CHAPTER V. ELEMENTS TO SEEK IN CHOICE OF MATERIAL.

In his "Choice of Books," Frederic Harrison has said: "The most useful

help to reading is to know what we shall _not_ read, what we shall keep

from that small, cleared spot in the overgrown jungle of information

which we can call our ordered patch of fruit-bearing knowledge."

Now, the same statement applies to our stories, and, having busied

myself during the last chapter with "clearing my small spot" by

cutting away a mass of unfruitful growth, I am no going to suggest

what would be the best kind of seed to sow in the patch which I have

"reclaimed from the jungle."

Again, I repeat, I have no wish to be dogmatic and in offering

suggestions as to the stories to be told, I am catering only for a

group of normal school children. My list of subjects does not pretend

to cover the whole ground of children's needs, and just as I exclude

the abnormal or unusual child from the scope of my warning in subjects

to avoid, so do I also exclude that child from the limitation in

choice of subjects to be sought, because you can offer almost any

subject to the unusual child, especially if you stand in close relation

to him and know his powers of apprehension. In this matter, age has

very little to say; it is a question of the stage of development.

Experience has taught me that for the group of normal children,

irrespective of age, the first kind of story suitable for them will

contain an appeal to conditions to which the child is accustomed. The

reason for this is obvious: the child, having limited experience, can

only be reached by this experience, until his imagination is awakened

and he is enabled to grasp through this faculty what he has not

actually passed through. Before this awakening has taken place he

enters the realm of fiction, represented in the story, by comparison

with his personal experience. Every story and every point in the

story mean more as that experience widens, and the interest varies, of

course, with temperament, quickness of perception, power of visualizing

and of concentration.

In "The Marsh King's Daughter," Hans Christian Andersen says:

"The storks have a great many stories which they tell their little

ones, all about the bogs and marshes. They suit them to their age and

capacity. The young ones are quite satisfied with _kribble,

krabble_, or some such nonsense, and find it charming; but the

elder ones want something with more meaning."

One of the most interesting experiments to be made in connection with

this subject is to tell the same story at intervals of a year or six

months to an individual child.[21] The different incidents in the

story which appeal to him (and one must watch it closely, to be sure

the interest is real and not artificially stimulated by any suggestion

on one's own part) will mark his mental development and the gradual

awakening of his imagination. This experiment is a very delicate one

and will not be infallible, because children are secretive and the

appreciation is often simulated (unconsciously) or concealed through

shyness or want of articulation. But it is, in spite of this, a

deeply interesting and helpful experiment.

To take a concrete example: Let us suppose the story Andersen's "Tin

Soldier" told to a child of five or six years. At the first recital,

the point which will interest the child most will be the setting up of

the tin soldiers on the table, because he can understand this by means

of his own experience, in his own nursery. It is an appeal to

conditions to which he is accustomed and for which no exercise of the

imagination is needed, unless we take the effect of memory to be,

according to Queyrat, retrospective imagination.

The next incident that appeals is the unfamiliar behavior of the toys,

but still in familiar surroundings; that is to say, the _unusual_

activities are carried on in the safe precincts of the nursery--the

_usual_ atmosphere of the child.

I quote from the text:

Late in the evening the other soldiers were put in their box,

and the people of the house went to bed. Now was the time for

the toys to play; they amused themselves with paying visits,

fighting battles and giving balls. The tin soldiers rustled

about in their box, for they wanted to join the games, but

they could not get the lid off. The nut-crackers turned

somersaults, and the pencil scribbled nonsense on the slate.

Now, from this point onwards in the story, the events will be quite

outside the personal experience of the child and there will have to be

a real stretch of imagination to appreciate the thrilling and blood-

curdling adventures of the tin soldier, namely, the terrible sailing

down the gutter under the bridge, the meeting with the fierce rat who

demands the soldier's passport, the horrible sensation in the fish's

body, etc. Last of all, perhaps, will come the appreciation of the

best qualities of the hero: his modesty, his dignity, his reticence,

his courage and his constancy. He seems to combine all the qualities

of the best soldier with those of the best civilian, without the more

obvious qualities which generally attract first. As for the love

story, we must _expect_ any child to see its tenderness and

beauty, though the individual child may intuitively appreciate these

qualities, but it is not what we wish for or work for at this period

of child life.

This method could be applied to various stories. I have chosen the

"Tin Soldier" because of its dramatic qualities and because it is

marked off, probably quite unconsciously on the part of Andersen, into

periods which correspond to the child's development.

In Eugene Field's exquisite little poem of "The Dinkey Bird," we find

the objects familiar to the child in _unusual_ places, so that

some imagination is needed to realize that "big red sugar-plums are

clinging to the cliffs beside the sea"; but the introduction of the

fantastic bird and the soothing sound of amfalula tree are new and

delightful sensations, quite out of the child's personal experience.

Another such instance is to be found in Mrs. W. K. Clifford's story of

"Master Willie." The abnormal behavior of familiar objects, such as a

doll, leads from the ordinary routine to the paths of adventure. This

story is to be found in a little book called "Very Short Stories," a

most interesting collection for teachers and children.

We now come to the second element we should seek in material, namely,

the element of the unusual, which we have already anticipated in the

story of the "Tin Soldier."

This element is necessary in response to the demand of the child who

expressed the needs of his fellow-playmates when he said: "I want to

go to the place where the shadows are real." This is the true

definition of "faerie" lands and is the first sign of real mental

development in the child when he is no longer content with the stories

of his own little deeds and experiences, when his ear begins to

appreciate sounds different from the words in his own everyday

language, and when he begins to separate his own personality from the

action of the story.

George Goschen says:

"What I want for the young are books and stories which do not simply

deal with our daily life. I like the fancy even of little children to

have some larger food than images of their own little lives, and I

confess I am sorry for the children whose imaginations are not

sometimes stimulated by beautiful fairy tales which carry them to

worlds different from those in which their future will be passed. . . .

I hold that what removes them more or less from their daily life is

better than what reminds them of it at every step."[22]

It is because of the great value of leading children to something

beyond the limited circle of their own lives that I deplore the

twaddling boarding-school stories written for girls and the

artificially prepared public school stories for boys. Why not give

them the dramatic interest of a larger stage? No account of a cricket

match or a football triumph could present a finer appeal to boys and

girls than the description of the Peacestead in the "Heroes of Asgaard":

"This was the playground of the Aesir, where they practiced trials of

skill one with another and held tournaments and sham fights. These last

were always conducted in the gentlest and most honorable manner; for the

strongest law of the Peacestead was that no angry blow should be struck

or spiteful word spoken upon the sacred field."

For my part, I would unhesitatingly give to boys and girls an element

of strong romance in the stories which are told them even before they

are twelve.

Miss Sewell says:

"The system that keeps girls in the schoolroom reading simple stories,

without reading Scott and Shakespeare and Spenser, and then hands them

over to the unexplored recesses of the Circulating Library, has been

shown to be the most frivolizing that can be devised." She sets forth

as the result of her experience that a good novel, especially a

romantic one, read at twelve or fourteen, is really a beneficial thing.

At present, so many of the children from the elementary schools get

their first idea of love, if one can give it such a name from vulgar

pictures displayed in the shop windows or jokes on marriage, culled

from the lowest type of paper, or the proceedings of a divorce court.

What an antidote to such representation might be found in the stories

of Hector and Andromache, Siegfried and Brunnehilde, Dido and Aeneas,

Orpheus and Eurydice, St. Francis and St. Clare!

One of the strongest elements we should introduce into our stories for

children of all ages is that which calls forth love of beauty. And

the beauty should stand out, not only in the delineation of noble

qualities in our heroes and heroines, but in the beauty and strength

of language and form.

In this latter respect, the Bible stories are of such inestimable

value; all the greater because a child is familiar with the subject

and the stories gain fresh significance from the spoken or winged word

as compared with the mere reading. As to whether we should keep to

the actual text is a matter of individual experience. Professor R. G.

Moulton, whose interpretations of the Bible stories are so well known

both in England and America, does not always confine himself to the

actual text, but draws the dramatic elements together, rejecting what

seems to him to break the narrative, but introducing the actual

language where it is the most effective. Those who have heard him

will realize the success of his method.

There is one Bible story which can be told with scarcely any deviation

from the text, if only a few hints are given beforehand, and that is

the story of Nebuchadnezzar and the Golden Image. Thus, I think it

wise, if the children are to succeed in partially visualizing the

story, that they should have some idea of the dimensions of the Golden

Image as it would stand out in a vast plain. It might be well to

compare those dimension with some building with which the child is

familiar. In London, the matter is easy as the height will compare,

roughly speaking, with Westminster Abbey. The only change in text I

should adopt is to avoid the constant enumeration of the list of

rulers and the musical instruments. In doing this, I am aware that I

am sacrificing something of beauty in the rhythm, but, on the other

hand, for narrative purpose the interest is not broken. The first

time the announcement is made, that is, by the Herald, it should be in

a perfectly loud, clear and toneless voice, such as you would

naturally use when shouting through a trumpet to a vast concourse of

people scattered over a wide plain, reserving all the dramatic tone of

voice for the passage where Nebuchadnezzar is making the announcement

to the three men by themselves. I can remember Professor Moulton

saying that all the dramatic interest of the story is summed up in

the words "But if not . . ." This suggestion is a very helpful one,

for it enables us to work up gradually to this point, and then, as

it were, _unwind_, until we reach the words of Nebuchadnezzar's

dramatic recantation.

In this connection, it is a good plan occasionally during the story

hour to introduce really good poetry, which delivered in a dramatic

manner (far removed, of course, from the melodramatic), might give

children their first love of beautiful form in verse. And I do not

think it necessary to wait for this. Even the normal child of seven,

though there is nothing arbitrary in the suggestion of this age, will

appreciate the effect, if only on the ear, of beautiful lines well

spoken. Mahomet has said, in his teaching advice: "Teach your

children poetry: it opens the mind, lends grace to wisdom and makes

heroic virtues hereditary."

To begin with the youngest children of all, here is a poem which

contains a thread of story, just enough to give a human interest:

MILKING-TIME

When the cows come home, the milk is coming;

Honey's made when the bees are humming.

Duck, drake on the rushy lake,

And the deer live safe in the breezy brake,

And timid, funny, pert little bunny

Winks his nose, and sits all sunny.

CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

Now, in comparing this poem with some of the doggerel verse offered to

small children, one is struck with the literary superiority in the

choice of words. Here, in spite of the simplicity of the poem, there

is not the ordinary limited vocabulary, nor the forced rhyme, nor the

application of a moral, by which the artist falls from grace.

