to the race in poetic form, and in leading them to that knowledge we can
lead them also to an appreciation of the majestic, sweeping measures of
the Iliad or Odyssey or Nibelungenlied, which is in itself worth thought
and labor on the part of the story-teller.
The Langobardian myths, Dietrich von Bern, the story of Gudrun, of
Charlemagne and Frastrada and Huon of Bordeaux, are intensely interesting
in this period. Joan of Arc never fails to charm, while tales of the
minnesingers, the troubadours, and the Crusaders open gates into lands of
enchantment.
Oh, the romance in the lives of these medieval wanderers! Walther von der
Vogelweide, too poor to buy him a coat, yet swaying the thought of the
German lands; Bernard of Ventadour, among the flaming roses of Provence,
making music at the court of Eleanor of Aquitaine; Richard Cœur de
Lion, riding with a singing heart toward Palestine; De Coucy, Frederick
Barbarossa, and scores of others who lived and achieved in that distant,
colorful time! Their lives are gleaming pages in the history of their
age, and their stories are glorious ones to give to boys and girls who
crave the romantic.
Wonderful, too, is the account of the Children’s Crusade, of Stephen, a
happy shepherd on the hills of Cloyes, and that other lad of Cologne,
who, fired with desire to restore to the Christian world places the
Moslem had defiled, sailed away with their followers to shipwreck and
slavery. In connection with this tale the children should hear, if
possible, some of the music from Gabriel Pierne’s great cantata, _The
Children’s Crusade_. It will give them a clearer, more vivid idea of the
preaching of the boy apostle, of the gathering of the company, of the
pilgrimage along the Rhine and Seine, of their rejoicing upon reaching
the port of Marseilles, and of the light of noble purpose that glorified
their eyes as they went singing to the ships. Perhaps historians have
proved the account of this crusade to be just a myth. Tell it anyway, for
whether it be fact or fiction the tale is too lovely for young folk to
miss.
There is another type of biographical story, that of the man and woman
of moral courage whose life was not so chromatically picturesque as that
of him who fought the Saracens or sang in old Provence, but nevertheless
thrills, fascinates, and influences. Florence Nightingale is a good
example. Beautiful, the daughter of rich and distinguished parents, she
might have reigned a social queen in England; yet she spent her young
womanhood studying how to alleviate human suffering, toiling under the
burning sun of the East, battling with disease at the risk of health and
life, and well deserving the title given her by those she comforted,
“The Angel of the Crimea.” I have seen girls of sixteen listen with tears
in their eyes to the story of this noble Englishwoman, and have watched
the throats of boys throb and pulsate upon hearing the account of the
British Army and Navy banquet at which the question was asked, “Who, of
all the workers in the Crimea, will be remembered longest?” and every
voice replied in refrain, “Florence Nightingale!” Several years ago a
questionnaire, distributed at a convention of nurses, revealed the fact
that ten per cent of those there had been influenced toward their life
career by the story of this great English nurse. Yet there are dubious
souls who wonder if story-telling pays! If the narrator can have only a
few books from which to draw material for the romantic period, Laura E.
Richards’ _Life of Florence Nightingale_ ought to be one of the number.
It is sympathetically and beautifully told, an artist’s tribute to an
immortal woman.
Workers with youths in the adolescent period are brought face to face
with one of the gravest problems educators have to solve. What is to
be done about lovesick boys and girls, those in whom the elemental
passions have awakened yet who have not the judgment and self-control
that age and experience bring? How are we to keep them, in their first
emotional upheaval, from losing all sense of proportion and from
pursuing a course that may lead to disaster? The freedom given in these
days of coeducation, and the unrestricted circulation of novels and
stories dealing with the relations of the sexes, which may be worthy
creations from the standpoint of art, but which distort the ideas of
unformed youth, make possible a condition that often appalls parents and
high-school teachers and sets them to wondering how to meet it.
