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[Illustration: STORY-TELLING TIME
George Cruikshank]
STORIES TO TELL TO
CHILDREN
FIFTY-FOUR STORIES WITH SOME
SUGGESTIONS FOR TELLING
BY
SARA CONE BRYANT
AUTHOR OF "HOW TO TELL STORIES TO CHILDREN"
[Illustration]
LONDON
GEORGE G. HARRAP & CO. LTD.
2 & 3 PORTSMOUTH STREET KINGSWAY W.C.
1918
THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH
GREAT BRITAIN
PREFACE
This little book came into being at the instance of my teaching friends.
Their requests for more stories of the kind which were given in _How to
Tell Stories to Children_, and especially their urging that the stories
they liked, in my telling, should be set down in print, seemed to
justify the hope that the collection would be genuinely useful to them.
That it may be, is the earnest desire with which it is offered. I hope
it will be found to contain some stories which are new to the teachers
and friends of little children, and some which are familiar, but in an
easier form for telling than is usual. And I shall indeed be content if
its value to those who read it is proportionate to the pleasure and
mental stimulus which has come to me in the work among pupils and
teachers which accompanied its preparation.
Among the publishers and authors whose kindness enabled me to quote
material are Mr John Murray and Miss Mary Frere, to whom I am indebted
for the four stories of the Little Jackal; Messrs Little, Brown &
Company and the Alcott heirs, who allowed me the use of Louisa Alcott's
poem, _My Kingdom_; and Dr Douglas Hyde, whose letter of permission to
use his Irish material was in itself a literary treasure. To the
charming friend who gave me the outline of _Epaminondas_, as told her by
her own "Mammy," I owe a deeper debt, for _Epaminondas_ has carried joy
since then into more schools and homes than I dare to enumerate.
And to all the others,--friends in whom the child-heart lingers,--my
thanks for the laughs we have had, the discussions we have warmed to,
the helps you have given. May you never lack the right story at the
right time, or a child to love you for telling it!
SARA CONE BRYANT
CONTENTS
PAGE
SOME SUGGESTIONS FOR THE STORY-TELLER
Additional Suggestions for Method--Two Valuable
Types of Story--A Graded List of Stories to dramatise
and retell 11
STORY-TELLING IN TEACHING ENGLISH
Importance of Oral Methods--Opportunity of the
Primary Grades--Points to be observed in dramatising
and retelling, in connection with English 27
STORIES TO TELL TO CHILDREN
TWO LITTLE RIDDLES IN RHYME 43
THE LITTLE YELLOW TULIP 43
THE COCK-A-DOO-DLE-DOO 45
THE CLOUD 46
THE LITTLE RED HEN 48
THE GINGERBREAD MAN 49
THE LITTLE JACKALS AND THE LION 55
THE COUNTRY MOUSE AND THE CITY MOUSE 58
LITTLE JACK ROLLAROUND 62
HOW BROTHER RABBIT FOOLED THE WHALE AND THE ELEPHANT 66
THE LITTLE HALF-CHICK 70
THE BLACKBERRY-BUSH 74
THE FAIRIES 78
THE ADVENTURES OF THE LITTLE FIELD MOUSE 80
ANOTHER LITTLE RED HEN 83
THE STORY OF THE LITTLE RID HIN 87
THE STORY OF EPAMINONDAS AND HIS AUNTIE 92
THE BOY WHO CRIED "WOLF!" 96
THE FROG KING 97
THE SUN AND THE WIND 99
THE LITTLE JACKAL AND THE ALLIGATOR 100
THE LARKS IN THE CORNFIELD 106
A TRUE STORY ABOUT A GIRL (Louisa Alcott) 108
MY KINGDOM 113
PICCOLA 115
THE LITTLE FIR TREE 116
HOW MOSES WAS SAVED 122
THE TEN FAIRIES 126
THE ELVES AND THE SHOEMAKER 130
WHO KILLED THE OTTER'S BABIES? 133
EARLY 136
THE BRAHMIN, THE TIGER, AND THE JACKAL 137
THE LITTLE JACKAL AND THE CAMEL 144
THE GULLS OF SALT LAKE 147
THE NIGHTINGALE 150
MARGERY'S GARDEN 159
THE LITTLE COTYLEDONS 171
THE TALKATIVE TORTOISE 176
ROBERT OF SICILY 178
THE JEALOUS COURTIERS 185
PRINCE CHERRY 189
THE GOLD IN THE ORCHARD 199
MARGARET OF NEW ORLEANS 200
THE DAGDA'S HARP 204
THE TAILOR AND THE THREE BEASTS 208
HOW THE SEA BECAME SALT 215
THE CASTLE OF FORTUNE 220
DAVID AND GOLIATH 227
THE SHEPHERD'S SONG 233
THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 236
LITTLE GOTTLIEB 243
HOW THE FIR TREE BECAME THE CHRISTMAS TREE 246
THE DIAMOND AND THE DEWDROP 248
SOME SUGGESTIONS FOR THE STORY-TELLER
Concerning the fundamental points of method in telling a story, I have
little to add to the principles which I have already stated[1] as
necessary, in my opinion, in the book of which this is, in a way, the
continuation. But in the two years which have passed since that book was
written, I have had the happiness of working on stories and the telling
of them, among teachers and students in many parts, and in that
experience certain secondary points of method have come to seem more
important, or at least more in need of emphasis, than they did before.
