.
“Not I!” said the Cat.
“Then I will,” said the Little Red Hen.
These and the other bits of simple dialogue that go to make up the
plot of this story; the conversation between the Wolf and the Pig in
the story of “The Three Little Pigs,” the Lark and her little ones,
Jack and the different characters in the Beanstalk story, the “Lion
and the Mouse”--these are all examples of easily reproduced dialogue,
stimulating spontaneous dialogue on the part of the children.
One further consideration in connection with the dramatic
story--_spontaneity_.
Because of the popularity of so-called story dramatization among
kindergartners and primary teachers, a school of child acting in
kindergartens and the grades has sprung into life. Stories are
dramatized _for_ children rather than _by_ the children themselves,
and the results obtained through unnecessary costuming, certain stage
properties and memorized dialogue are of no appreciable value in the
mental development of the child. A child impersonates a pig gifted
with human attributes, spontaneously, but he plays the part of a
dressed-up fairy in a wooden, unspontaneous fashion. The difference
between the two is just the difference between instinctive expression
and prescribed action. In his “Principles of Psychology,” Professor
Thorndyke says:
“Given any mental state, that movement will be made which the inborn
constitution of the nervous system has connected with the mental state
or part of it. The baby reaches for a bright object because, by inner
organization, that sense presentation is connected with that act. For
the same reason he puts an object into his mouth when he feels it
within his grasp. The boy puts up his arm and wards off a blow because
his brain is so organized as to connect those responses with those
situations.
“Given any mental state, that movement will be made which has been
connected with it or part of it most frequently, most recently, in the
most vivid experience and with the most satisfying results.”
This careful and concrete statement of the law governing instinctive
movement gives us our cue for selecting stories for child dramatizing
and our method in presenting them, having in view--not child _acting_,
but spontaneous child _action_. We will provide no costumes for our
children, set no stage, but only give them that story which will
suggest to them a recent, frequently repeated, vivid experience with
its accompanying satisfying results in certain spontaneous movements.
Suppose we illustrate with a possible, voluntary dramatizing of the
old and well loved folk tale of “The Gingerbread Boy.” The experiences
suggested to children by this story and suggesting action to them are
_the chase_ and the sense stimulus of _food_. After hearing the story
a number of times until they are quite familiar with its dialogue and
its characters and its sequence of episodes, the teacher may suggest
to the children that they _play_ it. A disastrous way to begin the
play would be to assign the different characters in the story to
different children, showing them where to stand or asking them to try
and use the exact words that the story characters did. Rather should
the dramatizing of the story be a developing process on the part of
the teacher. If she has made the story permanent in the minds of the
children, their rendering of it in action will be free and their
dialogue spontaneous.
“Who wants to be the Gingerbread Boy?
“Who would like to be the Gingerbread Boy’s mother?
“I see a child with very bright, sharp eyes. Is he not the Fox?
“We will need many Mowers and some Threshers.
“Who is the Pig, and who the Cow?”
These or similar hints on the part of the teacher are cues for the
opening of the play--all that is needed, usually, to start the
spontaneous dramatization. As naturally as if she were the story
character herself, the little old woman mother rolls and pats the
Gingerbread Boy into shape, puts him in an imaginary oven and then
falls asleep. He makes his escape, is interviewed in turn by the
Threshers, the Mowers, the Pig and the Cow, makes his escape from them
also, only to be eventually captured and eaten by the Fox. As the
story play goes on, it will be discovered that the child actors are
rendering with perfect diction the dialogue of the story, enriching
their vocabulary and gaining power of verbal expression. It will be
discovered also that their movements are illustrative of the story, and
absolutely lacking in self consciousness, typical of an added quota of
poise and self-control gained through the play. Certain _responses_
are always made to certain mind _situations_. What need is there of
stage setting since a child actor sees in his mind’s eye the barn
full of Mowers whose mouths are watering to eat him up? Why should
the tired-out teacher spend long after-school hours sewing together
costumes when, at an instant’s notice, a child is able to clothe
himself in the sleek red coat and valiant brush of a fox?
It is to be questioned if the books of so-called dramatic stories for
children which may be obtained now are really educational or have for
their place upon the teacher’s desk a firm psychologic background. Most
of them seem to have for their scheme of compiling child _acting_, not
_action_. The child on the stage is not developing mentally. Rather is
he a mentally starved puppet, moved about by the wires of the stage
and repeating lines in parrot-like fashion. The little girl, E, quoted
at the beginning is an example of mental growth through spontaneous
action. So the books of dramatic stories seem to have been prepared
having in mind what the child should _say_ or _do_, rather than
presenting such interesting story material in such interesting form
that a child will _speak_ and _do_ without any further stimulus than
that of the story itself.
In selecting our stories for child dramatizing we will go to original
sources and choose only such stories as are so rich in homely,
apperceptive incidents, and so marked by possibilities for simple,
interpretive dialogue as to lend themselves to instinctive action on
the part of the children.
THE GINGERBREAD BOY
AS DRAMATIZED BY A GROUP OF CHILDREN
_The Actors_:
A Little Old Woman.
A Little Old Man.
Some Mowers.