Again, Eugene Field's "Hushaby Lady," of which the language is most

simple, yet the child is carried away by the beauty of the sound.

I remember hearing some poetry repeated by the children in one of the

elementary schools in Sheffield which made me feel that they had

realized romantic possibilities which would prevent their lives from

ever becoming quite prosaic again, and I wish that this practice were

more usual. There is little difficulty with the children. I can

remember, in my own experience as a teacher in London, making the

experiment of reading or repeating passages from Milton and

Shakespeare to children from nine to eleven years of age, and the

enthusiastic way they responded by learning those passages by heart.

I have taken with several sets of children such passages from Milton

as the "Echo Song," "Sabrina," "By the Rushy-fringed Bank," "Back,

Shepherds, Back," from "Comus"; "May Morning," "Ode to Shakespeare,"

"Samson," "On His Blindness," etc. I even ventured on several passage

from "Paradise Lost," and found "Now came still evening on" a

particular favorite with the children.

It seemed even easier to interest them in Shakespeare, and they

learned quite readily and easily many passages from "As You Like It,"

"The Merchant of Venice," "Julius Caesar," "Richard II," "Henry IV,"

and "Henry V."

The method I should recommend in the introduction of both poets

occasionally into the story-hour would be threefold. First, to choose

passages which appeal for beauty of sound or beauty of mental vision

called up by those sounds; such as "Tell me where is Fancy bred,"

"Titania's Lullaby," "How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank."

Secondly, passages for sheer interest of content, such as the Trial

Scene from "The Merchant of Venice," or the Forest Scene in "As You

Like It." Thirdly, for dramatic and historical interest, such as,

"Men at some time are masters of their fates," the whole of Mark

Antony's speech, and the scene with Imogen and her foster brothers in

the Forest.

It may not be wholly out of place to add here that the children

learned and repeated these passages themselves, and that I offered

them the same advice as I do to all story-tellers. I discussed quite

openly with them the method I considered best, trying to make them see

that simplicity of delivery was not only the most beautiful but the

most effective means to use and, by the end of a few months, when they

had been allowed to experiment and express themselves, they began to

see that mere ranting was not force and that a sense of reserve power

is infinitely more impressive and inspiring than mere external

presentation.

I encouraged them to criticize each other for the common good, and

sometimes I read a few lines with overemphasis and too much gesture,

which they were at liberty to point out that they might avoid the

same error.

Excellent collections of poems for this purpose of narrative are:

Mrs. P. A. Barnett's series of "Song and Story," published by Adam

Black, and "The Posy Ring," chosen and classified by Kate Douglas

Wiggin and Nora Archibald Smith, published by Doubleday. For older

children, "The Call of the Homeland," selected and arranged by Dr. R.

P. Scott and Katharine T. Wallas, published by Houghton, Mifflin, and

"Golden Numbers," chosen and classified by Kate Douglas Wiggin and

Nora Archibald Smith, published by Doubleday.

I think it is well to have a goodly number of stories illustrating the

importance of common-sense and resourcefulness.

For this reason, I consider the stories treating of the ultimate

success of the youngest son[23] very admirable for the purpose,

because the youngest child who begins by being considered inferior

to the older ones triumphs in the end, either from resourcefulness

or from common-sense or from some higher quality, such as kindness

to animals, courage in overcoming difficulties, etc.[24]

Thus, we have the story of Cinderella. The cynic might imagine that

it was the diminutive size of her foot that insured her success. The

child does not realize any advantage in this, but, though the matter

need not be pressed, the story leaves us with the impression that

Cinderella had been patient and industrious, and forbearing with her

sisters. We know that she was strictly obedient to her godmother, and

in order to be this she makes her dramatic exit from the ball which is

the beginning of her triumph. There are many who might say that these

qualities do not meet with reward in life and that they end in

establishing a habit of drudgery, but, after all, we must have poetic

justice in a fairy story, occasionally, at any rate, even if the child

is confused by the apparent contradiction.

Such a story is "Jesper and the Hares." Here, however, it is not at

first resourcefulness that helps the hero, but sheer kindness of

heart, which prompts him first to help the ants, and then to show

civility to the old woman, without for a moment expecting any material

benefit from such actions. At the end, he does win on his own

ingenuity and resourcefulness, and if we regret that his trickery has

such wonderful results, we must remember the aim was to win the

princess for herself, and that there was little choice left him. I

consider that the end of this story is one of the most remarkable I

have found in my long years of browsing among fairy tales. I should

suggest stopping at the words: "The Tub is full," as any addition

seems to destroy the subtlety of the story.[25]

Another story of this kind, admirable for children from six years and

upwards, is, "What the Old Man Does is Always Right." Here, perhaps,

the entire lack of common-sense on the part of the hero would serve

rather as a warning than a stimulating example, but the conduct of

the wife in excusing the errors of her foolish husband is a model of

resourcefulness.

In the story of "Hereafter-this,"[26] we have just the converse: a

perfectly foolish wife shielded by a most patient and forbearing

husband, whose tolerance and common-sense save the situation.

One of the most important elements to seek in our choice of stories is

that which tends to develop, eventually, a fine sense of humor in a

child. I purposely use the word, "eventually," because I realize,

first, that humor has various stages, and that seldom, if ever, can

one expect an appreciation of fine humor from a normal child, that is,

from an elemental mind. It seems as if the rough-and-tumble element

were almost a necessary stage through which children must pass, and

which is a normal and healthy stage; but up to now we have quite

unnecessarily extended the period of elephantine fun, and, though we

cannot control the manner in which children are catered to along this

line in their homes, we can restrict the folly of appealing too

strongly or too long to this elemental faculty in our schools. Of

course, the temptation is strong because the appeal is so easy, but

there is a tacit recognition that horseplay and practical jokes are

no longer considered as an essential part of a child's education.

We note this in the changed attitude in the schools, taken by more

advanced educators, towards bullying, fagging, hazing, etc. As a

reaction, then, from more obvious fun, there should be a certain

number of stories which make appeal to a more subtle element, and

in the chapter on the questions put to me by teachers on various

occasions I speak more in detail as to the educational value of a

finer humor in our stories.

At some period there ought to be presented in our stories the

superstitions connected with the primitive history of the race, dealing

with the fairy proper, giants, dwarfs, gnomes, nixies, brownies and

other elemental beings. Andrew Lang says: "Without our savage ancestors

we should have had no poetry. Conceive the human race born into the

world in its present advanced condition, weighing, analyzing, examining

everything. Such a race would have been destitute of poetry and

flattened by common-sense. Barbarians did the _dreaming_ of the world."

But it is a question of much debate among educators as to what should

be the period of the child's life in which these stories are to be

presented. I, myself, was formerly of the opinion that they belonged

to the very primitive age of the individual, just as they belong to

the primitive age of the race, but experience in telling stories has

taught me to compromise.

Some people maintain that little children, who take things with brutal

logic, ought not to be allowed the fairy tale in its more limited form

of the supernatural; whereas, if presented to older children, this

material can be criticized, catalogued and (alas!) rejected as

worthless, or retained with flippant toleration.

While realizing a certain value in this point of view, I am bound to

admit that if we regulate our stories entirely on this basis, we lose

the real value of the fairy tale element. It is the one element which

causes little children to _wonder_, simply because no scientific

analysis of the story can be presented to them. It is somewhat

heartrending to feel that "Jack and the Bean Stalk" and stories of

that ilk are to be handed over to the critical youth who will condemn

the quick growth of the tree as being contrary to the order of nature,

and wonder why _Jack_ was not playing football on the school team

instead of climbing trees in search of imaginary adventures.

A wonderful plea for the telling of early superstitions to children is

to be found in an old Indian allegory called, "The Blazing Mansion."

An old man owned a large rambling Mansion. The pillars were

rotten, the galleries tumbling down, the thatch dry and combustible,

and there was only one door. Suddenly, one day, there was a smell

of fire: the old man rushed out. To his horror he saw that the

thatch was aflame, the rotten pillars were catching fire one by

one, and the rafters were burning like tinder. But, inside, the

children went on amusing themselves quite happily. The distracted

Father said: "I will run in and save my children. I will seize

them in my strong arms, I will bear them harmless through the

falling rafters and the blazing beams." Then the sad thought

came to him that the children were romping and ignorant. "If

I say the house is on fire, they will not understand me. If

I try to seize them, they will romp about and try to escape.

Alas! not a moment to be lost!" Suddenly a bright thought

flashed across the old man's mind. "My children are ignorant,"

he said; "they love toys and glittering playthings. I will

promise them playthings of unheard-of beauty. Then they will

listen."

So the old man shouted: "Children, come out of the house and see

these beautiful toys! Chariots with white oxen, all gold and

tinsel. See these exquisite little antelopes. Whoever saw

such goats as these? Children, children come quickly, or they

will all be gone!"

Forth from the blazing ruin the children came in hot haste. The

word, "plaything," was almost the only word they could understand.

Then the Father, rejoiced that his offspring were freed from peril,

procured for them one of the most beautiful chariots ever seen.

The chariot had a canopy like a pagoda; it had tiny rails and

balustrades and rows of jingling bells. Milk-white oxen drew

the chariot. The children were astonished when they were placed

inside.[27]

Perhaps, as a compromise, one might give the gentler superstitions

to very small children, and leave such a blood-curdling story as

"Bluebeard" to a more robust age.

There is one modern method which has always seemed to me much to be

condemned, and that is the habit of changing the end of a story, for

fear of alarming the child. This is quite indefensible. In doing

this we are tampering with folklore and confusing stages of development.

Now, I know that there are individual children that, at a tender age,

might be alarmed at such a story, for instance, as "Little Red Riding-

Hood"; in which case, it is better to sacrifice the "wonder stage" and

present the story later on.

I live in dread of finding one day a bowdlerized form of "Bluebeard,"

prepared for a junior standard, in which, to produce a satisfactory

finale, all the wives come to life again, and "live happily ever

after" with Bluebeard and each other!

And from this point it seems an easy transition to the subject of

legends of different kinds. Some of the old country legends in

connection with flowers are very charming for children, and so long as

we do not tread on the sacred ground of the nature students, we may

indulge in a moderate use of such stories, of which a few will be

found in the List of Stories, given later.