Ellen Key suggests a remedy. In this period when the world-old emotions
are first aroused, she advocates the use of love stories that are pure
in tone and high in ideal. We cannot change human nature and keep the
boy of sixteen from being drawn as if by a magnet to the maid who is
lovely in his eyes, but we can give him an ideal that will make his
feeling an elevating thing instead of a debasing one. We can put into
the heart of the girl a poetry and idealism that will keep her worthy
of the prince, and we can do it through literature. Instead of leaving
her free to roam unguided and read whatever falls into her hand, or of
sitting like a board of censors beside her and goading her toward the
forbidden, which always allures, we can lead her to delightful, wholesome
stories, of which there are a goodly number. This does not mean confining
her to writers of several generations ago. Present-day youths know that
almost every one reads current books, and they intend to have them, too.
Therefore let the story-teller use the best of the new, even as he uses
the best of the old. Let him refer frequently to it and tell enough of it
to awaken such an interest that it will be read. A good plan is for the
teacher of English to devote a few minutes each week to the discussion
of some recent book or books, and to give lists of those that boys and
girls will enjoy. In public libraries slips should be posted, upon which
are named the most desirable of recent publications, and problem novels
should be excluded from shelves to which the public has access. Thus our
adolescent children may be led to glean from the best of the new. But
meanwhile let us not neglect the old.
One of the lovely works with which to familiarize high-school pupils is
_Ekkehard_, by Joseph Victor von Scheffel, which, aside from its value
as a historical novel, is one of the noblest love stories ever written.
It is a charming picture of life in the tenth century, when the Hunnic
hordes swept like a devastating flame into the peaceful Bodensee region.
Hadwig, proud duchess of Suabia, Ekkehard, the dreaming, handsome monk
who goes from the monastery of St. Gall to become Latin instructor at
Castle Hohentwiel and learns far more than he teaches, Praxedis, the
winsome Greek maid, Hadumoth the goose girl, and the goat boy Audifax,
all are fascinating, appealing characters. From beginning to end the
book is intensely interesting, and as Nathan Haskell Dole says, “full of
undying beauty.”
Another charming work of a German writer is _Moni the Goat Boy_, by
Johanna Spyri. The novels of Eugénie Marlitt are wholesome and well
written, and give vivid pictures of life in the smaller courts of Europe.
Those of Louisa Mühlbach portray in a remarkable manner the lives of
some of the notable figures of history, and the intimate glimpses they
give of such characters as Frederick the Great, Schiller, Goethe, Marie
Antoinette, and Maria Theresa, with their reflection of the color
and ceremony of a bygone day, cause them to mean in this period what
adventure tales mean to boys and girls of ten.
In drawing from Germany, let us not forget Georg Ebers, who lifts
the cloud of mystery that veils old Egypt and permits us to share
the romance, the loves, the joys and sorrows of men and women of the
Pharaohs’ time. His works are not dull inscriptions gathered from
sepulchers and mummies, but moving pictures of living, breathing men and
women, filmed by the genius of a master; and the triumphs of the Princess
Bent-Anat, the sufferings of the captive Uarda, and the spectacular
victory of the royal charioteer are so real that they seem to be in the
here and now instead of in the early morning of the world.
From France we may glean without limit. Georges Ohnet, Jacques Vincent,
Ludovic Halévy, and dozens of other writers have produced works that
are not only a part of the education of every one who aspires to become
a cultured man or woman, but are as fascinating as fairy tales to a
child. Then there is the great treasure house of English and American
literature, as rich in priceless things of pen and brain as the gallery
of the Vatican is rich in paintings and sculpture. Boys and girls will
not draw from this wealth unguided, because they do not know where it is
stored. But if we give them frequent glimpses of its brightness, if we
half open the door of the repository and let them peep inside, they will
follow, seeking it, as the miner follows the half-revealed ore vein, or
as Ortnit of old pursued the Fata Morgana. They need not drift into pools
that breed disease, when by enough story-telling to awaken their interest
in the beautiful and fine they may sail into open streams where the water
is clear, and where there are no submerged reefs to wreck their fragile
crafts.
SOURCES OF STORY MATERIAL FOR THE ROMANTIC PERIOD
ANTIN, MARY: _The Promised Land_.
