studied. The teller should have a clear idea of the topography of the
country in which the events occur, of the customs of the people who move
through it, of their homes, their modes of life, and their manner of
dress, because the more into the spirit of the tale he can put himself,
the more effectively will he give it. If it be a narrative of Scotland
in the days of Bruce, he should try to hear the bagpipes, see the lochs
and glens of the Highlands, and walk side by side with the heroes of
that time. This means gleaning many fields for materials and giving
something of an artist’s labor to preparation, in which, of course,
he will be limited by the time at his disposal. But according to the
preparation will be the result, and to believe previous thought and study
unnecessary because one has natural facility for story-telling is to
be gravely mistaken. Artists of the stage discovered long ago that no
matter how gifted they may be, nothing can take the place of preparation.
Adrienne Lecouvreur demonstrated the truth of this statement several
centuries ago when she revolutionized acting, and theatrical folk are
still demonstrating it, for in just this respect lies the difference
between the third- and fourth-rate player and the great dramatic star.
The leading man or woman who is satisfied to learn lines and do nothing
more, does not get beyond stock. But one ambitious to climb to the top
rung of the histrionic ladder will travel every bypath that may possibly
yield him a fuller and richer comprehension of the part he has to play.
Geraldine Farrar read everything obtainable about Japan and Japanese
life before attempting to create the rôle of “Madame Butterfly,” and
Maude Adams spent months studying the life of the Maid of Orleans,
following every step of her career from the hills of Domrémy to the pyre
at Rouen, before being satisfied to present “Jeanne d’Arc” at the Harvard
Stadium. So it must be with the story-teller. Only the professional can
devote weeks, or even days, to the preparation of one program, but every
one who attempts to tell stories must know more than the plot of the tale
and must have felt its events in all their possibilities, if his hearers
in their turn are to feel them.
The amount of preparation necessary varies with the individual. Those
possessing natural facility and those who heard much story-telling
in childhood need less than those whom Nature has not gifted, or who
were not so fortunate in early environment. But every one needs some
preparation, and there is much slovenly, valueless story-telling because
this fact is not generally recognized. Many teachers do not regard
story-telling seriously enough, and devote far less thought to it than to
other branches of their work, because the idea is prevalent that any one
can spin a yarn or two. Consequently they accomplish little through the
medium of the story. But there is another group of workers who believe
that story-telling means as much today as it meant centuries ago, and
its members are sending children into the libraries. As nearly as time
and the conditions of their work will permit them, they are following
in the footsteps of the medieval narrator. Like him, they are giving an
artist’s labor to their work because they realize that great results
come only through great effort. But the number of these story-tellers,
compared with the workers with children, is very small, and consequently
results are not yet gratifying. They can become gratifying only when
child leaders cease to think that the story period is the one period of
the day for which no preparation need be made, and realize that every
minute devoted to previous thought and study will make the language come
more spontaneously and fluently and will bring before the eyes of the
listeners pictures that are clear because they first have been clear
before the eyes of the teller.
Every scene in a story should be visualized until it is as vivid as a
painting on a canvas. It must be studied and imagined until it shifts
smoothly and rapidly into the succeeding one. Then there will be no
danger of the teller having to pause and think what comes next, or of
having to interpolate something that should have been introduced at an
earlier stage of the tale. This is not equally easy for every one. Those
who are imaginative by nature will find it no task, while for others
it will be difficult at first. But no one need be discouraged. Each
succeeding attempt will bring clearer pictures and smoother shifting of
scenes, and gratifying results will follow labor and perseverance. It is
a good plan for the beginner to jot down in outline form the successive
events of the story and study them until he can carry the sequence in his
mind.
When the pictures are clear and the order of events is fixed, the story
should be practiced. This does not mean that it should be learned
verbatim. Untrained narrators often make the mistake of memorizing
paragraph by paragraph and sentence by sentence, and then giving the
tale like a recitation, which is not story-telling at all. Story-telling
is a constructive, creative art, and the tale that grips and convinces
and inspires must be told in a manner that makes it seem like the
teller’s own. Practicing the story means facing an imaginary audience and
describing so vividly and clearly what is seen that others may see the
pictures that pass before the mind’s eye.
