How to Choose Stories for Telling
There are certain subtle qualities which a story must possess in order
to give pleasure through its telling, which are not necessary in the
story which is to be read. These qualities are of form rather than of
substance. They are those qualities which permit of the personality of
the speaker entering into the narrative to such an extent that the story
becomes a recounting of something _known to her_. No matter how remote
in point of time or place, the story must be of a character which can be
personally set forth. I do not mean by this that the one who tells the
story should be thrown into the foreground, or that there should be any
use of the pronoun “I”; but simply that the teller of the story should be
able to set it forth with all the earnestness and intimacy of a personal
narrative, and the story itself must therefore possess the form which
makes this possible.
A story of this character may be so told to a roomful of small children
that it will hold them breathless with interest even at the close of a
hard day’s work, and _when the dismissal bell is ringing_, as the writer
has inadvertently proved.
To some, the story that is adapted in substance and in form for telling,
makes instant appeal. Its possibilities are intuitively recognized. To
others, only a critical examination and analysis will show whether the
story is one to which children will listen with delight. Of course, after
all is said and done, the true test of the story lies in telling it.
What, then, are the essential requirements in the form of the story?
The story must begin in an interesting way. The first sentence, or at
most the first paragraph, should locate the story and introduce its hero.
To be sure the “location” may be that delightfully indefinite past from
which so many of childhood’s stories emanate—the “Once upon a time” of
the fairy tale or of the “little small Rid Hin”; or it may be “many years
ago”; or “in ancient times,” as in the story of “Why the Cat and Dog Are
Enemies”; or simply “once”—“There was once a shepherd boy who called
‘Wolf,’” or “The Sun and the Wind once had a quarrel.”
Of course the time may, on the other hand, be very definite—“’Twas
the night before Christmas”—but in either case the story starts out
positively, the place or time is assigned, the subject of the story is
introduced. Then you will see the children, their expectation aroused,
settle themselves for the delightful developments which are to be
unfolded, for the denouement which is sure to follow, and their eager
faces are all the incentive needed to arouse the story-teller to her best
endeavor.
The story, properly introduced, should move forward clearly, somewhat
concisely, toward a well-defined end or climax. The form should be mainly
narrative or conversational, with vivid touches of description never
prolonged. There should be life, action, dramatic action, but very little
of explanation. The incidents of the story should be so arranged as to be
self-explanatory in their sequence.
For small children, repetition has a special charm—repetition such as is
to be found in “The Three Bears,” or “The Cock and the Mouse.”
For older children there may be introduced a little more of the
descriptive form, but it is well to beware of adding much of either
description or explanation. Even “grown-ups” enjoy the straightforward
narrative that delights the child, and the introduction of detail soon
grows irksome and uninteresting, even to the most conscientious listener.
And no child is a “conscientious listener.” He listens for love of the
story. If it does not interest him he stops listening and does something
else.
The story must reach a climax and stop there. Many a good story has
been spoiled by its ending. Story-tellers sometimes remind one of a man
holding the handles of an electric battery. The current is so strong
that he cannot let go. The story-teller must know when and how to “let
go.” Let us suppose that, in telling Hans Christian Anderson’s story of
“The Nightingale,” the story-teller—after the delightful denouement of
the supposedly dead Emperor’s greeting to his attendants, where he “to
their astonishment said ‘Good morning!’”—were to add an explanation of
the effect of the nightingale’s song in restoring the Emperor to health!
It would be like offering a glass of “plain soda” from which all the
effervescence had departed.
Bring the story to its self-wrought denouement and—let go. Do not
apologize for the ending, do not explain it, do not tack on a moral—just
“let go,” and you will leave all the tingle and exhilaration of the
magnetic current still in the veins of your listeners.