BOLTON, SARAH K.: _Famous Leaders among Men_.
BOUTET DE MONVEL, L. M.: _The Story of Joan of Arc_.
BROOKS, ELBRIDGE STREETER: _Historic Girls_.
BUELL, AUGUSTUS C.: _John Paul Jones, Founder of the American
Navy_.
BUXTON, ETHEL M. WILMOT: _A Book of Noble Women_; _Stories of
Persian Heroes_.
CHAPIN, ANNA ALICE: _The Story of Parsival_.
CHURCH, ALFRED JAMES: _Stories from the Iliad_; _Stories from
the Odyssey_.
CREIGHTON, LOUISE VON GLEHN: _Some Famous Women_.
GILBERT, ARIADNE: _More than Conquerors_.
GILCHRIST, BETH BRADFORD: _Life of Mary Lyon_.
GUERBER, HELÈNE A.: _Legends of the Middle Ages_.
LANIER, SIDNEY: _The Boy’s King Arthur_.
LOCKHART, JOHN GIBSON: _Ancient Spanish Ballads_.
LOWELL, FRANCIS CABOT: _Joan of Arc_.
NICHOLSON, J. S.: _Tales from Ariosto_.
QUILLER-COUCH, SIR ARTHUR THOMAS: _The Roll Call of Honor_.
RICHARDS, LAURA E.: _Florence Nightingale, the Angel of the
Crimea_.
SNEDEKER, CAROLINE D.: _The Coward of Thermopylæ_.
SOUTHEY, ROBERT: _The Life of Nelson_.
STERLING, MARY BLACKWELL: _The Story of Parzival_; _The Story
of Sir Galahad_.
STRICKLAND, AGNES: _The Queens of England_; _The Queens of
Scotland_.
CHAPTER SIX
BUILDING THE STORY
Story-telling is a creative art, and therefore a knowledge of underlying
principles is as indispensable to the narrator as to the sculptor or
painter. Without this knowledge he cannot hope to adapt material to his
needs, but must be limited in his choice to what is already in form to
give to children; with it he can avail himself of many opportunities
to bring to his charges treasures of which they could know nothing but
for his ability to dig them from the profound tomes in which they are
hidden, polish and clarify them, and put them in a setting within the
understanding of the child. For this reason a course in story-writing
is a part of the training of the professional story-teller, and while
the mother or teacher cannot make such extensive preparation, she may to
advantage master and apply a few cardinal principles of construction.
The beginning of the oral story should never be an introduction, because
from the first word the child expects something to happen, and if nothing
does happen his attention scatters and interest is lost. Therefore
the narrator must bring his actors on the stage and get them to work
at once; he must not let them stand around waiting while he gives a
detailed description of their hair and eyes and of the clothes they
wear, but must have them do something. It is often necessary to make
some explanatory remarks in the beginning, but it should be done in such
a way that the hearer has no time to wonder when the story is going
to begin. For instance, if your tale is about a boy in Holland, do not
delay bringing the boy in while you tell about the country. Let him enter
at the beginning, and then, by a sentence here and a clause or phrase
there, give the setting with the action. The story must bristle with
human interest; for while the child knows nothing about the meaning of
that term, he nevertheless demands that something happen, and if nothing
does happen you lose his attention. The written story may depend for its
charm upon character drawing and local color, but the oral story demands
_plot_, and if this plot is badly hung together the story fails in its
aim, for it does not make a deep impression.
The narrative style is better adapted to beginning the oral story than
dialogue, because it is more easily handled by the novice. Of course the
professional story-teller is not restricted to one field, and genius is
privileged to range at large and ignore rules with no dire results. But
it is safe for the amateur to keep to the narrative style. In the depths
of dialogue, his little craft may founder, but the much-loved words “Once
upon a time” or “Long, long ago” arrest the attention immediately, even
though the teller be not an artist; and having made a good beginning, he
is reasonably sure of holding his hearers to the end. On the other hand,
if he does not get them at the start, his story-telling time is apt to
end in failure.