As so often happens, I had assumed that "those things are taken for
granted"; whereas, to the beginner or the teacher not naturally a
story-teller, the secondary or implied technique is often of greater
difficulty than the mastery of underlying principles. The few
suggestions which follow are of this practical, obvious kind.
Take your story seriously. No matter how riotously absurd it is, or how
full of inane repetition, remember, if it is good enough to tell, it is
a real story, and must be treated with respect. If you cannot feel so
toward it, do not tell it. Have faith in the story, and in the attitude
of the children toward it and you. If you fail in this, the immediate
result will be a touch of shamefacedness, affecting your manner
unfavourably, and, probably, influencing your accuracy and imaginative
vividness.
Perhaps I can make the point clearer by telling you about one of the
girls in a class which was studying stories last winter; I feel sure if
she or any of her fellow-students recognises the incident, she will not
resent being made to serve the good cause, even in the unattractive
guise of a warning example.
A few members of the class had prepared the story of _The Fisherman and
his Wife_. The first girl called on was evidently inclined to feel that
it was rather a foolish story. She tried to tell it well, but there were
parts of it which produced in her the touch of shamefacedness to which I
have referred.
When she came to the rhyme,--
"O man of the sea, come, listen to me,
For Alice, my wife, the plague of my life,
Has sent me to beg a boon of thee,"
she said it rather rapidly. At the first repetition she said it still
more rapidly; the next time she came to the jingle she said it so fast
and so low that it was unintelligible; and the next recurrence was too
much for her. With a blush and a hesitating smile she said, "And he said
that same thing, you know!" Of course everybody laughed, and of course
the thread of interest and illusion was hopelessly broken for everybody.
Now, anyone who chanced to hear Miss Shedlock?[A] tell that same story
will remember that the absurd rhyme gave great opportunity for
expression, in its very repetition; each time that the fisherman came to
the water's edge his chagrin and unwillingness were greater, and his
summons to the magic fish mirrored his feeling. The jingle _is_ foolish;
that is a part of the charm. But if the person who tells it _feels_
foolish, there is no charm at all! It is the same principle which
applies to any assemblage: if the speaker has the air of finding what he
has to say absurd or unworthy of effort, the audience naturally tends to
follow his lead, and find it not worth listening to.
Let me urge, then, take your story seriously.
Next, "take your time." This suggestion needs explaining, perhaps. It
does not mean license[A] to dawdle. Nothing is much more annoying in a
speaker than too great deliberateness[A] or than hesitation of speech.
But it means a quiet[A] realisation of the fact that the floor is yours,
everybody wants to hear you, there is time[A] enough for every point and
shade of meaning, and no one will think the story too long. This mental
attitude must underlie proper control of speed. Never hurry. A
business-like leisure is the true attitude of the story-teller.
And the result is best attained by concentrating one's attention on the
episodes of the story. Pass lightly, and comparatively swiftly, over the
portions between actual episodes, but take all the time you need for the
elaboration of those. And above all, do not _feel_ hurried.
The next suggestion is eminently plain and practical, if not an all too
obvious one. It is this: if all your preparation and confidence fails
you at the crucial moment, and memory plays the part of traitor in some
particular,--if, in short, you blunder on a detail of the story, _never
admit it_. If it was an unimportant detail which you misstated, pass
right on, accepting whatever you said, and continuing with it; if you
have been so unfortunate as to omit a fact which was a necessary link in
the chain, put it in, later, as skilfully as you can, and with as
deceptive an appearance of its being in the intended order; but never
take the children behind the scenes, and let them hear the creaking of
your mental machinery. You must be infallible. You must be in the secret
of the mystery, and admit your audience on somewhat unequal terms; they
should have no creeping doubts as to your complete initiation into the
secrets of the happenings you relate.
Plainly, there can be lapses of memory so complete, so all-embracing,
that frank failure is the only outcome; but these are so few as not to
need consideration, when dealing with so simple material as that of
children's stories. There are times, too, before an adult audience, when
a speaker can afford to let his hearers be amused with him over a chance
mistake. But with children it is most unwise to break the spell of the
entertainment in that way. Consider, in the matter of a detail of action
or description, how absolutely unimportant the mere accuracy is,
compared with the effect of smoothness and the enjoyment of the hearers.
They will not remember the detail, for good or evil, half so long as
they will remember the fact that you did not know it. So, for their
sakes, as well as for the success of your story, cover your slips of
memory, and let them be as if they were not.
And now I come to two points in method which have to do especially with
humorous stories. The first is the power of initiating the appreciation
of the joke. Every natural humorist does this by instinct, and the value
of the power to a story-teller can hardly be overestimated. To initiate
appreciation does not mean that one necessarily gives way to mirth,
though even that is sometimes natural and effective; one merely feels
the approach of the humorous climax, and subtly suggests to the hearers
that it will soon be "time to laugh." The suggestion usually comes in
the form of facial expression, and in the tone. And children are so much
simpler, and so much more accustomed to following another's lead than
their elders, that the expression can be much more outright and
unguarded than would be permissible with a mature audience.