Some Threshers.
A Pig.
A Fox.
The Gingerbread Boy.
ACT I
_Place:_ A Kitchen.
_Time:_ Saturday Morning.
The Little Old Man Sits in a corner.
The Little Old Woman is seen, too, stirring cake dough and singing as
she stirs:
“Sugar, and spice, and everything nice--
That’s what a little girl’s made of;
Snaps, and snails, and puppy dogs’ tails;
That’s what a little boy’s made of!
“Ah, well-a-day, but I wish I had a little boy for all that! Some one
to run to the store, and bring in the kindlings, and drive the cows
to pasture, and feed the pig, and get into mischief, and be rocked to
sleep in the evening.”
She calls to the Little Old Man:
“Father! Oh, I say, Father! Fetch me the jug of molasses from the
pantry. I am making a gingerbread cake for your supper!”
The Little Old Man does not move, or stir.
The Little Old Woman calls louder: “Fetch me the molasses jug, Father!”
The Little Old Woman crosses to the chimney corner, and shakes the
Little Old Man, but he is asleep and does not wake.
The Little Old Woman holds up her hands in despair.
“Dearie me! I might as well have a broom for a Goodman as he. There is
nothing done in the house unless I attend to it myself,” she says.
She leaves the kitchen for a moment, returning with the jug of
molasses. She pours some molasses into the bowl, stirs again, and
finally empties the dough out upon the board, rolling it flat with her
rolling pin. Suddenly she stops, rolling pin in air.
The Little Old Woman: “I have it! I will make me a Gingerbread Boy!”
She works very fast, talking as she shapes the Gingerbread Boy with her
fingers.
The Little Old Woman: “Here is his dear little head, with currants for
eyes, and one raisin for his nose, and three raisins for his mouth.
Here is his fine little jacket with a row of currants for buttons; and
here are his two fine, fat little legs. Here are his arms, and here are
his shoes!”
She lays the completed Gingerbread Boy in the baking pan and dances
about the kitchen with it in her hands, singing as she dances, the Song
of the Gingerbread Man:
“Hickory, dickory, dickory, dan;
Heigho, I sing for a Gingerbread Man!
Currants for eyes, and a round raisin nose,
Gingerbread shoes on his gingerbread toes,
Gingerbread jacket, so tight and neat,
Gingerbread smiles on his face so sweet,
Hickory, dickory, dickory, dan;
Heigho, I sing for a Gingerbread Man!”
As she finishes her song, she opens the imaginary oven door, and,
kneeling down, puts in the tin which holds the Gingerbread Boy. Then
she shakes the Little Old Man again.
The Little Old Woman: “Wake up, I say, Father! _Wake up!_ _Wake up!_
The garden’s to be weeded, and the butter’s to be churned! Wake up, I
say, and mind the oven. There’s a fine little Gingerbread Boy baking
inside!”
The Little Old Man wakes very slowly, and looking all about the kitchen
says in a dazed sort of way: “What’s that you say, Mother? I don’t see
any little Gingerbread Boy.”
The Little Old Woman goes to the stove and points to the oven. “He’s
in here baking. Do you mind him while I’m away. In twenty minutes by
the clock, do you open the oven door, and the Gingerbread Boy will be
baked.”
The Little Old Man: “Yes, yes, Mother. Do you go and weed the garden
and churn. I’ll sit here, and mind the oven.”
The Little Old Woman leaves the kitchen. After she has gone, the Little
Old Man re-lights his pipe. Then he gets up from his chair and peeps in
the oven door.
The Little Old Man: “A fine, fat Boy! A very fine, fat Gingerbread
Boy! How his buttons shine, and he is swelling so much that his jacket
is splitting. I shall eat him for my supper!”
He goes back to his chair, and begins smoking, but soon his head nods.
He looks up at the clock.
The Little Old Man: “In twenty minutes I will take him out. I think I
shall have a short nap in the meantime.”
The Little Old Man falls fast asleep again, his pipe falling to the
floor. As he sleeps, the oven door opens a little as if some one had
pushed it from the inside. The real Gingerbread Boy peeps out through
the crack. When he sees that the Little Old Man is asleep, he steps
out. He begins blowing on his fingers and he puts them in his mouth
as if they were burned. He fans himself with the baking tin which he
brings with him out of the oven, and he hops about the kitchen on the
tips of his toes.
The Gingerbread Boy: “My, but that oven was warm! I might have been
burned to a crisp before any one remembered to take me out. So this is
my new home!”
He looks about in all the corners of the kitchen.
“And _this_ is my new father!”
He goes over to the Little Old Man, and pulls his wig. Then he sits
down, cross-legged on the hearth, and goes on talking to himself.
The Gingerbread Boy: “I don’t know whether I want to live in this house
or not. I know what little boys have to do.”
He counts on his fingers:
“They have to run to the store, and bring in kindlings, and drive the
cows and feed the pigs. I’d rather have a good time. I think I will run
away.”
He jumps up, and looks around the room, cautiously.
“There’s nobody here to see me go. Hurrah! Hurrah! Here I go, off by
myself to see the world!”
He runs lightly out of the kitchen.