With regard to the introduction of legends connected with saints into

the school curriculum, my chief plea is the element of the unusual

which they contain and an appeal to a sense of mysticism and wonder

which is a wise antidote to the prosaic and commercial tendencies of

today. Though many of the actions of the saints may be the result of

a morbid strain of self-sacrifice, at least none of them was engaged

in the sole occupation of becoming rich: their ideals were often lofty

and unselfish; their courage high, and their deeds noble. We must be

careful, in the choice of our legends, to show up the virile qualities

rather than to dwell on the elements of horror in details of martyrdom,

or on the too-constantly recurring miracles, lest we should defeat our

own ends. For the children might think lightly of the dangers to which

the saints were exposed if they found them too often preserved at the

last moment from the punishment they were brave enough to undergo. For

one or another of these reasons, I should avoid the detailed history of

St. Juliana, St. Vincent, St. Quintin, St. Eustace, St. Winifred, St.

Theodore, St. James the More, St. Katharine, St. Cuthbert, St. Alphage,

St. Peter of Milan, St. Quirine and Juliet, St. Alban and others.

The danger of telling stories connected with sudden conversions is

that they are apt to place too much emphasis on the process, rather

than on the goal to be reached. We should always insist on the

splendid deeds performed after a real conversion, not the details of

the conversion itself; as, for instance, the beautiful and poetical

work done by St. Christopher when he realized what work he could do

most effectively.

On the other hand, there are many stories of the saints dealing with

actions and motives which would appeal to the imagination and are not

only worthy of imitation, but are not wholly outside the life and

experience even of the child.[28]

Having protested against the elephantine joke and the too-frequent use

of exaggerated fun, I now endeavor to restore the balance by suggesting

the introduction into the school curriculum of a few purely grotesque

stories which serve as an antidote to sentimentality or utilitarianism.

But they must be presented as nonsense, so that the children may use

them for what they are intended as--pure relaxation. Such a story is

that of "The Wolf and the Kids," which I present in my own version at

the end of the book. I have had serious objections offered to this

story by several educational people, because of the revenge taken by the

goat on the wolf, but I am inclined to think that if the story is to be

taken as anything but sheer nonsense, it is surely sentimental to extend

our sympathy toward a caller who has devoured six of his hostess'

children. With regard to the wolf being cut open, there is not the

slightest need to accentuate the physical side. Children accept the

deed as they accept the cutting off of a giant's head, because they do

not associate it with pain, especially if the deed is presented half

humorously. The moment in the story where their sympathy is aroused is

the swallowing of the kids, because the children do realize the

possibility of being disposed of in the mother's absence. (Needless to

say, I never point out the moral of the kids' disobedience to the mother

in opening the door.) I have always noticed a moment of breathlessness

even in a grown-up audience when the wolf swallows the kids, and that

the recovery of them "all safe and sound, all huddled together" is quite

as much appreciated by the adult audience as by the children, and is

worth the tremor caused by the wolf's summary action.

I have not always been able to impress upon the teachers the fact that

this story _must_ be taken lightly. A very earnest young student

came to me once after the telling of this story and said in an awe-

struck voice: "Do you cor-relate?" Having recovered from the effect

of this word, which she carefully explained, I said that, as a rule, I

preferred to keep the story quite apart from the other lessons, just

an undivided whole, because it had effects of its own which were best

brought about by not being connected with other lessons. She frowned

her disapproval and said: "I am sorry, because I thought I would take

the Goat for my nature study lesson and then tell your story at the

end." I thought of the terrible struggle in the child's mind between

his conscientious wish to be accurate and his dramatic enjoyment of

the abnormal habits of a goat who went out with scissors, needle and

thread; but I have been most careful since to repudiate any connection

with nature study in this and a few other stories in my repertoire.

One might occasionally introduce one of Edward Lear's "Nonsense

Rhymes." For instance:

There was an Old Man of Cape Horn

Who wished he had never been born.

So he sat in a chair

Till he died of despair,

That dolorous Old Man of Cape Horn.

Now, except in case of very young children, this could not possibly

be taken seriously. The least observant normal boy or girl would

recognize the hollowness of the pessimism that prevents an old man

from at least an attempt to rise from his chair.

The following I have chosen as repeated with intense appreciation and

much dramatic vigor by a little boy just five years old:

There was an old man who said: "Hush!

I perceive a young bird in that bush."

When they said: "Is it small?"

He replied, "Not at all.

It is four times as large as the bush."[29]

One of the most desirable of all elements to introduce into our

stories is that which encourages kinship with animals. With very

young children this is easy, because during those early years when the

mind is not clogged with knowledge, the sympathetic imagination

enables them to enter into the feeling of animals. Andersen has an

illustration of this point in his "Ice Maiden":

"Children who cannot talk yet can understand the language of fowls and

ducks quite well, and cats and dogs speak to them quite as plainly as

Father and Mother; but that is only when the children are very small,

and then even Grandpapa's stick will become a perfect horse to them

that can neigh and, in their eyes, is furnished with legs and a tail.

With some children this period ends later than with others, and of

such we are accustomed to say that they are very backward, and that

they have remained children for a long time. People are in the habit

of saying strange things."

Felix Adler says:

"Perhaps the chief attraction of fairy tales is due to their

representing the child as living in brotherly friendship with nature

and all creatures. Trees, flowers, animals, wild and tame, even the

stars are represented as comrades of children. That animals are only

human beings in disguise is an axiom in the fairy tales. Animals

are humanized, that is, the kinship between animal and human life

is still keenly felt, and this reminds us of those early animistic

interpretations of nature which subsequently led to doctrines

of metempsychosis."[30]

I think that beyond question the finest animal stories are to be

found in the Indian collections, of which I furnish a list in the

last chapter.

With regard to the development of the love of Nature through the

telling of stories, we are confronted with a great difficulty in the

elementary schools because so many of the children have never been out

of the towns, have never seen a daisy, a blade of grass and scarcely a

tree, so that in giving, in the form of a story, a beautiful

description of scenery, you can make no appeal to the retrospective

imagination, and only the rarely gifted child well be able to make

pictures while listening to a style which is beyond his everyday use.

Nevertheless, once in a while, when the children are in a quiet mood,

not eager for action but able to give themselves up to the pure joy of

sound, then it is possible to give them a beautiful piece of writing

in praise of Nature, such as the following, taken from "The Divine

Adventure," by Fiona Macleod:

Then he remembered the ancient wisdom of the Gael and came

out of the Forest Chapel and went into the woods. He put

his lip to the earth, and lifted a green leaf to his brow,

and held a branch to his ear; and because he was no longer

heavy with the sweet clay of mortality, though yet of human

clan, he heard that which we do not hear, and saw that which

we do not see, and knew that which we do not know. All the

green life was his. In that new world he saw the lives of

trees, now pale green, now of woodsmoke blue, now of amethyst;

the gray lives of stone; breaths of the grass and reed,

creatures of the air, delicate and wild as fawns, or

swift and fierce and terrible tigers of that undiscovered

wilderness, with birds almost invisible but for their

luminous wings, and opalescent crests.

The value of this particular passage is the mystery pervading the

whole picture, which forms so beautiful an antidote to the eternal

explaining of things. I think it of the highest importance for the

children to realize that the best and most beautiful things cannot be

expressed in everyday language and that they must content themselves

with a flash here and there of the beauty which may come later. One

does not enhance the beauty of the mountain by pulling to pieces some

of the earthy clogs; one does not increase the impression of a vast

ocean by analyzing the single drops of water. But at a reverent

distance one gets a clear impression of the whole, and can afford to

leave the details in the shadow.

In presenting such passages (and it must be done very sparingly),

experience has taught me that we should take the children into our

confidence by telling them frankly that nothing exciting is going to

happen, so that they well be free to listen to the mere words. A very

interesting experiment might occasionally be made by asking the

children some weeks afterwards to tell you in their own words what

pictures were made on their minds. This is a very different thing

from allowing the children to reproduce the passage at once, the

danger of which proceeding I speak of later in detail.[31]

We now come to the question as to what proportion of _dramatic

excitement_ we should present in the stories for a normal group of

children. Personally, I should like, while the child is very young,

I mean in main, not in years, to exclude the element of dramatic

excitement, but though this may be possible for the individual child,

it is quite Utopian to hope that we can keep the average child free

from what is in the atmosphere. Children crave for excitement, and

unless we give it to them in legitimate form, they will take it in any

riotous form it presents itself, and if from our experience we can

control their mental digestion by a moderate supply of what they

demand, we may save them from devouring too eagerly the raw material

they can so easily find for themselves.

There is a humorous passage bearing on this question in the story of

the small Scotch boy, when he asks leave of his parents to present the

pious little book--a gift to himself from an aunt to a little sick

friend, hoping probably that the friend's chastened condition will make

him more lenient towards this mawkish form of literature. The parents

expostulate, pointing out to their son how ungrateful he is, and how

ungracious it would be to part with his aunt's gift. Then the boy can

contain himself no longer. He bursts out, unconsciously expressing the

normal attitude of children at a certain stage of development:

"It's a _daft_ book ony way: there's naebody gets kilt ent. I like

stories about folk gettin' their heids cut off, or there's nae wile

beasts. I I like stories about black men gettin' ate up, an' white

men killin' lions and tigers an' bears an'---"

Then, again, we have the passage from George Eliot's "Mill on

the Floss":

"Oh, dear! I wish they would not fight at your school, Tom. Didn't

it hurt you?"

"Hurt me? No," said Tom, putting up the hooks again, taking out a

large pocketknife, and slowly opening the largest blade, which he

looked at meditatively as he rubbed his finger along it. Then he

added:

"I gave Spooner a black eye--that's what he got for wanting to leather

me. I wasn't going to go halves because anybody leathered me."

"Oh! how brave you are, Tom. I think you are like Samson. If there

came a lion roaring at men, I think you'd fight him, wouldn't you, Tom?"

"How can a lion come roaring at you, you silly thing? There's no lions

only in the shows."

"No, but if we were in the lion countries--I mean in Africa where it's

very hot, the lions eat people there. I can show it you in the book

where I read it."

"Well, I should get a gun and shoot him."

"But if you hadn't a gun?--we might have gone out, you know, not

thinking, just as we go out fishing, and then a great lion might come

towards us roaring, and we could not get away from him. What should

you do, Tom?"

Tom paused, and at last turned away contemptuously, saying: "But the

lion _isn't_ coming. What's the use of talking?"

This passage illustrates also the difference between the highly-

developed imagination of the one and the stodgy prosaical temperament

of the other. Tom could enter into the elementary question of giving

his schoolfellow a black eye, but could not possibly enter into the

drama of the imaginary arrival of a lion. He was sorely in need of

fairy stories.

It is to this element we have to cater, and we cannot shirk our

responsibilities.

William James says:

"Living things, moving things or things that savor of danger or blood,

that have a dramatic quality, these are the things natively interesting

to childhood, to the exclusion of almost everything else, and the

teacher of young children, until more artificial interests have grown

up, will keep in touch with his pupils by constant appeal to such

matters as these."[32]

Of course the savor of danger and blood is only _one_ of the things to

which we should appeal, but I give the whole passage to make the point

clearer.