Children like to feel the joke coming, in this way; they love the
anticipation of a laugh, and they will begin to dimple, often, at your
first unconscious suggestion of humour. If it is lacking, they are
sometimes afraid to follow their own instincts. Especially when you are
facing an audience of grown people and children together, you will find
that the latter are very hesitant about initiating their own expression
of humour. It is more difficult to make them forget their surroundings
then, and more desirable to give them a happy lead. Often at the
funniest point you will see some small listener in an agony of endeavour
to cloak the mirth which he--poor mite--fears to be indecorous. Let him
see that it is "the thing" to laugh, and that everybody is going to.
Having so stimulated the appreciation of the humorous climax, it is
important to give your hearers time for the full savour of the jest to
permeate their consciousness. It is really robbing an audience of its
rights, to pass so quickly from one point to another that the mind must
lose a new one if it lingers to take in the old. Every vital point in a
tale must be given a certain amount of time: by an anticipatory pause,
by some form of vocal or repetitive emphasis, and by actual time. But
even more than other tales does the funny story demand this. It cannot
be funny without it.
Everyone who is familiar with the theatre must have noticed how careful
all comedians are to give this pause for appreciation and laughter.
Often the opportunity is crudely given, or too liberally offered; and
that offends. But in a reasonable degree the practice is undoubtedly
necessary to any form of humorous expression.
A remarkably good example of the type of humorous story to which these
principles of method apply, is the story of _Epaminondas_ on page 92. It
will be plain to any reader that all the several funny crises are of the
perfectly unmistakable sort children like, and that, moreover, these
funny spots are not only easy to see; they are easy to foresee. The
teller can hardly help sharing the joke in advance, and the tale is an
excellent one with which to practise for power in the points mentioned.
Epaminondas is a valuable little rascal from other points of view, and
I mean to return to him, to point a moral. But at the moment I want
space for a word or two about the matter of variety of subject and style
in school stories.
There are two wholly different kinds of story which are equally
necessary for children, I believe, and which ought to be given in about
the proportion of one to three, in favour of the second kind; I make the
ratio uneven because the first kind is more dominating in its effect.
The first kind is represented by such stories as _The Pig Brother_,[1]
which has now grown so familiar to teachers that it will serve for
illustration without repetition here. It is the type of story which
specifically teaches a certain ethical or conduct lesson, in the form of
a fable or an allegory,--it passes on to the child the conclusions as to
conduct and character, to which the race has, in general, attained
through centuries of experience and moralising. The story becomes an
inescapable part of the outfit of received ideas on manners and morals
which is a necessary possession of the heir of civilisation.
Children do not object to these stories in the least, if the stories are
good ones. They accept them with the relish which nature seems ever to
have for all truly nourishing material. And the little tales are one of
the media through which we elders may transmit some very slight share of
the benefit received by us, in turn, from actual or transmitted
experience.
The second kind has no preconceived moral to offer, makes no attempt to
affect judgment or to pass on a standard. It simply presents a picture
of life, usually in fable or poetic image, and says to the hearer,
"These things are." The hearer, then, consciously or otherwise, passes
judgment on the facts. His mind says, "These things are good"; or, "This
was good, and that, bad"; or, "This thing is desirable," or the
contrary.
The story of _The Little Jackal and the Alligator_ (page 100) is a good
illustration of this type. It is a character-story. In the naïve form of
a folk tale, it doubtless embodies the observations of a seeing eye, in
a country and time when the little jackal and the great alligator were
even more vivid images of certain human characters than they now are.
Again and again, surely, the author or authors of the tales must have
seen the weak, small, clever being triumph over the bulky,
well-accoutred, stupid adversary. Again and again they had laughed at
the discomfiture of the latter, perhaps rejoicing in it the more because
it removed fear from their own houses. And probably never had they
concerned themselves particularly with the basic ethics of the struggle.
It was simply one of the things they saw. It was life. So they made a
picture of it.
The folk tale so made, and of such character, comes to the child
somewhat as an unprejudiced newspaper account of to-day's happenings
comes to us. It pleads no cause, except through its contents; it
exercises no intentioned influence on our moral judgment; it is there,
as life is there, to be seen and judged. And only through such seeing
and judging can the individual perception attain to anything of power or
originality. Just as a certain amount of received ideas is necessary to
sane development, so is a definite opportunity for first-hand judgments
essential to power.
In this epoch of well-trained minds we run some risk of an inundation of
accepted ethics. The mind which can make independent judgments, can look
at new facts with fresh vision, and reach conclusions with simplicity,
is the perennial power in the world. And this is the mind we are not
noticeably successful in developing, in our system of schooling. Let us
at least have its needs before our consciousness, in our attempts to
supplement the regular studies of school by such side-activities as
story-telling. Let us give the children a fair proportion of stories
which stimulate independent moral and practical decisions.
And now for a brief return to our little black friend. _Epaminondas_
belongs to a very large, very ancient type of funny story: the tale in
which the jest depends wholly on an abnormal degree of stupidity on the
part of the hero. Every race which produces stories seems to have found
this theme a natural outlet for its childlike laughter. The stupidity of
Lazy Jack, of Big Claus, of the Good Man, of Clever Alice, all have
their counterparts in the folly of the small Epaminondas.
Evidently, such stories have served a purpose in the education of the
race. While the exaggeration of familiar attributes easily awakens mirth
in a simple mind, it does more: it teaches practical lessons of wisdom
and discretion. And possibly the lesson was the original cause of the
story.