Shall gesture and facial gymnastics be used? This depends entirely upon
the temperament and personality of the narrator. If it is natural for
him to gesticulate as he speaks, gesture will come spontaneously and
will heighten the effect of the tale. But if movements of hand and head
and body are not spontaneous, they will mar the rendition and scatter
the interest of the listeners by dividing it between the teller and the
tale. Story-telling then becomes touched with affectation and loses its
artistry. It degrades the story-teller into a sort of acrobatic performer
and makes him a personage upon whom the attention is centered, which is
not as it should be. He is simply the medium through which the picture
is made clear to the audience. He is not an actor, and should not occupy
the center of the stage. As Dr. Partridge says: “The story-teller should
pleasingly suggest the mood and scene of the story, then step into the
background, turn down the lights on the present, and carry his hearers to
a distant region, which he must make, for the time being, more real than
the here and now.” This is why the story-teller is at his best away from
the glare of electricity, among the shadows of a summer gloaming, or by
the open hearth when the firelight is dim, because then his hearers do
not see him or think of him, but only of the pictures and scenes painted
by his voice and words.
Therefore let the guiding rule of the narrator be, “I must describe
pictures so that others will see them, and think, not of me, but of the
scenes to which I lead them.” And he must do it in his individual way.
If gesture comes naturally, it belongs in the tale. If it is studied
and artificial, it destroys the effect and value. Some of the greatest
story-tellers of the past used no gesture, while others used body,
head, and hands with wonderful effect. They were persons of strong
individuality and did things in an individual way. Let the present-day
story-teller profit by their example.
Change of voice in dialogue adds to clearness of pictures. Nothing is
more colorless than a reading by one whose intonation is not in keeping
with the part he interprets, and the story told in a monotone is boresome
and valueless to the child. He associates tone and action and wants them
to be true to each other. He is dissatisfied if the old witch speaks like
a loving mother, while the heavy tones of the wicked giant, the gentle
ones of the good fairy, and the mirthful, rippling notes of the joyous,
beautiful maiden delight him and make him responsive to the tale. They
transform the personages of the story into living, breathing creatures
who walk in his presence and smile or frown in his face.
Pauses are wonderfully effective in heightening the interest in a story.
Children fairly quiver with expectation if frequent pauses are used when
the moments of suspense grow big. They creep nearer in their eagerness
to hear about what happens next, fearing that they will miss a bit of
the attractive thread. One small boy, asked why he took such delight in
listening to a certain story-teller, said: “I don’t know if it’s the
way she looks or the way she says it. She’ll be going along, telling
about what happens, and all at once she’ll say, ‘And then——’ and stop a
little bit until you think all kinds of things are going to happen.” This
feeling is general with children, although they may not voice it, and
behind the naïve words is a psychological truth. The pause heightens the
dramatic effect and focuses the interest on the coming sentences.
Above all things, there should be no stopping in the midst of a tale to
correct a child. If one shows evidence of lagging interest, mention his
name as if the story were being told for him. “And, John, when little Red
Riding Hood reached her grandmother’s house she knocked on the door.”
This makes him feel that although many children are listening to the
story, it is being given solely for his benefit. It touches his pride
and grips his attention long enough to enable the narrator to muster all
his forces and heighten the interest in the tale so that it will abound
in suspense from that point. If it fails to do that, something is wrong,
either with the selection or the presentation. Perhaps the pictures are
not being made clear because they were not first clear in the mind of the
teller. Perhaps the story is not an interesting one to that particular
group of children. It is the narrator’s business to find the reason,
just as artists in Europe must learn what is at fault when their hearers
hiss. Audiences on the Continent are not so polite as those in America,
and there is no mistaking their feeling about a performance. When sounds
of disapproval sweep over the house, the performer must rise to heights
that will compel admiration or face a ruined career. Likewise, when a
small boy becomes troublesome, the story-teller should not pause to
correct him, but should make the tale so thrillingly fascinating that
the lad forgets to be naughty. Mothers seldom meet with this problem,
but settlement workers are having to solve it constantly, and they do it
successfully only by knowing what lies close to the child’s interests and
telling stories that touch those interests.
There are those who denounce story-telling in the schoolroom because they
happen to have known of poor story-telling and the disorderly conduct
that often ensues when the children’s interest is not held. Not long ago
I came across this statement in the report of a lecture delivered at a
teachers’ institute:
“It is to be hoped that story-telling will soon be eliminated from the
primary grades, and that the spectacle of a teacher pausing in the
midst of a tale to grasp a child by the arm and exclaim, ‘Here, Johnny,
straighten up and listen,’ will become past history.”
It certainly is to be hoped that such story-telling will be eliminated,
but it is no more fair to condemn story-telling as an art or to deprecate
its value as an educational or ethical factor because there is poor
story-telling, than it is to decry painting and sculpture because there
are bunglers with brushes and chisels. The remedy does not lie in
abolishing it, but in elevating the standard of the workers to a higher
plane and in demonstrating that story-telling syncopated by scoldings
and admonitions is not story-telling at all.