This is one of the most difficult parts of our selection, namely, how

to present enough excitement for the child and yet include enough

constructive element which will satisfy him when the thirst for

"blugginess" is slaked.

And here I should like to say that, while wishing to encourage in

children great admiration and reverence for the courage and other fine

qualities which have been displayed in times of war and which have

mitigated its horrors, I think we should show that some of the finest

moments in these heroes' lives had nothing to do with their profession

as soldiers. Thus, we have the well-known story of Sir Philip Sydney

and the soldier; the wonderful scene where Roland drags the bodies of

his dead friends to receive the blessing of the Archbishop after the

battle of Roncesvall;[33] and of Napoleon sending the sailor back to

England. There is a moment in the story of Gunnar when he pauses in

the midst of the slaughter of his enemies, and says, "I wonder if I am

less base than others, because I kill men less willingly than they."

And in the "Burning of Njal,"[34] we have the words of the boy, Thord,

when his grandmother, Bergthora, urges him to go out of the burning

house.

"'You promised me when I was little, grandmother, that I should never

go from you till I wished it of myself. And I would rather die with

you than live after you.'"

Here the moral courage is so splendidly shown: none of these heroes

feared to die in battle or in open single fight; but to face death by

fire for higher considerations is a point of view worth presenting to

the child.

In spite of all the dramatic excitement roused by the conduct of our

soldiers and sailors, should we not try to offer also in our stories

the romance and excitement of saving as well as taking life?

I would have quite a collection dealing with the thrilling adventures

of the Lifeboat and the Fire Brigade, of which I shall present

examples in the final story list.

Finally, we ought to include a certain number of stories dealing with

death, especially with children who are of an age to realize that it

must come to all, and that this is not a calamity but a perfectly

natural and simple thing. At present the child in the street

invariably connects death with sordid accidents. I think they should

have stories of death coming in heroic form, as when a man or woman

dies for a great cause, in which he has opportunity of admiring

courage, devotion and unselfishness; or of death coming as a result of

treachery, such as we find in the death of Baldur, the death of

Siegfried, and others, so that children may learn to abhor such deeds;

but also a fair proportion of stories dealing with death that comes

naturally, when our work is done, and our strength gone, which has no

more tragedy than the falling of a leaf from the tree. In this way,

we can give children the first idea that the individual is so much

less than the whole.

Little children often take death very naturally. A boy of five met

two of his older companions at the school door. They said sadly and

solemnly: "We have just seen a dead man!" "Well," said the little

philosopher, "that's all right. We've _all_ got to die when our

work is done."

In one of the Buddha stories which I reproduce at the end of this

book, the little Hare (who is, I think, a symbol of nervous

individualism) constantly says: "Suppose the Earth were to fall

in, what would become of me?"

As an antidote to the ordinary attitude towards death, I commend an

episode from a German folklore story which is called "Unlucky John,"

and which is included in the list of stories recommended at the end

of this book.

The following sums up in poetic form some of the material necessary

for the wants of a child.

THE CHILD

The little new soul has come to earth,

He has taken his staff for the pilgrim's way.

His sandals are girt on his tender feet,

And he carries his scrip for what gifts he may.

What will you give to him, Fate Divine?

What for his scrip on the winding road?

A crown for his head, or a laurel wreath?

A sword to wield, or is gold his load?

What will you give him for weal or woe?

What for the journey through day and night?

Give or withhold from him power and fame,

But give to him love of the earth's delight.

Let him be lover of wind and sun

And of falling rain; and the friend of trees;

With a singing heart for the pride of noon,

And a tender heart for what twilight sees.

Let him be lover of you and yours--

The Child and Mary; but also Pan

And the sylvan gods of the woods and hills,

And the god that is hid in his fellowman.

Love and a song and the joy of the earth,

These be gifts for his scrip to keep

Till, the journey ended, he stands at last

In the gathering dark, at the gate of sleep.

ETHEL CLIFFORD

And so our stories should contain all the essentials for the child's

scrip on the road of life, providing the essentials and holding or

withholding the non-essentials. But, above all, let us fill the scrip

with gifts that the child need never reject, even when he passes

through to "the gate of sleep."

CHAPTER V. HOW TO OBTAIN AND MAINTAIN THE EFFECT OF THE STORY.

We are now come to the most important part of the question of story-

telling, to which all the foregoing remarks have been gradually

leading, and that is the effect of these stories upon the child, quite

apart from the dramatic joy he experiences in listening to them, which

would in itself be quite enough to justify us in the telling. But,

since I have urged the extreme importance of giving so much time to

the manner of telling and of bestowing so much care in the selection

of the material, it is right that we should expect some permanent

results or else those who are not satisfied with the mere enjoyment of

the children will seek other methods of appeal--it is to them that I

most specially dedicate this chapter.

I think we are of the threshold of the re-discovery of an old truth,

that _dramatic presentation_ is the quickest and the surest

method of appeal, because it is the only one with which memory plays

no tricks. If a thing has appeared before us in a vital form nothing

can really destroy it; it is because things are often given in a

blurred, faint light that they gradually fade out of our memory. A

very keen scientist was deploring to me, on one occasion, the fact

that stories were told so much in the schools, to the detriment of

science, for which he claimed the same indestructible element that I

recognize in the best-told stories. Being very much interested in her

point of view, I asked her to tell me, looking back on her school

days, what she could remember as standing out from other less clear

information. After thinking some little time over the matter, she

said with some embarrassment, but with candor that did her much honor:

"Well, now I come to think of it, it was the story of Cinderella."

Now, I am not holding any brief for this story in particular. I think

the reason it was remembered was because of the dramatic form in which

it was presented to her, which fired her imagination and kept the

memory alight. I quite realize that a scientific fact might also have

been easily remembered if it had been presented in the form of a

successful chemical experiment; but this also has something of the

dramatic appeal and will be remembered on that account.

Sully says: "We cannot understand the fascination of a story for

children save in remembering that for their young minds, quick to

imagine, and unversed in abstract reflection, words are not dead

things but _winged_, as the old Greeks called them."[35]

The _Red Queen_, in "Alice Through the Looking-Glass," was more

psychological than she was aware of when she made the memorable

statement: "When once you've _said_ a thing, that _fixes_ it, and

you must take the consequences."

In Curtin's "Introduction to Myths and Folk Tales of the Russians",

he says:

"I remember well the feeling roused in my mind at the mention or sight

of the name _Lucifer_ during the early years of my life. It stood for

me as the name of a being stupendous, dreadful in moral deformity,

lurid, hideous and mighty. I remember the surprise with which, when I

had grown somewhat older and began to study Latin, I came upon the name

in Virgil where it means _light-bringer_--the herald of the Sun."

Plato has said that "the end of education should be the training by

suitable habits of the instincts of virtue in the child."

About two thousand years later, Sir Philip Sydney, in his "Defence of

Poesy," says: "The final end of learning is to draw and lead us to so

high a perfection as our degenerate souls, made worse by their clay

lodgings, can be capable of."

And yet it is neither the Greek philosopher nor the Elizabethan poet

that makes the everyday application of these principles; but we have

a hint of this application from the Pueblo tribe of Indians, of whom

Lummis tells us the following:

"There is no duty to which a Pueblo child is trained in which he has

to be content with a bare command: do this. For each, he learns a

fairy-tale designed to explain how children first came to know that

it was right to 'do this,' and detailing the sad results that befall

those who did otherwise. Some tribes have regular story-tellers, men

who have devoted a great deal of time to learning the myths and stories

of their people and who possess, in addition to good memory, a vivid

imagination. The mother sends for one of these, and having prepared a

feast for him, she and her little brood, who are curled up near her,

await the fairy stories of the dreamer who after his feast and smoke

entertains the company for hours."

In modern times, the nurse, who is now receiving such complete training

for her duties with children, should be ready to imitate the "dreamer"

of the Indian tribe. I rejoice to find that regular instruction in

story-telling is being given in many of the institutions where the

nurses are trained.

Some years ago there appeared a book by Dion Calthrop called "King

Peter," which illustrates very fully the effect of story-telling. It

is the account of the education of a young prince which is carried on

at first by means of stories, and later he is taken out into the arena

of life to show what is happening there--the dramatic appeal being

always the means used to awaken his imagination. The fact that only

_one_ story a year is told him prevents our seeing the effect from day

to day, but the time matters little. We only need faith to believe

that the growth, though slow, was sure.

There is something of the same idea in the "Adventures of Telemachus,"

written by Fenelon for his royal pupil, the young Duke of Burgundy, but

whereas Calthrop trusts to the results of indirect teaching by means of

dramatic stories, Fenelon, on the contrary, makes use of the somewhat

heavy, didactic method, so that one would think the attention of the

young prince must have wandered at times; and I imagine Telemachus was

in the same condition when he was addressed at such length by Mentor,

who, being Minerva, though in disguise, should occasionally have

displayed that sense of humor which must always temper true wisdom.

Take, for instance the heavy reproof conveyed in the following passage:

"Death and shipwreck are less dreadful than the pleasures that attack

Virtue. . . . Youth is full of presumption and arrogance, though

nothing in the world is so frail: it fears nothing, and vainly relies

utmost levity and without any precaution."

And on another occasion, when Calypso hospitably provides clothes for

the shipwrecked men, and Telemachus is handling a tunic of the finest

wool and white as snow, with a vest of purple embroidered with gold,

and displaying much pleasure in the magnificence of the clothes,

Mentor addresses him in a severe voice, saying: "Are these, O

Telemachus, the thoughts that ought to occupy the heart of the son

of Ulysses? A young man who loves to dress vainly, as a woman does,

is unworthy of wisdom or glory."

I remember, as a school girl of thirteen, having to commit to memory

several books of these adventures, so as to become familiar with the

style. Far from being impressed by the wisdom of Mentor, I was simply

bored, and wondered why Telemachus did not escape from him. The only

part in the book that really interested me was Calypso's unrequited

love for Telemachus, but this was always the point where we ceased to

learn by heart, which surprised me greatly, for it was here that the

real human interest seemed to begin.

Of all the effects which I hope for from the telling of stories in the

schools, I, personally, place first the dramatic joy we bring to the

children and to ourselves. But there are many who would consider this

result as fantastic, if not frivolous, and not to be classed among the

educational values connected with the introduction of stories into the

school curriculum. I, therefore, propose to speak of other effects of

story-telling which may seem of more practical value.