Not long ago, I happened upon an instance of the teaching power of these
nonsense tales, so amusing and convincing that I cannot forbear to share
it. A primary teacher who heard me tell _Epaminondas_ one evening, told
it to her pupils the next morning, with great effect. A young teacher
who was observing in the room at the time told me what befell. She said
the children laughed very heartily over the story, and evidently liked
it much. About an hour later, one of them was sent to the board to do a
little problem. It happened that the child made an excessively foolish
mistake, and did not notice it. As he glanced at the teacher for the
familiar smile of encouragement, she simply raised her hands, and
ejaculated, "'For the law's sake!'"
It was sufficient. The child took the cue instantly. He looked hastily
at his work, broke into an irrepressible giggle, rubbed the figures out,
without a word, and began again. And the whole class entered into the
joke with the gusto of fellow-fools, for once wise.
It is safe to assume that the child in question will make fewer needless
mistakes for a long time because of the wholesome reminder of his
likeness with one who "ain't got the sense he was born with." And what
occurred so visibly in his case goes on quietly in the hidden recesses
of the mind in many cases. One _Epaminondas_ is worth three lectures.
I wish there were more of such funny little tales in the world's
literature, all ready, as this one is, for telling to the youngest of
our listeners. But masterpieces are few in any line, and stories for
telling are no exception; it took generations, probably, to make this
one. The demand for new sources of supply comes steadily from teachers
and mothers, and is the more insistent because so often met by the
disappointing recommendations of books which prove to be for reading
only, rather than for telling.
For the benefit of suggestion to teachers in schools where story-telling
is newly or not yet introduced in systematic form, I am glad to append
the following list of additional stories which will be found to be
equally tellable and likeable. The list is not mine, although it
embodies some of my suggestions. I offer it merely as a practical result
of the effort to equalise and extend the story-hour throughout the
schools. The list is roughly graded in four groups. Stories in the
present volume have been excluded.
STORIES FOR REPRODUCTION
FIRST GROUP
The Lion and the Mouse, Æsop
The Fox and the Crow, Æsop
The Hare and the Tortoise, Æsop
The Wolf and the Kid, Æsop
The Crow and the Pitcher, Æsop
The Fox and the Grapes, Æsop
The Dog and his Shadow, Æsop
The Hare and the Hound, Æsop
The Wolf and the Crane, Æsop
The Elf and the Dormouse[1]
The Three Little Pigs[1]
Henny Penny
The Three Bears[1]
Why the Woodpecker's Head is Red[2]
Little Red Riding-Hood
The Cat and The Mouse, Grimm
Snow White and Rose Red, Grimm
SECOND GROUP
The Boasting Traveller, Æsop
The Wolf and the Fox, Æsop
The Boy and the Filberts, Æsop
Hercules and the Wagoner, Æsop
The Shepherd Boy and the Wolf, Æsop
The Star Dollars[1]
The Pied Piper[1]
King Midas[1]
Raggylug[1]
Peter Rabbit, B. Potter
The Tar-Baby, Joel Chandler Harris
(from _Uncle Remus_)
The Tailor and the Elephant
The Blind Men and the Elephant
(_Harrap's Dramatic Readers_, Book II.)
The Valiant Blackbird, Wm. Canton
(from _The True Annals of Fairyland_)
The Wolf and the Goslings, Grimm
The Ugly Duckling, Andersen
The Old Woman and Her Pig[1]
The Cat and the Parrot[1]
THIRD GROUP
Little Black Sambo
Why the Bear has a Short Tail[2]
Why the Fox has a White Tip to his Tail[2]
Why the Wren flies low[2]
Jack and the Beanstalk
The Golden Fleece[3]
The Pig Brother[1]
The Ugly Duckling, Andersen
How the Mole became Blind[2]
How Fire was brought to the Indians[2]
Echo[4]
Why the Morning Glory Climbs[1]
The Bay of Winds[3]
Pandora's Box[4]
The Little Match Girl, Andersen
The Story of Wylie[1]
FOURTH GROUP
Arachne[4]
The Nürnberg Stove[3]
Clytie[3]
Latona and the Frogs[4]
Dick Whittington and his Cat
Proserpine[4]
The Bell of Atri[5]
The Land East of the Sun and West of the Moon, Edgar
(from _Stories from the Earthly Paradise_)
The Guardians of the Door, Wm. Canton
(from _A Child's Book of Saints_)
The Little Lame Prince, Mrs Craik
Narcissus[5]
The Little Hero of Haarlem[6]
The Bar of Gold[5]
The Golden Fish[5]
Saint Christopher[5]
The Four Seasons[7]
A further source for excellent stories put into a form which is
suggestive for purposes of retelling to children is the series of graded
reading books known as _Harrap's Dramatic Readers_.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] _How to Tell Stories to Children._
[2] In _How to Tell Stories to Children_, page 145.
[3] _How to Tell Stories to Children._
[4] _Nature Myths_, Florence Holbrook.
[5] _Favourite Greek Myths_, Lilian S. Hyde.
[6] _Legends of Greece and Rome_, G.H. Kupfer.
[7] _Folk Tales from Many Lands_, Lilian Gask.
STORY-TELLING IN TEACHING ENGLISH
I have to speak now of a phase of elementary education which lies very
close to my warmest interest, which, indeed, could easily become an
active hobby if other interests did not beneficently tug at my skirts
when I am minded to mount and ride too wildly. It is the hobby of many
of you who are teachers, also, and I know you want to hear it discussed.