When shall we tell stories? Whenever, in the opinion of the teacher, a
story will do more effective work than something else. Do not depend
wholly on regular periods. These have a place on every school, library,
or settlement program, but the story period should not be the only time
for telling stories, because often a tale told at the psychological
moment will make a deeper and more lasting impression than those given
during a dozen regular periods. When the children are tired, tell a story
for rest and relaxation. If there has been a fight or swearing, follow up
the incident as soon as possible with an apt narrative. It will do more
good than moralizing. If the geography class is struggling over the map
of Turkey and can see nothing but a series of dots and marks on a piece
of paper, put aside the formal recitation for that day and tell them of
the building of the Mosque of Ahmed the First on the Golden Horn, of the
merry craftsmen who raised the dome of St. Sophia, and give them some
idea of how this glorious waif of the Orient came to stand on European
soil. Make story-telling fit occasions and conditions instead of trying
to make conditions fit story-telling.
And above all, never moralize! As one authority says, “It is bad pedagogy
and worse art.” Remember what Dr. van Dyke says: “If a story is worth
telling, moralizing is not necessary.” It is not only unnecessary,
but harmful. The child sees for himself that virtue is rewarded and
evil-doing is punished. He resents not being given credit for having
sufficient intelligence to understand it, and a personal application
antagonizes him.
Tell the tale in a direct, unassuming manner—not as if you are talking
down to a group of children, but as if you are one of the number, talking
with them. Boys and girls dislike the patronizing story-teller as much
as adults dislike the patronizing person, and are quick to detect
affectation and insincerity. They will not receive the message a posing
raconteur has to give, because his manner of delivering it irritates and
estranges them. The successful story-teller must be like the poet, a joy
bringer, and he can be that only when his work is marked by sincerity and
genuineness as clear as brook water.
BOOKS ON STORY-TELLING
ALLISON, S. B., and PERDUE, H. A.: _The Story in Primary
Education_.
BAILEY, CAROLYN SHERWIN: _For the Story-Teller_.
BRYANT, SARA CONE: _How to Tell Stories to Children_.
COE, FANNY E.: _First Book of Stories for the Story-Teller_;
_Second Book of Stories for the Story-Teller_.
COWLES, JULIA D.: _The Art of Story-Telling_.
DYE, CHARITY: _The Story-Teller’s Art_.
FORBUSH, WILLIAM B.: _Story-Telling in the Home_.
KEYES, ANGELA M.: _Stories and Story-Telling_.
LINDSAY, MAUD: _The Story-Teller for Little Children_.
LYMAN, EDNA: _Story-Telling: What to Tell and How to Tell It_.
MCMURRY, CHARLES A.: _Special Method in Primary Reading and
Oral Work, with Stories_.
PARTRIDGE, EMELYN N. and GEORGE E.: _Story-Telling in the Home
and School_.
ST. JOHN, PORTER: _The Story in Moral and Religious Education_.
SHEDLOCK, MARIE L.: _The Art of the Story-Teller_.
WILTSE, SARA E.: _The Place of the Story in Early Education_.
WYCHE, RICHARD THOMAS: _Some Great Stories and How to Tell
Them_.
CHAPTER EIGHT
STORY-TELLING TO LEAD TO AN APPRECIATION OF LITERATURE
One of the specific aims of education is to endow children with an
appreciation of literature, and to this end much of a teacher’s energy
is directed. From the elementary school through the university the
curriculum includes a course in English, and even in kindergarten and
primary grades a point is made of introducing children to those authors
whose work is conceded to have a strong appeal for them. The first,
second, or third grade boy is required to read and memorize selections
from Stevenson, Riley, and Eugene Field; not infrequently he is
detained after school because of failure to have his lesson prepared at
recitation time, and responds to the requirement in a mood that brings
discouragement to his teacher.
On the other hand, there are schools in which the literature or reading
hour is a period of joy, where the learning of songs of the singers of
childhood is accomplished without coercion. These schools are the ones in
which the teachers have learned that the acquisition of knowledge, to be
of real value, must be attended with enjoyment.
It is a mistake to believe that although the function of the school is
to equip the man, the aim of education is only to give enjoyment in the
future. It is also the aim of education to give enjoyment now, because
in this way capacity for enjoyment in the future is made possible. The
boy or girl whose early association with poetry or beautiful prose is
attended with displeasure and discomfort is no more likely to be drawn
to the finer types of literature later than the man or woman is apt to
be fond of a person, the first meeting with whom was a disagreeable
experience. If we would have the man love good literature, we must first
lead the child to love good literature, and we can do this only through
having him enjoy good literature.
Because story-telling brings pleasure to the child, it is a most
effective means of leading him to an appreciation of literature.