The first, which is of a purely negative character, is that through

means of a dramatic story we may counteract some of the sights and

sounds of the street which appeal to the melodramatic instinct in

children. I am sure that all teachers whose work lies in crowded

cities must have realized the effect produced on children by what they

see and hear on their way to and from school. If we merely consider

the bill boards with their realistic representations, quite apart from

the actual dramatic happenings in the street, we at once perceive that

the ordinary school interests pale before such lurid appeals as these.

How can we expect the child who has stood openmouthed before a poster

representing a woman chloroformed by a burglar (while that hero

escapes in safety with jewels) to display any interest in the arid

monotony of the multiplication table? The illegitimate excitement

created by the sight of the depraved burglar can only be counteracted

by something equally exciting along the realistic but legitimate side

of appeal; and this is where the story of the right kind becomes so

valuable, and why the teacher who is artistic enough to undertake the

task can find the short path to results which theorists seek for so

long in vain. It is not even necessary to have an exceedingly

exciting story; sometimes one which will bring about pure reaction may

be just as suitable.

I remember in my personal experience an instance of this kind. I had

been reading with some children of about ten years old the story from

"Cymbeline" of _Imogen_ in the forest scene, when the brothers strew

flowers upon her, and sing the funeral dirge,

Fear no more the heat of the sun.

Just as we had all taken on this tender, gentle mood, the door opened

and one of the prefects announced in a loud voice the news of the

relief of Mafeking. The children were on their feet at once, cheering

lustily, and for the moment the joy over the relief of the brave

garrison was the predominant feeling. Then, I took advantage of a

momentary reaction and said: "Now, children, don't you think we can

pay England the tribute of going back to England's greatest poet?" In

a few minutes we were back in the heart of the forest, and I can still

hear the delightful intonation of those subdued voices repeating,

Golden lads and girls all must

Like chimney-sweepers come to dust.

It is interesting to note that the same problem that is exercising us

today was a source of difficulty to people in remote times. The

following is taken from an old Chinese document, and has particular

interest for us at this time:

"The philosopher, Mentius (born 371 B. C.), was left fatherless at a

very tender age and brought up by his mother, Changsi. The care of

this prudent and attentive mother has been cited as a model for all

virtuous parents. The house she occupied was near that of a butcher;

she observed at the first cry of the animals that were being

slaughtered, the little Mentius ran to be present at the sight, and

that, on his return, he sought to imitate what he had seen. Fearful

lest his heart might become hardened, and accustomed to the sights of

blood, she removed to another house which was in the neighborhood of a

cemetery. The relations of those who were buried there came often to

weep upon their graves, and make their customary libations. The lad

soon took pleasure in their ceremonies and amused himself by imitating

them. This was a new subject of uneasiness to his mother: she feared

her son might come to consider as a jest what is of all things the

most serious, and that he might acquire a habit of performing with

levity, and as a matter of routine merely, ceremonies which demand the

most exact attention and respect. Again, therefore, she anxiously

changed the dwelling, and went to live in the city, opposite a school,

where her son found examples the most worthy of imitation, and began

to profit by them. This anecdote has become incorporated by the

Chinese into a proverb, which they constantly quote: The mother of

Mentius seeks a neighborhood."

Another influence we have to counteract is that of newspaper headings

and placards which catch the eye of children in the streets and appeal

so powerfully to their imagination.

Shakespeare has said:

Tell me where is Fancy bred,

Or in the heart, or in the head?

How begot, how nourished?

It is engendered in the eyes

With gazing fed,

And Fancy dies in the cradle where it lies.

Let us all ring Fancy's knell.

I'll begin it--ding, dong, bell.

"Merchant of Venice."

If this be true, it is of importance to decide what our children shall

look upon as far as we can control the vision, so that we can form

some idea of the effect upon their imagination.

Having alluded to the dangerous influence of the street, I should

hasten to say that this influence is very far from being altogether

bad. There are possibilities of romance in street life which may have

just the same kind of effect on children as the telling of exciting

stories. I am indebted to Mrs. Arnold Glover, Honorary Secretary of

the National Organization of Girls' Clubs,[36] one of the most widely

informed people on this subject, for the two following experiences

gathered from the streets and which bear indirectly on the subject of

story-telling:

Mrs. Glover was visiting a sick woman in a very poor neighborhood, and

found, sitting on the door-step of the house, two little children,

holding something tightly grasped in their little hands, and gazing

with much expectancy towards the top of the street. She longed to

know what they were doing, but not being one of those unimaginative

and tactless folk who rush headlong into the mysteries of children's

doings, she passed them at first in silence. It was only when she

found them still in the same silent and expectant posture half an hour

later that she said tentatively: "I wonder whether you would tell me

what you are doing here?" After some hesitation, one of them said, in

a shy voice: "We're waitin' for the barrer." It then transpired

that, once a week, a vegetable-and-flower-cart was driven through this

particular street, on its way to a more prosperous neighborhood, and

on a few red-letter days, a flower, or a sprig, or even a root

sometimes fell out of the back of the cart; and these two little

children were sitting there in hope, with their hands full of soil,

ready to plant anything which might by some golden chance fall that

way, in their secret garden of oyster shells.

This seems to me as charming a fairy tale as any that our books

can supply.

On another occasion, Mrs. Glover was collecting the pennies for the

Holiday Fund Savings Bank from the children who came weekly to her

house. She noticed on three consecutive Mondays that one little lad

deliberately helped himself to a new envelope from her table. Not

wishing to frighten or startle him, she allowed this to continue for

some weeks, and then one day, having dismissed the other children, she

asked him quite quietly why he was taking the envelopes. At first he

was very sulky, and said: "I need them more than you do." She quite

agreed this might be, but reminded him that, after all, they belonged

to her. She promised, however, that if he would tell her for what

purpose he wanted the envelopes, she would endeavor to help him in the

matter. Then came the astonishing announcement: "I am building a

navy." After a little more gradual questioning, Mrs. Glover drew from

the boy the information that the Borough water carts passed through

the side street once a week, flushing the gutter; that then the

envelope ships were made to sail on the water and pass under the

covered ways which formed bridges for wayfarers and tunnels for the

"navy." Great was the excitement when the ships passed out of sight

and were recognized as they arrived safely at the other end. Of

course, the expenses in raw material were greatly diminished by the

illicit acquisition of Mrs. Glover's property, and in this way she had

unconsciously provided the neighborhood with a navy and a commander.

Her first instinct, after becoming acquainted with the whole story,

was to present the boy with a real boat, but on second thought she

collected and gave him a number of old envelopes with names and

addresses upon them, which added greatly to the excitement of the

sailing, because they could be more easily identified as they came out

of the other end of the tunnel, and had their respective reputations

as to speed.

Here is indeed food for romance, and I give both instances to prove

that the advantages of street life are to be taken into consideration

as well as the disadvantages, though I think we are bound to admit

that the latter outweigh the former.

One of the immediate results of dramatic stories is the escape from the

commonplace, to which I have already alluded in quoting Mr. Goschen's

words. The desire for this escape is a healthy one, common to adults

and children. When we wish to get away from our own surroundings and

interests, we do for ourselves what I maintain we ought to do for

children: we step into the land of fiction. It has always been a source

of astonishment to me that, in trying to escape from our own everyday

surroundings, we do not step more boldly into the land of pure romance,

which would form a real contrast to our everyday life, but, in nine

cases out of ten, the fiction which is sought after deals with the

subjects of our ordinary existence, namely, frenzied finance, sordid

poverty, political corruption, fast society, and religious doubts.

There is the same danger in the selection of fiction for children:

namely, a tendency to choose very utilitarian stories, both in form

and substance, so that we do not lift the children out of the

commonplace. I remember once seeing the titles of two little books,

the contents of which were being read or told to children; one was

called, "Tom the Bootblack"; the other, "Dan the Newsboy." My chief

objection to these stories was the fact that neither of the heroes

rejoiced in his work for the work's sake. Had _Tom_ even invented a

new kind of blacking, or if _Dan_ had started a newspaper, it might

have been encouraging for those among the listeners who were thinking

of engaging in similar professions. It is true, both gentlemen amassed

large fortunes, but surely the school age is not to be limited to such

dreams and aspirations as these! One wearies of the tales of boys who

arrive in a town with one cent in their pocket and leave it as

millionaires, with the added importance of a mayoralty. It is

undoubtedly true that the romantic prototype of these worthy youths is

_Dick Whittingon_, for whom we unconsciously cherish the affection which

we often bestow on a far-off personage. Perhaps--who can say?--it is

the picturesque adjunct of the cat, lacking to modern millionaires.

I do not think it Utopian to present to children a fair share of

stories which deal with the importance of things "untouched by hand."

They, too, can learn at an early age that "the things which are seen

are temporal, but the things which are unseen are spiritual." To

those who wish to try the effect of such stories on children, I

present for their encouragement the following lines from James

Whitcomb Riley:

THE TREASURE OF THE WISE MAN[37]

Oh, the night was dark and the night was late,

When the robbers came to rob him;

And they picked the lock of his palace-gate,

The robbers who came to rob him--;

They picked the lock of the palace-gate,

Seized his jewels and gems of State,

His coffers of gold and his priceless plate,--

The robbers that came to rob him.

But loud laughed he in the morning red!--

For of what had the robbers robbed him?

Ho! hidden safe, as he slept in bed,

When the robbers came to rob him,--

They robbed him not of a golden shred

Of the childish dreams in his wise old head-

"And they're welcome to all things else," he said,

When the robbers came to rob him.

There is a great deal of this romantic spirit, combined with a

delightful sense of irresponsibility, which I claim above all things

for small children, to be found in our old nursery rhymes. I quote

from the following article written by the Rev. R. L. Gales for the

_Nation_.

After speaking on the subject of fairy stories being eliminated from

the school curriculum, the writer adds:

"This would be lessening the joy of the world and taking from

generations yet unborn the capacity for wonder, the power to take a

large unselfish interest in the spectacle of things, and putting them

forever at the mercy of small private cares.

"A nursery rhyme is the most sane, the most unselfish thing in the

world. It calls up some delightful image--a little nut-tree with a

silver walnut and a golden pear; some romantic adventure only for the

child's delight and liberation from the bondage of unseeing dullness:

it brings before the mind the quintessence of some good thing:

"'The little dog laughed to see such sport'--there is the soul of

good humor, of sanity, of health in the laughter of that innocently

wicked little dog. It is the laughter of pure frolic without

unkindness. To have laughed with the little dog as a child is the

best preservative against mirthless laughter in later years--the

horse laughter of brutality, the ugly laughter of spite, the acrid

laughter of fanaticism. The world of nursery rhymes, the old world of

Mrs. Slipper-Slopper, is the world of natural things, of quick,

healthy motion, of the joy of living.