I mean the growing effort to teach English and English literature to
children in the natural way: by speaking and hearing,--orally.
The structure of the language and the choice of words are dark matters
to most of our young people; this has long been acknowledged and
struggled against. But even darker, and quite equally destructive to
English expression, is their state of mind regarding pronunciation,
enunciation, and voice. It is the essential connection of these elements
with English speech that we have been so slow to realise. We have felt
that they were externals, desirable but not necessary adjuncts--pretty
tags of an exceptional gift or culture. Many an intelligent person will
say, "I don't care much about _how_ you say a thing; it is _what_ you
say that counts." He cannot see that voice and enunciation and
pronunciation are essentials. But they are. You can no more help
affecting the meaning of your words by the way you say them than you can
prevent the expressions of your face from carrying a message; the
message may be perverted by an uncouth habit, but it will no less surely
insist on recognition.
The fact is that speech is a method of carrying ideas from one human
soul to another, by way of the ear. And these ideas are very complex.
They are not unmixed emanations of pure intellect, transmitted to pure
intellect: they are compounded of emotions, thoughts, fancies, and are
enhanced or impeded in transmission by the use of word-symbols which
have acquired, by association, infinite complexities in themselves. The
mood of the moment, the especial weight of a turn of thought, the desire
of the speaker to share his exact soul-concept with you,--these seek far
more subtle means than the mere rendering of certain vocal signs; they
demand such variations and delicate adjustments of sound as will
inevitably affect the listening mind with the response desired.
There is no "what" without the "how" in speech. The same written
sentence becomes two diametrically opposite ideas, given opposing
inflection and accompanying voice-effect. "He stood in the front rank
of the battle" can be made praiseful affirmation, scornful scepticism,
or simple question, by a simple varying of voice and inflection. This is
the more unmistakable way in which the "how" affects the "what." Just as
true is the less obvious fact. The same written sentiment, spoken by a
Lord Rosebery and by a man from White chapel or an uneducated ploughman,
is not the same to the listener. In one case the sentiment comes to the
mind's ear with certain completing and enhancing qualities of sound
which give it accuracy and poignancy. The words themselves retain all
their possible suggestiveness in the speaker's just and clear
enunciation, and have a borrowed beauty, besides, from the associations
of fine habit betrayed in the voice and manner of speech. And, further,
the immense personal equation shows itself in the beauty and power of
the vocal expressiveness, which carries shades of meaning, unguessed
delicacies of emotion, intimations of beauty, to every ear. In the other
case, the thought is clouded by unavoidable suggestions of ignorance and
ugliness, brought by the pronunciation and voice, even to an
unanalytical ear; the meaning is obscured by inaccurate inflection and
uncertain or corrupt enunciation; but, worst of all, the personal
atmosphere, the aroma, of the idea has been lost in transmission
through a clumsy, ill-fitted medium.
The thing said may look the same on a printed page, but it is not the
same when spoken. And it is the spoken sentence which is the original
and the usual mode of communication.
The widespread poverty of expression in English, which is thus a matter
of "how," and to which we are awakening, must be corrected chiefly, at
least at first, by the elementary schools. The home is the ideal place
for it, but the average home in many districts is no longer a possible
place for it. The child of parents poorly educated and bred in limited
circumstances, the child of powerful provincial influences, must all
depend on the school for standards of English.
And it is the elementary school which must meet the need, if it is to be
met at all. For the conception of English expression which I am talking
of can find no mode of instruction adequate to its meaning, save in
constant appeal to the ear, at an age so early that unconscious habit is
formed. No rules, no analytical instruction in later development, can
accomplish what is needed. Hearing and speaking; imitating, unwittingly
and wittingly, a good model; it is to this method we must look for
redemption from present conditions.
I believe we are on the eve of a real revolution in English
teaching,--only it is a revolution which will not break the peace. It
will introduce a larger proportion of oral work than has hitherto been
contemplated in secondary school work. It will recognise the fact that
English is primarily something spoken with the mouth and heard with the
ear. And this recognition will have greatest weight in the systems of
elementary teaching.
It is as an aid in oral teaching of English that story-telling in school
finds its second value; ethics is the first ground of its usefulness,
English the second,--and after these, the others. It is, too, for the
oral uses that the secondary forms of story-telling are so available. By
secondary I mean those devices which I have tried to indicate, as used
by many teachers, in the chapter on "Specific Schoolroom Uses," in my
earlier book. They are retelling, dramatisation, and forms of seat-work.
All of these are a great power in the hands of a wise teacher. If
combined with much attention to voice and enunciation in the recital of
poetry, and with much good reading aloud _by the teacher_, they will go
far toward setting a standard and developing good habit.
But their provinces must not be confused or overestimated. I trust I may
be pardoned for offering a caution or two to the enthusiastic advocate
of these methods,--cautions the need of which has been forced upon me,
in experience with schools.
A teacher who uses the oral story as an English feature with little
children must never lose sight of the fact that it is an aid in
unconscious development; not a factor in studied, conscious improvement.