There are no set phrases or clauses with which one must begin a story,
and it would be a mistake to say that dialogue can never be used safely
in opening the oral story, for the professional often uses it with fine
effect; but it is easier and safer for the amateur to use the narrative
beginning, and introduce dialogue as the plot develops.
Dr. Berg Esenwein, whose excellent work, _Writing the Short Story_, will
be of value to the story-teller as well as to the story-writer, lays down
these rules:
“Do not strike one note in the beginning and another in the body of the
story.
“Do not touch anything that is not a live wire leading direct to the
heart of the story.
“Do not describe where you can suggest.”
An examination of some of the perfect stories of the world shows that
these rules hold good in every case. The tales of Grimm, Andersen,
Perrault, and Bechstein are flawless in construction, and each plunges
directly into the thread of the story. Take, for instance, “The Three
Tasks” of Grimm:
There once lived a poor maiden who was young and fair, but she
had lost her own mother, and her stepmother did all she could
to make her miserable.
“The Pea Blossom,” of Hans Christian Andersen:
There were once five peas in a pod. They were green and the pod
was green, and they thought all the world was green.
“Red Riding Hood,” as written by Perrault, begins thus:
Once upon a time there lived in a small village in the country
a little girl, the prettiest, sweetest creature that ever was
seen. Her mother loved her fondly, and her grandmother doted on
her still more.
“The Twin Brothers” by Grimm:
There were once two brothers, one of whom was rich and the
other poor. The rich brother was a goldsmith and had a wicked
heart. The poor brother supported himself by making brooms, and
was good and honest.
It is the same in Ruskin’s “King of the Golden River,” in Robert
Southey’s “Three Bears,” in all the tales of De Maupassant that are
suitable for telling, and in those of Alphonse Daudet. Note the beginning
of Daudet’s “Last Lesson”:
Little Franz did not want to go to school that morning. He
would much rather have played. The air was so warm and still.
You could hear the blackbirds singing at the edge of the wood,
and the sound of the Prussians drilling down by the old sawmill.
Every one of these stories begins with narrative, and every one is a
perfect tale for telling.
Next in consideration comes the body of the story, which our rhetoric
teachers taught us is a succession of events moving toward the climax.
Until the climax is reached the oral story must be full of suspense.
In other words, the hearer must be kept guessing about what is going
to happen. The child does not care about a story in which he sees the
end. He does enjoy hearing the same story told over and over again if
it thrilled him at the first telling, because he likes to re-experience
that thrill. But if a new tale holds no suspense, it falls flat.
Stevenson says: “The one rule is to be infinitely various—to interest, to
disappoint, to surprise, yet still to gratify. To be ever changing, as it
were, the stitch, yet still to give the effect of an ingenious neatness.”
In other words, the succession of events must follow one another in a
regular sequence, and each must contribute something to the one following
it.
As a rather homely illustration of the meaning of this, we may say that
plot centers around a hole, and in a well-constructed story the steps by
which the hero gets into the hole are traced, and then those by which he
gets out. The getting out is the climax or, as Dr. Barrett says, “the
apex of interest and emotion.” In other words, it is the top of a ladder,
and the story must move in an unbroken line toward that topmost rung. If
it does not do this, if the thread of the tale is broken to interpolate
something that should have been told in the beginning, the narrator loses
his audience.
The climax must be a surprise to the child. This holds good in all the
great oral stories. Take as an example “The Ugly Duckling”:
And he flew toward the beautiful swans. As soon as they saw him
they ran to meet him with outstretched wings.
“Kill me,” he said.
But as he bent his head he saw reflected in the water, not a
dark, gray bird ugly to see, but a beautiful swan.
In Hawthorne’s “Great Stone Face” the climax lies in the discovery that
Ernest is the likeness of the Great Stone Face, a delightful surprise to
the child.
It is the same in “Red Riding Hood,” in “Tarpeia,” in “Why the Sea Is
Salt.” It is the same in Daudet’s “Last Lesson.” Note the splendid climax
of that masterpiece, the surprise that comes to Franz as he sits awaiting
punishment, when the teacher, in all kindness, makes this announcement:
“My children, this is the last time I shall ever teach you. The
order has come from Berlin that henceforth nothing but German
shall be taught in the schools of Alsace and Lorraine. This is
your last lesson in French.”