"In nursery rhymes the child is entertained with all the pageant of

the world. It walks in fairy gardens, and for it the singing birds

pass. All the King's horses and all the King's men pass before it in

their glorious array. Craftsmen of all sorts, bakers, confectioners,

silversmiths, blacksmiths are busy for it with all their arts and

mysteries, as at the court of an eastern King."

In insisting upon the value of this escape from the commonplace, I

cannot prove the importance of it more clearly than by showing what

may happen to a child who is deprived of his birthright by having none

of the fairy tale element presented to him. In "Father and Son," Mr.

Edmund Gosse says:

"Meanwhile, capable as I was of reading, I found my greatest pleasure

in the pages of books. The range of these was limited, for storybooks

of every description were sternly excluded. No fiction of any kind,

religious or secular, was admitted into the house. In this it was to

my Mother, not to my Father, that the prohibition was due. She had a

remarkable, I confess, to me somewhat unaccountable impression that to

'tell a story,' that is, to compose fictitious narrative of any king,

was a sin. . . . Nor would she read the chivalrous tales in the verse

of Sir Walter Scott, obstinately alleging that they were not true. She

would nothing but lyrical and subjective poetry. As a child, however,

she had possessed a passion for making up stories, and so considerable

a skill in it, that she was constantly being begged to indulge others

with its exercise. . . . 'When I was a very little child,' she says,

'I used to amuse myself and my brothers with inventing stories such as

I had read. Having, I suppose, a naturally restless mind and busy

imagination, this soon became the chief pleasure of my life.

Unfortunately, my brothers were always fond of encouraging this

propensity, and I found in Taylor, my maid, a still greater tempter.

I had not known there was any harm in it, until Miss Shore, a

Calvinistic governess, finding it out, lectured me severely and told

me it was wicked. From that time forth, I considered that to invent a

story of any kind was a sin. . . . But the longing to do so grew with

violence. . . . The simplicity of Truth was not enough for me. I must

needs embroider imagination upon it, and the vanity and wickedness

which disgraced my heart are more than I am able to express.' This

[the author, her son, adds] is surely a very painful instance of the

repression of an instinct."

In contrast to the stifling of the imagination, it is good to recall

the story of the great Hermite who, having listened to the discussion

of the Monday sitting at the Academie des Sciences (Insitut de France)

as to the best way to teach the "young idea how to shoot" in the

direction of mathematical genius, said: "_Cultivez l'imagination,

messieurs. Tout est La. Si vous voulez des mathematiciens, donnez

a vos enfants a; lire--des Contes de Fees._"

Another important effect of the story is to develop at an early age

sympathy for children of other countries where conditions are different

from our own.

I have so constantly to deal with the question of confusion between

truth and fiction in the minds of children that it might be useful

to offer here an example of the way they make the distinction for

themselves.

Mrs. Ewing says on this subject:

"If there are young intellects so imperfect as to be incapable of

distinguishing between fancy and falsehood, it is most desirable to

develop in them the power to do so, but, as a rule, in childhood, we

appreciate the distinction with a vivacity which as elders our care-

clogged memories fail to recall."

Mr. P. A. Barnett, in his book on the "Common-sense of Education,"

says, alluding to fairy-tales:

"Children will _act_ them but not act _upon_ them, and they

will not accept the incidents as part of their effectual belief. They

will imagine, to be sure, grotesque worlds, full of admirable and

interesting personages to whom strange things might have happened. So

much the better: this largeness of imagination is one of the

possessions that distinguish the better nurtured child from others

less fortunate."

The following passage from Stevenson's essay on _"Child Play"_[38]

will furnish an instance of children's aptitude for creating their

own dramatic atmosphere:

"When my cousin and I took our porridge of a morning, we had a device

to enliven the course of a meal. He ate his with sugar, and explained

it to be a country continually buried under snow. I took mine with

milk, and explained it to be country suffering gradual inundation.

You can imagine us exchanging bulletins; how here was an island still

unsubmerged, here a valley not yet covered with snow; what inventions

were made; how his population lived in cabins on perches and traveled

on stilts, and how mine was always in boats; how the interest grew

furious as the last corner of safe ground was cut off on all sides and

grew smaller every moment; and how, in fine, the food was of

altogether secondary importance, and might even have been nauseous, so

long as we seasoned it with these dreams. But perhaps the most

exciting moments I ever had over a meal were in the case of calf's

foot jelly. It was hardly possible not to believe--and you may

be quite sure, so far from trying, I did all I could to favor the

illusion--that some part of it was hollow and that sooner or

later my spoon would lay open the secret tabernacle of the golden

rock. There, might some _Red-Beard_ await his hour; there might

one find the treasures of the Forty Thieves. And so I quarried on

slowly, with bated breath, savoring the interest. Believe me, I had

little palate left for the jelly; and though I preferred the taste

when I tool cream with it, I used often to go without because the

cream dimmed the transparent fractures."

In his work on "Imagination," Ribot says: "The free initiative of

children is always superior to the imitations we pretend to make

for them."

The passage from Robert Louis Stevenson becomes more clear from a

scientific point of view when taken in connection with one from Karl

Groos' book on the "Psychology of Animal Play":

"The child is wholly absorbed in his play, and yet under the ebb and

flow of thought and feeling like still water under wind-swept waves,

he has the knowledge that it is pretense after all. Behind the sham

'I' that takes part in the game, stands the unchanged 'I' which

regards the sham 'I' with quiet superiority."

Queyrat speaks of play as one of the distinct phases of a child's

imagination; it is "essentially a metamorphosis of reality, a

transformation of places and things."

Now to return to the point which Mrs. Ewing makes, namely, that we

should develop in normal children the power of distinguishing between

truth and falsehood.

I should suggest including two or three stories which would test that

power in children, and if they fail to realize the difference between

romancing and telling lies, then it is evident that they need special

attention and help along this line. I give the titles of two stories

of this kind in the collection at the end of the book.[39]

Thus far we have dealt only with the negative results of stories, but

there are more important effects, and I am persuaded that if we are

careful in our choice of stories, and artistic in our presentation,

so that the truth is framed, so to speak, in the memory, we can

unconsciously correct evil tendencies in children which they recognize

in themselves only when they have already criticized them in the

characters of the story. I have sometimes been misunderstood on this

point, and, therefore, I should like to make it quite clear. I do

_not_ mean that stories should take the place entirely of moral or

direct teaching, but that on many occasions they could supplement

and strengthen moral teaching, because the dramatic appeal to the

imagination is quicker than the moral appeal to the conscience. A

child will often resist the latter lest it should make him uncomfortable

or appeal to his personal sense of responsibility: it is often not in

his power to resist the former, because it has taken possession of him

before he is aware of it.

As a concrete example, I offer three verses from a poem entitled, "A

Ballad for a Boy," written some twelve years ago by W. Cory, an Eton

master. The whole poem is to be found in a book of poems known as

"Ionica."[40]

The poem describes a fight between two ships, the French ship,

_Temeraire_, and the English ship, _Quebec_. The English ship was

destroyed by fire; Farmer, the captain, was killed, and the officers

take prisoners:

They dealt with us as brethren, they mourned for Farmer dead,

And as the wounded captives passed each Breton bowed the head.

Then spoke the French lieutenant:

"'Twas the fire that won, not we.

You never struck your flag to _us_; You'll go to England free."[41]

'Twas the sixth day of October, seventeen hundred seventy-nine,

A year when nations ventured against us to combine,

_Quebec_ was burned and Farmer slain, by us remembered not;

But thanks be to the French book wherein they're not forgot.

And you, if you've got to fight the French, my youngster, bear in

mind

Those seamen of King Louis so chivalrous and kind;

Think of the Breton gentlemen who took our lads to Brest,

And treat some rescued Breton as a comrade and a guest.

But in all our stories, in order to produce desired effects we must

refrain from holding, as Burroughs says, "a brief for either side,"

and we must let the people in the story be judged by their deeds and

leave the decision of the children free in this matter.[42]

In a review of Ladd's "Psychology" in the _Academy_, we find a

passage which refers as much to the story as to the novel:

"The psychological novelist girds up his loins and sets himself to

write little essays on each of his characters. If he have the gift of

the thing he may analyze motives with a subtlety which is more than

their desert, and exhibit simple folk passing through the most

dazzling rotations. If he be a novice, he is reduced to mere crude

invention--the result in both cases is quite beyond the true purpose

of Art. Art--when all is said and done--a suggestion, and it

refuses to be explained. Make it obvious, unfold it in detail, and

you reduce it to a dead letter."

Again, there is a sentence by Schopenhauer applied to novels which

would apply equally well to stories:

"Skill consists in setting the inner life in motion with the smallest

possible array of circumstances, for it is this inner life that

excites our interest."

In order to produce an encouraging and lasting effect by means of our

stories, we should be careful to introduce a certain number from

fiction where virtue is rewarded and vice punished, because to

appreciate the fact that "virtue is its own reward" it takes a

developed and philosophic mind, or a born saint, of whom there will

not, I think, be many among normal children: a comforting fact, on the

whole, as the normal teacher is apt to confuse them with prigs.

A grande dame visiting an elementary school listened to the telling of

an exciting story from fiction, and was impressed by the thrill of

delight which passed through the children. But when the story was

finished, she said: "But _oh!_ what a pity the story was not

taken from actual history!"

Now, not only was this comment quite beside the mark, but the lady in

question did not realize that pure fiction has one quality which

history cannot have. The historian, bound by fact and accuracy, must

often let his hero come to grief. The poet (or, in this case we may

call him, in the Greek sense, the "maker" of stories) strives to show

_ideal_ justice.

What encouragement to virtue, except for the abnormal child, can be

offered by the stories of good men coming to grief, such as we find

Miltiades, Phocion, Socrates, Severus, Cicero, Cato and Caesar?

Sir Philip Sydney says in his "Defence of Poesy":

"Only the poet declining to be held by the limitations of the lawyer,

the _historian_, the grammarian, the rhetorician, the logician,

the physician, the metaphysician is lifted up with the vigor of his

own imagination; doth grow in effect into another nature in making

things either better than Nature bringeth forth or quite anew, as the

Heroes, Demi-gods, Cyclops, Furies and such like so as he goeth hand-

in-hand with Nature, not inclosed in the narrow range of her gifts but

freely ranging within the Zodiac of his own art--_her_ world is brazen;

the poet only delivers a golden one."

The effect of the story need not stop at the negative task of correcting

evil tendencies. There is the positive effect of translating the

abstract ideal of the story into concrete action.