This truth cannot be too strongly realised. Other exercises, in
sufficiency, give the opportunity for regulated effort for definite
results, but the story is one of the play-forces. Its use in English
teaching is most valuable when the teacher has a keen appreciation of
the natural order of growth in the art of expression: that art requires,
as the old rhetorics used often to put it, "a natural facility,
succeeded by an acquired difficulty." In other words, the power of
expression depends, first, on something more fundamental than the
art-element; the basis of it is something to say, _accompanied by an
urgent desire to say it_, and _yielded to with freedom_; only after this
stage is reached can the art-phase be of any use. The "why" and "how,"
the analytical and constructive phases, have no natural place in this
first vital epoch.
Precisely here, however, does the dramatising of stories and the
paper-cutting, etc., become useful. A fine and thoughtful principal of a
great school asked me, recently, with real concern, about the growing
use of such devices. He said, "Paper-cutting is good, but what has it
to do with English?" And then he added, "The children use abominable
language when they play the stories; can that directly aid them to speak
good English?" His observation was close and correct, and his
conservatism more valuable than the enthusiasm of some of his colleagues
who have advocated sweeping use of the supplementary work. But his point
of view ignored the basis of expression, which is to my mind so
important. Paper-cutting is external to English, of course. Its only
connection is in its power to correlate different forms of expression,
and to react on speech-expression through sense-stimulus. But playing
the story is a closer relative to English than this. It helps,
amazingly, in giving the "something to say, the urgent desire to say
it," and the freedom in trying. Never mind the crudities,--at least, at
the time; work only for joyous freedom, inventiveness, and natural forms
of reproduction of the ideas given. Look for very gradual changes in
speech, through the permeating power of imitation, but do not forget
that this is the stage of expression which inevitably precedes art.
All this will mean that no corrections are made, except in flagrant
cases of slang or grammar, though all bad slips are mentally noted, for
introduction at a more favourable time. It will mean that the teacher
will respect the continuity of thought and interest as completely as she
would wish an audience to respect her occasional prosy periods if she
were reading a report. She will remember, of course, that she is not
training actors for amateur theatricals, however tempting her
show-material may be; she is simply letting the children play with
expression, just as a gymnasium teacher introduces muscular play,--for
power through relaxation.
When the time comes that the actors lose their unconsciousness it is the
end of the story-play. Drilled work, the beginning of the art, is then
the necessity.
I have indicated that the children may be left undisturbed in their
crudities and occasional absurdities. The teacher, on the other hand,
must avoid, with great judgment, certain absurdities which can easily be
initiated by her. The first direful possibility is in the choice of
material. It is very desirable that children should not be allowed to
dramatise stories of a kind so poetic, so delicate, or so potentially
valuable that the material is in danger of losing future beauty to the
pupils through its present crude handling. Mother Goose is a hardy old
lady, and will not suffer from the grasp of the seven-year-old; and the
familiar fables and tales of the "Goldilocks" variety have a firmness of
surface which does not let the glamour rub off; but stories in which
there is a hint of the beauty just beyond the palpable--or of a dignity
suggestive of developed literature--are sorely hurt in their
metamorphosis, and should be protected from it. They are for telling
only.
Another point on which it is necessary to exercise reserve is in the
degree to which any story can be acted. In the justifiable desire to
bring a large number of children into the action one must not lose sight
of the sanity and propriety of the presentation. For example, one must
not make a ridiculous caricature, where a picture, however crude, is the
intention. Personally represent only such things as are definitely and
dramatically personified in the story. If a natural force, the wind, for
example, is represented as talking and acting like a human being in the
story, it can be imaged by a person in the play; but if it remains a
part of the picture in the story, performing only its natural motions,
it is a caricature to enact it as a rôle. The most powerful instance of
a mistake of this kind which I have ever seen will doubtless make my
meaning clear. In playing a pretty story about animals and children,
some children in an elementary school were made by the teacher to take
the part of the sea. In the story, the sea was said to "beat upon the
shore," as a sea would, without doubt. In the play the children were
allowed to thump the floor lustily, as a presentation of their watery
functions! It was unconscionably funny. Fancy presenting even the
crudest image of the mighty sea, surging up on the shore, by a row of
infants squatted on the floor and pounding with their fists! Such
pitfalls can be avoided by the simple rule of personifying only
characters that actually behave like human beings.
A caution which directly concerns the art of story-telling itself, must
be added here. There is a definite distinction between the arts of
narration and dramatisation which must never be overlooked. Do not,
yourself, half tell and half act the story; and do not let the children
do it. It is done in very good schools, sometimes, because an enthusiasm
for realistic and lively presentation momentarily obscures the faculty
of discrimination. A much loved and respected teacher whom I recently
listened to, and who will laugh if she recognises her blunder here,
offers a good "bad example" in this particular. She said to an attentive
audience of students that she had at last, with much difficulty, brought
herself to the point where she could forget herself in her story: where
she could, for instance, hop, like the fox, when she told the story of
the "sour grapes." She said, "It was hard at first, but now it is a
matter of course; _and the children do it too, when they tell the
story_." That was the pity! I saw the illustration myself a little
later. The child who played fox began with a story: he said, "Once there
was an old fox, and he saw some grapes"; then the child walked to the
other side of the room, and looked at an imaginary vine, and said, "He
wanted some; he thought they would taste good, so he jumped for them";
at this-point the child did jump, like his rôle; then he continued with
his story, "but he couldn't get them." And so he proceeded, with a
constant alternation of narrative and dramatisation which was enough to
make one dizzy.