So much for the structural form of the story. Next let us consider its
_Point of Contact_
Has the story something which is in common with the life and experience
of the listeners? Has it a familiar groundwork? Does it deal with
familiar objects or actions? In other words, is it “understandable”
from the child’s point of view? Not that all the characters nor all
the adjustments of the story need to be those which the child already
knows by experience, but there must be some common ground from which a
start may be made. Then the story may lead on into wonderful regions
of fancy or into remote times and places which only the imagination
can trace. For instance, of what value or interest would the story of
“Toads and Diamonds” be to a child who never had seen a toad and who
had no knowledge of what a diamond was like? And does not the boy’s
understanding of “How Thor Went Fishing” lie in the fact that _he_ has
fished?
Little children love to be told stories of the life which they know by
daily contact; stories of the home and of the home industries, of school,
of children, of pets and animals. They live in “a daily fellowship
with nature and all creatures.” Fairy tales and stories of animals are
doubly delightful when the fairies and the animals do the things which
children do. This does not imply that the story be commonplace, for the
normal activities of children are far removed from the commonplace, and
the story, having its point of contact established, should, through its
imaginative or its moral influence, carry the child into quite unexplored
regions of beauty and truth.
This leads us to another determining factor—_the_ determining factor—in
choosing a story.
_Is It Worth Telling?_
The structural form of a story may be changed; with more difficulty a
point of contact may be established by a bit of suggestive explanation,
but if the story content is not good, no amount of “doctoring” will make
it worth the telling.
Suppose we apply these tests: Is the effect of the story helpful? Does it
strengthen the imagination? Does it teach a right principle of action?
Does it inspire a love for the beautiful and the true? Does it inspire
reverence for the Creator and appreciation of the works of His hand? Does
it exemplify sane and happy living? Does it teach neighborly kindness?
Will its telling make a child better and happier? If the story calls for
an affirmative answer to any of these questions, if, in other words, its
teaching is simple, pure, and true, then it is by all means worthy of
telling.
It is not necessary that the story should make no mention of selfishness,
of craftiness, of evil temper, or of disobedience to laws moral or
physical; but no story in which evil is rewarded or in which the
wrongdoer triumphs should ever be told to children, for in its essence
such a story is not true, its teaching is not true; it is not in accord
with God’s eternal laws. Children assimilate long before they analyze.
At first glance it may seem easy to decide as to the moral influence
of a story, but there are differences of opinion even here, and some
writers condemn unsparingly that old acquaintance of our childhood,
Jack, of Bean-stalk fame, and set him down as an arrant thief and
murderer whose crimes brought him riches and comfort in his old age.
And the tale of Cinderella, while it can be said to cast no stain upon
the character of its heroine, is condemned as leaving an impression,
upon the impressionable mind of childhood, that all step-mothers are
hard and cruel and unjust. As the Mother Goose stories are dealt with at
greater length in a later chapter, I will make no comment now upon these
criticisms. But they are worthy of due consideration, and go to show that
it is not always as easy as it may at first appear, to judge the exact
influence of a story, and some of our old acquaintances which have been
accepted simply because they are old acquaintances, may really need to
be given the “cut direct.”
This much is safe to say: If you have any doubts about the influence of a
story being wholly good, leave it untold. There are so many good stories,
so many whose teaching is wholly and positively helpful, that there is no
need of hesitating over one which presents a doubt.
There is one more qualification which should be required of the story
told to children. It should be written in
_Good Literary Form_
Since one of the objects of story-telling is to cultivate a taste for
good literature, the story chosen should not only be tellable in its form
and true in its essence, but it should be artistic in its workmanship.
It should be written in pure, simple English, fitted to the thought
expressed. But, it may be objected, few story-tellers ever give a story
in the exact language in which it is written. This is true, for if
the story is learned word for word, the narrator is very apt to give
a recitation, rather than to tell a story. At the same time the true
story-teller will learn her story so thoroughly, will become so at home
in every essential detail, that the spirit and style of the writer will
be assimilated and so bound up with the story itself that the literary
qualities will be retained and their essence imparted to the orally
reproduced story. So, only, can appreciation and love for the beauty of
literary forms be imparted to the children by means of the verbal story.
Herein lies the _art_ of the story-teller.