I was told by Lady Henry Somerset that when the first set of children

came down from London for a fortnight's holiday in the country, she

was much startled and shocked by the obscenity of the games they

played amongst themselves. Being a sound psychologist, Lady Henry

wisely refrained from appearing surprised or from attempting any

direct method of reproof. "I saw," she said, "that the 'goody'

element would have no effect, so I changed the whole atmosphere by

reading to them or telling them the most thrilling medieval tales

without any commentary. By the end of the fortnight the activities

had all changed. The boys were performing astonishing deeds of

prowess, and the girls were allowing themselves to be rescued from

burning towers and fetid dungeons." Now, if these deeds of chivalry

appear somewhat stilted to us, we can at least realize that, having

changed the whole atmosphere of the filthy games, it is easier to

translate the deeds into something a little more in accordance with

the spirit of the age, and boys will more readily wish later on to

save their sisters from dangers more sordid and commonplace than fiery

towers and dark dungeons, if they have once performed the deeds in

which they had to court danger and self-sacrifice for themselves.

And now we come to the question as to how these effects are to be

maintained. In what has already been stated as to the danger of

introducing the dogmatic and direct appeal into the story, it is

evident that the avoidance of this element is the first means of

preserving the story in all its artistic force in the memory of the

child. We must be careful, as I point out in the chapter on Questions,

not to interfere by comment or question with the atmosphere we have

made round the story, or else, in the future, that story will become

blurred and overlaid with the remembrance, not of the artistic whole,

as presented by the teller of the story, but by some unimportant small

side issue raised by an irrelevant question or a superfluous comment.

Many people think that the dramatization of the story by the children

themselves helps to maintain the effect produced. Personally, I fear

there is the same danger as in the immediate reproduction of the story,

but by some unimportant small side issue raised by an irrelevant

question or a superfluous comment.

Many people think that the dramatization of the story by the children

themselves helps to maintain the effect produced. Personally, I fear

there is the same danger as in the immediate reproduction of the story,

namely, that the general dramatic effect may be weakened.

If, however, there is to be dramatization (and I do not wish to

dogmatize on the subject), I think it should be confined to facts

and not fancies, and this is why I realize the futility of the

dramatization of fairy tales.

Horace E. Scudder says on this subject:

"Nothing has done more to vulgarize the fairy than its introduction

on the stage. The charm of the fairy tale is its divorce from human

experience: the charm of the stage is its realization in miniature of

human life. If a frog is heard to speak, if a dog is changed before

our eyes into a prince by having cold water dashed over it, the charm

of the fairy tale has fled, and, in its place, we have the perplexing

pleasure of _legerdemain_. Since the real life of a fairy is in

the imagination, a wrong is committed when it is dragged from its

shadowy hiding-place and made to turn into ashes under the calcium

light of the understanding."[43]

I am bound to admit that the teachers have a case when they plead for

this reproducing of the story, and there are three arguments they use

the validity of which I admit, but which have nevertheless not

converted me, because the loss, to my mind, would exceed the gain.

The first argument they put forward is that the reproduction of the

story enables the child to enlarge and improve his vocabulary. Now I

greatly sympathize with this point of view, but, as I regard the story

hour as a very precious and special one, which I think may have a

lasting effect on the character of a child, I do not think it important

that, during this hour, a child should be called upon to improve his

vocabulary at the expense of the dramatic whole, and at the expense

of the literary form in which the story has been presented. It would

be like using the Bible for parsing or paraphrase or pronunciation.

So far, I believe, the line has been drawn here, though there are

blasphemers who have laid impious hands on Milton or Shakespeare

for this purpose.

There are surely other lessons, as I have already said in dealing

with the reproduction of the story quite apart from the dramatization,

lessons more utilitarian in character, which can be used for this

purpose: the facts of history (I mean the mere facts as compared with

the deep truths), and those of geography. Above all, the grammar

lessons are those in which the vocabulary can be enlarged and improved.

But I am anxious to keep the story hour apart as dedicated to something

higher than these excellent but utilitarian considerations.

The second argument used by the teachers is the joy felt by the

children in being allowed to dramatize the stories. This, too,

appeals very strongly to me, but there is a means of satisfying their

desire and yet protecting the dramatic whole, and that is occasionally

to allow children to act out their own dramatic inventions; this, to

my mind, has great educational significance: it is original and

creative work and, apart from the joy of the immediate performance,

there is the interesting process of comparison which can be presented

to the children, showing them the difference between their elementary

attempts and the finished product of the experienced artist. This

difference they can be led to recognize by their own powers of

observation if the teachers are not in too great a hurry to point it

out themselves.

Here is a short original story, quoted by the French psychologist,

Queyrat, in his "Jeux de l'Enfance," written by a child of five:

"One day I went to sea in a life-boat--all at once I saw an enormous

whale, and I jumped out of the boat to catch him, but he was so big

that I climbed on his back and rode astride, and all the little

fishes laughed to see."

Here is a complete and exciting drama, making a wonderful picture and

teeming with adventure. We could scarcely offer anything to so small

a child for reproduction that would be a greater stimulus to the

imagination.

Here is another, offered by Loti, but the age of the child is not given:

"Once upon a time a little girl out in the Colonies cut open a huge

melon, and out popped a green beast and stung her, and the little

child died."

Loti adds:

"The phrases 'out in the Colonies' and 'a huge melon' were enough to

plunge me suddenly into a dream. As by an apparition, I beheld

tropical trees, forests alive with marvelous birds. Oh! the simple

magic of the words 'the Colonies'! In my childhood they stood for a

multitude of distant sun-scorched countries, with their palm-trees,

their enormous flowers, their black natives, their wild beasts, their

endless possibilities of adventure."

I quote this in full because it shows so clearly the magic force of

words to evoke pictures, without any material representation. It is

just the opposite effect of the pictures presented to the bodily eye

without the splendid educational opportunity for the child to form

his own mental image.

I am more and more convinced that the rare power of visualization is

accounted for by the lack of mental practice afforded along these lines.

The third argument used by teachers in favor of the dramatization of

the stories is that it is a means of discovering how much the child

has really learned from the story. Now this argument makes absolutely

no appeal to me.

My experience, in the first place, has taught me that a child very

seldom gives out any account of a deep impression made upon him: it

is too sacred and personal. But he very soon learns to know what is

expected of him, and he keeps a set of stock sentences which he has

found out are acceptable to the teacher. How can we possibly gauge

the deep effects of a story in this way, or how can a child, by acting

out a story, describe the subtle elements which one has tried to

introduce? One might as well try to show with a pint measure how the

sun and rain have affected a plant, instead of rejoicing in the beauty

of the sure, if slow, growth.

Then, again, why are we in such a hurry to find out what effects have

been produced by our stories? Does it matter whether we know today or

tomorrow how much a child has understood? For my part, so sure do I

feel of the effect that I am willing to wait indefinitely. Only, I

must make sure that the first presentation is truly dramatic and

artistic.

The teachers of general subjects have a much easier and more simple

task. Those who teach science, mathematics, even, to a certain extent,

history and literature, are able to gauge with a fair amount of accuracy

by means of examination what their pupils have learned. The teaching

carried on by means of stories can never be gauged in the same manner.

Carlyle has said:

"Of this thing be certain: wouldst thou plant for Eternity, then plant

into the deep infinite faculties of man, his Fantasy and Heart. Wouldst

thou plant for Year and Day, then plant into his shallow superficial

faculties, his self-love and arithmetical understanding, what will

grow there."[44]

If we use this marvelous art of story-telling in the way I have tried

to show, then the children who have been confided to our care will one

day be able to bring _us_ the tribute which Bjornson brought to Hans

Christian Andersen:

Wings you gave to my Imagination,

Me uplifting to the strange and great;

Gave my heart the poet's revelation,

Glorifying things of low estate.

When my child-soul hungered all-unknowing,

With great truths its need you satisfied:

Now, a world-worn man, to you is owing

That the child in me has never died.

TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH BY EMILIE POULSON.

CHAPTER VII. QUESTIONS ASKED BY TEACHERS.

The following questions have been put to me so often by teachers, in

my own country and in America, that I have thought it might be useful

to give in my book some of the attempts I have made to answer them;

and I wish to record here an expression of gratitude to the teachers

who have asked these questions at the close of my lectures. It has

enabled me to formulate my views on the subject and to clear up, by

means of research and thought, the reason for certain things which I

had more or less taken for granted. It has also constantly modified

my own point of view, and has prevented me from becoming too dogmatic

in dealing with other people's methods.

QUESTION I: _Why do I consider it necessary to spend so many years

on the art of story-telling, which takes in, after all, such a

restricted portion of literature?_

Just in the same way that an actor thinks it worth while to go through

so many years' training to fit him for the stage, although dramatic

literature is also only one branch of general literature. The region

of storyland is the legitimate stage for children. They crave drama

as we do, and because there are comparatively few good story-tellers,

children do not have their dramatic needs satisfied. What is the

result? We either take them to dramatic performances for grown-up

people, or we have children's theaters where the pieces, charming as

they may be, are of necessity deprived of the essential elements which

constitute a drama--or they are shriveled up to suit the capacity of

the child. Therefore, it would seem wiser, while the children are

quite young, to keep them to the simple presentation of stories,

because with their imagination keener at that period, they have the

delight of the inner vision and they do not need, as we do, the

artificial stimulus provided by the machinery of the stage.

QUESTION II: _What is to be done if a child asks you: "Is the story

true?"_

I hope I shall be considered Utopian in my ideas if a say that it is

quite easy, even with small children, to teach them that the seeing of

truth is a relative matter which depends on the eyes of the seer. If

we were not afraid to tell our children that all through life there

are grown-up people who do not see things that others see, their own

difficulties would be helped.

In his "Imagination Creatrice," Queyrat says:

"To get down into the recesses of a child's mind, one would have to

become even as he is; we are reduced to interpreting that child in the

terms of an adult. The children we observe live and grow in a

civilized community, and the result of this is that the development of

their imagination is rarely free or complete, for as soon as it rises

beyond the average level, the rationalistic education of parents and

schoolmasters at once endeavors to curb it. It is restrained in its

flight by an antagonistic power which treats it as a kind of incipient

madness."

It is quite easy to show children that if one keeps things where they

belong, they are true with regard to each other, but that if one drags

these things out of the shadowy atmosphere of the "make-believe," and

forces them into the land of actual facts, the whole thing is out

of gear.

To take a concrete example: The arrival of the coach made from a

pumpkin and driven by mice is entirely in harmony with the _Cinderella_

surroundings, and I have never heard one child raise any question of the

difficulty of traveling in such a coach or of the uncertainty of mice in

drawing it. But, suggest to the child that this diminutive vehicle

could be driven among the cars of Broadway, or amongst the motor

omnibuses in the Strand, and you would bring confusion at once into

his mind.