The trouble in such work is, plainly, a lack of discriminating analysis.
Telling a story necessarily implies non-identification of the teller
with the event; he relates what occurs or occurred, outside of his
circle of consciousness. Acting a play necessarily implies
identification of the actor with the event; he presents to you a picture
of the thing, in himself. It is a difference wide and clear, and the
least failure to recognise it confuses the audience and injures both
arts.
In the preceding instances of secondary uses of story-telling I have
come some distance from the great point, the fundamental point, of the
power of imitation in breeding good habit. This power is less noticeably
active in the dramatising than in simple retelling; in the listening and
the retelling, it is dominant for good. The child imitates what he
hears you say and sees you do, and the way you say and do it, far more
closely in the story-hour than in any lesson-period. He is in a more
absorbent state, as it were, because there is no preoccupation of
effort. Here is the great opportunity of the cultured teacher; here is
the appalling opportunity of the careless or ignorant teacher. For the
implications of the oral theory of teaching English are evident,
concerning the immense importance of the teacher's habit. This is what
it all comes to ultimately: the teacher of young children must be a
person who can speak English as it should be spoken,--purely, clearly,
pleasantly, and with force.
It is a hard ideal to live up to, but it is a valuable ideal to try to
live up to. And one of the best chances to work toward attainment is in
telling stories, for there you have definite material, which you can
work into shape and practise on in private. That practice ought to
include conscious thought as to one's general manner in the schoolroom,
and intelligent effort to understand and improve one's own voice. I hope
I shall not seem to assume the dignity of an authority which no personal
taste can claim, if I beg a hearing for the following elements of manner
and voice, which appeal to me as essential. They will, probably, appear
self-evident to my readers, yet they are often found wanting in the
public school teacher; it is _so_ much easier to say "what were good to
do" than to do it!
Three elements of manner seem to me an essential adjunct to the
personality of a teacher of little children: courtesy, repose, vitality.
Repose and vitality explain themselves; by courtesy I specifically do
_not_ mean the habit of mind which contents itself with drilling the
children in "Good-mornings" and in hat-liftings. I mean the attitude of
mind which recognises in the youngest, commonest child the potential
dignity, majesty, and mystery of the developed human soul. Genuine
reverence for the humanity of the "other fellow" marks a definite degree
of courtesy in the intercourse of adults, does it not? And the same
quality of respect, tempered by the demands of a wise control, is
exactly what is needed among children. Again and again, in dealing with
young minds, the teacher who respects personality as sacred, no matter
how embryonic it be, wins the victories which count for true education.
Yet, all too often, we forget the claims of this reverence, in the
presence of the annoyances and the needed corrections.
As for voice: work in schoolrooms brings two opposing mistakes
constantly before me: one is the repressed voice, and the other, the
forced. The best way to avoid either extreme, is to keep in mind that
the ideal is development of one's own natural voice, along its own
natural lines. A "quiet, gentle voice" is conscientiously aimed at by
many young teachers, with so great zeal that the tone becomes painfully
repressed, "breathy," and timid. This is quite as unpleasant as a loud
voice, which is, in turn, a frequent result of early admonitions to
"speak up." Neither is natural. It is wise to determine the natural
volume and pitch of one's speaking voice by a number of tests, made when
one is thoroughly rested, at ease, and alone. Find out where your voice
lies when it is left to itself, under favourable conditions, by reading
something aloud or by listening to yourself as you talk to an intimate
friend. Then practise keeping it in that general range, unless it prove
to have a distinct fault, such as a nervous sharpness, or hoarseness. A
quiet voice is good; a hushed voice is abnormal. A clear tone is
restful, but a loud one is wearying.
Perhaps the common-sense way of setting a standard for one's own voice
is to remember that the purpose of a speaking voice is to communicate
with others; their ears and minds are the receivers of our tones. For
this purpose, evidently, a voice should be, first of all, easy to hear;
next, pleasant to hear; next, susceptible of sufficient variation to
express a wide range of meaning; and finally, indicative of personality.
Is it too quixotic to urge teachers who tell stories to little children
to bear these thoughts, and better ones of their own, in mind? Not, I
think, if it be fully accepted that the story hour, as a play hour, is a
time peculiarly open to influences affecting the imitative faculty; that
this faculty is especially valuable in forming fine habits of speech;
and that an increasingly high and general standard of English speech is
one of our greatest needs and our most instant opportunities in the
schools of to-day.
And now we come to the stories!
STORIES TO TELL TO CHILDREN
TWO LITTLE RIDDLES IN RHYME[8]
There's a garden that I ken,
Full of little gentlemen;
Little caps of blue they wear,
And green ribbons, very fair.
(Flax.)
From house to house he goes,
A messenger small and slight,
And whether it rains or snows,
He sleeps outside in the night.
(The path.)
THE LITTLE YELLOW TULIP
Once there was a little yellow Tulip, and she lived down in a little
dark house under the ground. One day she was sitting there, all by
herself, and it was very still. Suddenly, she heard a little _tap, tap,
tap_, at the door.
"Who is that?" she said.
"It's the Rain, and I want to come in," said a soft, sad, little voice.
"No, you can't come in," the little Tulip said.
By and by she heard another little _tap, tap, tap_ on the window-pane.
"Who is there?" she said.
The same soft little voice answered, "It's the Rain, and I want to come
in!"