With very young children the surprise element should be simple.
Repetition used in a sequence, or jingle, accomplishes it well, as in the
“Fee, fi, faugh, fum” in “Jack and the Beanstalk,” or “Who’s been sitting
in my chair?” in “The Three Bears,” or “The better to see you, hear you,
eat you” in “Red Riding Hood.” Each time the child hears the expression
his interest is roused to a higher pitch, and his imagination is fired to
such a point that he expects almost anything to happen.
After the climax is reached, the oral story should descend rapidly to a
close. Many of the best oral stories end in the climax, and those that
do not, add but a sentence or two or a paragraph at most to round out to
completion. But they do not moralize and point out a lesson to the child.
They leave him to see the moral for himself, and he sees it more clearly
and is the more deeply impressed by it if he is allowed a few moments of
silence after the completion of the story, instead of being drawn into
conversation concerning it. Marie Shedlock, the English story-teller
who has done so much to put the narrator’s art upon the plane where
it deserves to be, advocates five minutes of silence after each story
period, and in my own experience I have found that it is of value to the
child. Conditions under which one works will, of course, govern this;
but above all, do not end a story that delights a boy or girl and then
kill the whole effect by saying, “Now, Peter, what does that story teach
you?” Give the child credit for being an intelligent human being, and do
not spoil a tale for him by turning it into a sermon while he is still
tingling with the wonder and joy of it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
TELLING THE STORY
Since story-telling, like music, is an art, it is no more possible for
every mother, teacher, or librarian to become a Scheherazade than it is
possible for every child who takes music lessons to blossom into a Mozart
or a Mendelssohn. The inspiration, the creative fire that beguiles the
wrath of a sultan or gives birth to a symphony, emanates from within,
from the fairy germs planted somewhere in the soul and nurtured into
fruition through unceasing effort. Yet it is possible for every worker
with children, provided he be willing to devote some time and labor
to the study of technique, to learn to tell stories convincingly and
entertainingly, although not with the artistry of the professional.
First of all, whenever possible, he should choose stories that appeal to
him, those he will enjoy giving his listeners because they fit his own
moods, for he cannot hope to tell every variety of tale with consummate
excellence any more than an actor can be supreme in all types of rôles.
The genius of Sothern displays itself to best advantage in the tragedies
of Shakespeare, while that of Henry Miller, Forbes-Robertson, or David
Warfield is suited to dramas of another kind. Each of these artists
tried various rôles until he found his forte. Then he kept to the field
in which he could excel, concentrating all his effort upon it. So it
should be with the story-teller. He should experiment with every kind of
narrative, then make a specialty of the one in which he can be at his
best, and use it to accomplish his most far-reaching results. Of course
the mother or teacher cannot confine herself to one variety of story. Her
interests being varied and many, she cannot hope to reach the height of
specialization attained by the artist who has but one purpose, one aim,
and never swerves from it. She must endeavor to acquire a fair degree of
proficiency in the rendition of every type of story, that she may not be
found wanting by her youthful auditors; but she should specialize with
the kind of tale that is nearest an expression of her own moods, because
in this way she can obtain the most gratifying results.
Perhaps she is particularly skilled in presenting humorous material. Then
let her use that ability as a magnet to draw her hearers to the story
period and to hold them through it to the end. A good plan is to begin
the program with a merry tale to put the group into a happy, receptive
mood, follow it with a serious one containing the message or information
the children should receive, and then give another humorous one. The
serious narrative may be difficult for her to handle, and may not be
given with the skill and charm that mark her rendition of another type
of _conte_, but the children, understanding that one of her delightful
“funny” stories is to follow, will listen through the less desired number
and unconsciously receive its lesson, because of their eagerness to hear
the succeeding one. Thus, by knowing her field of excellence and making
the most of it, she can carry children into other fields because of their
delight in meeting her in the one in which she is most at home.