Having once grasped this, the children will lose the idea that fairy

stories are just for them, and not for their elders, and from this

they will go on to see that it is the child-like mind of the poet and

seer that continues to appreciate these things; that it is the dull,

heavy person whose eyes so soon become dim and unable to see any more

the visions which were once his own.

In his essay on "Poetry and Life" (Glasgow, 1889), Professor Bradley

says:

"It is the effect of poetry, not only by expressing emotion but in

other ways also, to bring life into the dead mass of our experience,

and to make the world significant."

This applies to children as well as to adults. There may come to the

child in the story hour, by some stirring poem or dramatic narration,

a sudden flash of the possibilities of life which he had not hitherto

realized in the even course of school experience.

"Poetry," says Professor Bradley, "is a way of representing truth; but

there is in it, as its detractors have always insisted, a certain

untruth or illusion. We need not deny this, so long as we remember

that the illusion is conscious, that no one wishes to deceive, and

that no one is deceived. But it would be better to say that poetry is

false to literal fact for the sake of obtaining a higher truth.

First, in order to represent the connection between a more significant

part of experience and a less significant, poetry, instead of linking

them together by a chain which touches one by one the intermediate

objects that connect them, leaps from one to the other. It thus falls

at once into conflict with common-sense."

Now, the whole of this passage bears as much on the question of the

truth embodied in a fairy tale as a poem, and it would be interesting

to take some of these tales and try to discover where they are false

to actual fact for the sake of a higher truth.

Let us take, for instance, the Story of Cinderella: The coach and

pumpkins to which I have alluded and all the magic part of the story,

are false to actual facts as we meet them in our every life; but is it

not a higher truth that _Cinderella_ could escape from her chimney

corner by thinking of the brightness outside? In this sense

we all travel in pumpkin coaches.

Take the Story of Psyche, in any one of the many forms it is presented

to us in folk-story. The magic transformation of the lover is false

to actual fact; but is it not a higher truth that we are often

transformed by circumstance, and that love and courage can overcome

most difficulties?

Take the Story of the Three Bears. It is not in accordance with

established fact that bears should extend hospitality to children

who invade their territory. Is it not true in a higher sense that

fearlessness often lessens or averts danger?

Take the Story of Jack and the Bean Stalk. The rapid growth of the

bean stalk and the encounter with the giant are false to literal fact;

but is it not a higher truth that the spirit of courage and high

adventure leads us straight out of the commonplace and often sordid

facts of life?

Now, all these considerations are too subtle for the child, and, if

offered in explanation, would destroy the excitement and interest of

the story; but they are good for those of us who are presenting such

stories: they provide not only an argument against the objection

raised by unimaginative people as to the futility, if not immorality,

of presenting these primitive tales, but clear up our own doubt and

justify us in the use of them, if we need such justification.

For myself, I am perfectly satisfied that, being part of the history

of primitive people, it would be foolish to ignore them from an

evolutionary point of view, which constitutes their chief importance;

and it is only from the point of view of expediency that I mention the

potential truths they contain.

QUESTION III: _What are you to do if a child says he does not like

fairy tales_?

This is not an uncommon case. What we have first to determine, under

these circumstances, is whether this dislike springs from a stolid,

prosaic nature, whether it springs from a real inability to visualize

such pictures as the fairy or marvelous element in the story present,

or whether (and this is often the real reason) it is from a fear of

being asked to believe what his judgment resents as untrue, or whether

he thinks it is "grown-up" to reject such pleasure as unworthy of his

years.

In the first case, it is wise to persevere, in hopes of developing the

dormant imagination. If the child resents the apparent want of truth

we can teach him how many-sided truth is, as I suggested in my answer

to the first question. In the other cases, we must try to make it

clear that the delight he may venture to take now will increase, not

decrease, with years; that the more one brings _to_ a thing, in the way

of experience and knowledge, the more one will draw _out_ of it.

Let us take as a concrete example the question of Santa Claus. This

joy has almost disappeared, for we have torn away the last shred of

mystery about the personage by allowing him to be materialized in the

Christmas shops and bazaars.

But the original myth need never have disappeared; the link could

easily have been kept by gradually telling the child that the Santa

Claus they worshiped as a mysterious and invisible power is nothing

but the spirit of charity and kindness that makes us remember others,

and that this spirit often takes the form of material gifts. We can

also lead them a step higher and show them that this spirit of

kindness can do more than provide material things; so that the old

nursery tale has laid a beautiful foundation which need never be

pulled up: we can build upon it and add to it all through our lives.

Is not _one_ of the reasons that children reject fairy tales this,

that such very _poor_ material is offered them? There is a dreary

flatness about all except the very best which revolts the child of

literary appreciation and would fail to strike a spark in the

more prosaic.

QUESTION IV: _Do I recommend learning a story by heart, or telling

it in one's own words_?

This would largely depend on the kind of story. If the style is

classic or if the interest of the story is closely connected with the

style, as in Andersen, Kipling or Stevenson, then it is better to

commit it absolutely to memory. But if this process should take too

long (I mean for those who cannot afford the time to specialize), or

if it produces a stilted effect, then it is wiser to read the story

many times over, let it soak in, taking notes of certain passages

which would add to the dramatic interest of the story, and not trouble

about the word accuracy of the whole.

For instance, for very young children the story of _Pandora_, as

told in the "Wonder-Book" could be shortened so as to leave principally

the dramatic dialogue between the two children, which could be easily

committed to memory by the narrator and would appeal most directly to

the children. Or for older children: in taking a beautiful medieval

story such as "Our Lady's Tumbler," retold by Wickstead, the original

text could hardly be presented so as to hold an audience; but while

giving up a great deal of the elaborate material, we should try to

present many of the characteristic passages which seem to sum up the

situation. For instance, before his performance, the _Tumbler_ cries:

"What am I doing? For there is none here so caitiff but who vies with

all the rest in serving God after his trade." And after his act of

devotion: "Lady, this is a choice performance. I do it for no other but

for you; so aid me God, I do not--for you and for your Son. And this I

dare avouch and boast, that for me it is no play-work. But I am serving

you, and that pays me."

On the other hand, there are some very gifted narrators who can only

tell the story in their own words. I consider that both methods are

necessary to the all-round story-teller.

QUESTION V: _How do I set about preparing a story_?

Here again the preparation depends a great deal on the kind of story:

whether it has to be committed to memory or rearranged to suit a

certain age of child, or told entirely in one's own words. But there

is one kind of preparation which is the same for any story, that is,

living with it for a long time, until one has really obtained the

right atmosphere, especially in the case of inanimate objects. This

is where Hans Christian Andersen reigns supreme. Horace Scudder says

of him: "By some transmigration, souls have passed into tin soldiers,

balls, tops, money-pigs, coins, shoes and even such attenuated things

as darning-needles, and when, informing these apparent dead and stupid

bodies, they begin to make manifestations, it is always in perfect

consistency with the ordinary conditions of the bodies they occupy,

though the several objects become, by the endowment of souls, suddenly

expanded in their capacity."[45]

Now, my test of being ready with such stories is whether I have ceased

to look upon such objects _as_ inanimate. Let us take some of those

quoted from Andersen. First, the _Tin Soldier_. To me, since I have

lived in the story, he is a real live hero, holding his own with some

of the bravest fighting heroes in history or fiction. As for his being

merely of tin, I entirely forget it, except when I realize against what

odds he fights, or when I stop to admire the wonderful way Andersen

carries out his simile of the old tin spoon--the stiffness of the

musket, and the tears of tin.

Take the _Top_ and the _Ball_, and, except for the delightful way they

discuss the respective merits of cork and mahogany in their ancestors,

you would completely forget that they are not real human beings with the

live passions and frailties common to youth.

As for the _Beetle_--who ever thinks of him as a mere entomological

specimen? Is he not the symbol of the self-satisfied traveler who

learns nothing en route but the importance of his own personality? And

the _Darning-Needle_? It is impossible to divorce human interest from

the ambition of this little piece of steel.

And this same method applied to the preparation of any shows that

one can sometimes rise from the role of mere interpreter to that of

creator--that is to say, the objects live afresh for you in response

to the appeal you make in recognizing their possibilities of vitality.

As a mere practical suggestion, I would advise that, as soon as one has

overcome the difficulties of the text (if actually learning by heart,

there is nothing but the drudgery of constant repetition), and as one

begins to work the story into true dramatic form, always say the words

aloud, and many times aloud, before trying them even on one person.

More suggestions come to one in the way of effects from hearing the

sounds of the words, and more complete mental pictures, in this way

than any other--it is a sort of testing period, the results of which

may or may not have to be modified when produced in public. In case

of committing to memory, I advise word perfection first, not trying

dramatic effects before this is reached; but, on the other hand, if

you are using your own words, you can think out the effects as you

go along--I mean, during the preparation. Gestures, pauses, facial

expression often help to fix the choice of words one decides to use,

though here again the public performance will often modify the result.

I strongly advise that all gestures be studied before the glass, because

this most faithfully recording friend, whose sincerity we dare not

question, will prevent glaring errors, and also help by the correction

of these to more satisfactory results along positive lines. If your

gesture does not satisfy you (and practice will make one more and more

critical), it is generally because you have not made sufficient

allowance for the power of imagination in your audience. Emphasis

in gesture is just as inartistic--and therefore ineffective--as

emphasis in tone or language.

Before deciding, however, either on the facial expression or gesture,

we must consider the chief characters in the story, and study how we

can best--_not_ present them, but allow them to present themselves,

which is a very different thing. The greatest tribute which can be

paid to a story-teller, as to an actor, is that his own personality is

temporarily forgotten, because he has so completely identified himself

with his role.

When we have decided what the chief characters really mean to do, we

can let ourselves go in the impersonation.

I shall now take a story as a concrete example, namely, the Buddhist

legend of the "Lion and the Hare."[46]

We have here the _Lion_ and the _Hare_ as types--the other animals are

less individual and therefore display less salient qualities. The

little hare's chief characteristics are nervousness, fussiness, and

misdirected imagination. We must bear this all in mind when she appears

on the stage--fortunately these characteristics lend themselves easily

to dramatic representation. The _Lion_ is not only large-hearted but

broad-minded. It is good to have an opportunity of presenting to the

children a lion who has other qualities than physical beauty or

extraordinary strength (here again there will lurk the danger of

alarming the nature students). He is even more interesting than

the magnanimous lion whom we have sometimes been privileged to meet

in fiction.