"No, you can't come in," said the little Tulip.
Then it was very still for a long time. At last, there came a little
rustling, whispering sound, all round the window: _rustle, whisper,
whisper_.
"Who is there?" said the little Tulip.
"It's the Sunshine," said a little, soft, cheery voice, "and I want to
come in!"
"N--no," said the little Tulip, "you can't come in." And she sat still
again.
Pretty soon she heard the sweet little rustling noise at the keyhole.
"Who is there?" she said.
"It's the Sunshine," said the cheery little voice, "and I want to come
in, I want to come in!"
"No, no," said the little Tulip, "you cannot come in."
By and by, as she sat so still, she heard _tap, tap, tap_, and _rustle,
whisper, rustle_, up and down the window-pane, and on the door and at
the keyhole.
"_Who is there?_" she said.
"It's the Rain and the Sun, the Rain and the Sun," said two little
voices, together, "and we want to come in! We want to come in! We want
to come in!"
"Dear, dear!" said the little Tulip, "if there are two of you, I s'pose
I shall have to let you in."
So she opened the door a little wee crack, and in they came. And one
took one of her little hands, and the other took her other little hand,
and they ran, ran, ran with her right up to the top of the ground. Then
they said,--
"Poke your head through!"
So she poked her head through; and she was in the midst of a beautiful
garden. It was early springtime, and few other flowers were to be seen;
but she had the birds to sing to her and the sun to shine upon her
pretty yellow head. She was so pleased, too, when the children exclaimed
with pleasure that now they knew that the beautiful spring had come!
FOOTNOTES:
[8] These riddles were taken from the Gaelic, and are charming examples
of the naïve beauty of the old Irish, and of Dr Hyde's accurate and
sympathetic modern rendering. From _Beside the Fire_ (David Nutt).
THE COCK-A-DOO-DLE-DOO[9]
A very little boy made this story up "out of his head," and told it to
his papa. I think you littlest ones will like it; I do.
Once upon a time there was a little boy, and he wanted to be a
cock-a-doo-dle-doo. So he was a cock-a-doo-dle-doo. And he wanted to fly
up into the sky. So he did fly up into the sky. And he wanted to get
wings and a tail So he did get some wings and a tail.
FOOTNOTES:
[9] From _The Ignominy of being Grown Up_, by Dr. Samuel M. Crothers, in
the _Atlantic Monthly_ for July 1906.
THE CLOUD[10]
One hot summer morning a little Cloud rose out of the sea and floated
lightly and happily across the blue sky. Far below lay the earth, brown,
dry, and desolate, from drought. The little Cloud could see the poor
people of the earth working and suffering in the hot fields, while she
herself floated on the morning breeze, hither and thither, without a
care.
"Oh, if I could only help the poor people down there!" she thought. "If
I could but make their work easier, or give the hungry ones food, or the
thirsty a drink!"
And as the day passed, and the Cloud became larger, this wish to do
something for the people of earth was ever greater in her heart.
On earth it grew hotter and hotter; the sun burned down so fiercely that
the people were fainting in its rays; it seemed as if they must die of
heat, and yet they were obliged to go on with their work, for they were
very poor. Sometimes they stood and looked up at the Cloud, as if they
were praying, and saying, "Ah, if you could help us!"
"I will help you; I will!" said the Cloud. And she began to sink softly
down toward the earth.
But suddenly, as she floated down, she remembered something which had
been told her when she was a tiny Cloud-child, in the lap of Mother
Ocean: it had been whispered that if the Clouds go too near the earth
they die. When she remembered this she held herself from sinking, and
swayed here and there on the breeze, thinking,--thinking. But at last
she stood quite still, and spoke boldly and proudly. She said, "Men of
earth, I will help you, come what may!"
The thought made her suddenly marvellously big and strong and powerful.
Never had she dreamed that she could be so big. Like a mighty angel of
blessing she stood above the earth, and lifted her head and spread her
wings far over the fields and woods. She was so great, so majestic, that
men and animals were awe-struck at the sight; the trees and the grasses
bowed before her; yet all the earth-creatures felt that she meant them
well.
"Yes, I will help you," cried the Cloud once more. "Take me to
yourselves; I will give my life for you!"
As she said the words a wonderful light glowed from her heart, the sound
of thunder rolled through the sky, and a love greater than words can
tell filled the Cloud; down, down, close to the earth she swept, and
gave up her life in a blessed, healing shower of rain.
That rain was the Cloud's great deed; it was her death, too; but it was
also her glory. Over the whole country-side, as far as the rain fell, a
lovely rainbow sprang its arch, and all the brightest rays of heaven
made its colours; it was the last greeting of a love so great that it
sacrificed itself.
Soon that, too, was gone, but long, long afterward the men and animals
who were saved by the Cloud kept her blessing in their hearts.
FOOTNOTES:
[10] Adapted from the German of Robert Reinick's _Märchen-, Lieder-und
Geschichtenbuch_ (Velhagen und Klasing, Bielefeld and Leipsic).
THE LITTLE RED HEN
The little Red Hen was in the farmyard with her chickens, when she found
a grain of wheat.
"Who will plant this wheat?" she said.
"Not I," said the Goose.
"Not I," said the Duck.
"I will, then," said the little Red Hen, and she planted the grain of
wheat.
When the wheat was ripe she said, "Who will take this wheat to the
mill?"