Through the medium of the story we not only can heighten his capacity
for enjoyment and elevate the standard of his taste, but we can equip
him with knowledge he will never acquire if the literature period is
associated with force and punishment. If a tale brings pleasing pictures
before his eyes and is beautiful in theme and language, he unconsciously
forms a taste for beautiful language, for he is not only getting the
succession of events that make the plot, but is also absorbing words and
expressions. Certain sentences stick in his memory, and teachers who
have children reproduce stories know that frequently they use the exact
phrases and sentences that have been used by the teller. They do not
remember these for a day or an hour and then forget them; they remember
them as years go by, and associate certain words with certain narratives.
William McKinley once said that the mention of willows by a river made
him think of the story of Moses in the bulrushes, and brought to mind
this sentence: “And she hid the basket among the rushes in a spot where
willows hung over the river.” The story had been told him in childhood
and brought him enjoyment, and some of the narrator’s expressions left
a lasting imprint on his mind. “I believe that story, more than anything
else,” he once said, “gave me a fondness for elegant English.”
James A. Garfield voiced almost the same thought, declaring that his
taste for literature was shaped by stories from great authors told him by
his mother during his early years, and many other men of achievement have
attested to the same truth. They have proved conclusively out of their
own experience that even with little children it is possible to lay a
foundation upon which a noble and enduring structure can be built. We can
give them an appreciation of stories and poems that are among the gems of
literature.
We can also interest children in the life of an author so that they
will want to know something of his work. This statement often brings
the question, “How, since little children want stories that are full of
action, and not biographies of men and women they never have seen?” Is
it not true that the childhood of all great men contained interesting
experiences, that if told as stories will lead little people to want to
know about what these boys and girls did when they grew up?
Robert Louis Stevenson is a good example. Every child will listen
sympathetically to the tale of the poor little rich boy who was often so
ill that he could not run and play, but who made the best of things and
amused himself with toys on his bed. He built cities out of blocks. He
watched the lamplighter go on his evening rounds along the street, and
sometimes in the summer, the dewy, Scotch summer that can be pictured so
attractively to children, when he went with his nurse to the country or
the shore, he put leaves and chips in the river and pretended that they
were boats. He dug holes in the sand with his wooden spade and laughed
to see the vagrant waves come up and fill them. The child who hears
about his various experiences will become intensely interested in little
Robert, and will grow to love “The Land of Counterpane,” “The River,” “At
the Seashore,” and other selections from _A Child’s Garden of Verses_.
Every time he reads or hears them he will see a picture of the wee Scotch
lad whose story touched his heart.
This is no untried theory. Through story-telling, the author of _Treasure
Island_ has become a living personage and _A Child’s Garden of Verses_ a
source of delight in more than one first grade. A teacher who had charge
of forty little Italians devoted fifteen minutes each morning to stories
of writers and their works, and by the end of the term the children had
a knowledge of Stevenson and Field that amazed the superintendent. More
valuable than the knowledge acquired was the capacity for real enjoyment
of some of the works of these men, enjoyment so intense that during the
half hour of song and games that was a feature of every Friday, it was
not unusual for a small Tony or Gulielmo to flutter a brown hand and ask
to be permitted to recite:
Of speckled eggs the birdie sings,
And nests among the trees.
Another teacher was rewarded for her work by hearing the mother of one of
her pupils tell at a parent-teachers’ meeting of how a certain little
lad amused himself while recuperating from measles by entertaining the
household with songs from Stevenson and stories about little Robert, who
became the big Robert that wrote the book.
In doing this sort of work, however, it is necessary to keep in mind the
story interests of childhood, to remember that children are interested
in children, and not begin, “When Robert Louis Stevenson was a little
boy,” but rather, “Once there was a little boy who lived far away from
here, and his name was Robert.” Let the approach be from the child to the
man instead of from the man to the child. Focus the interest of children
upon one like themselves, then lead in a natural way to the man and his
achievements.
Sometimes children can be interested in a piece of literature through
a story about it or suggested by it, because often one tale helps to
illuminate and clarify and add interest to another.
Suppose a primary teacher or a mother wishes to take up Tennyson’s “Sweet
and Low,” a piece of literature that is either a succession of vivid,
delightful pictures or a vague group of words, according to the manner
in which it is presented. Tell of the baby who lived with the father and
mother in a fishing village on the Isle of Wight. Each day the father
had to go far out to sea in a boat to catch fish to sell for money with
which to buy food for his dear ones, and each night the baby laughed and
crowed when he came home. Once he stayed later than usual, and baby did
not want to go to bed without seeing him; but the mother sang a pretty
song, saying that father would soon be home, and crooned and rocked her
little one until he fell asleep. It was a pleasant evening, with a big,
silver moon, and a man was out walking—a rich man who lived in a house on
a hill high above the fishers’ huts. As he went by the cottage where the
baby lived, he heard the mother singing, and the song was so sweet that
he hurried home and wrote what it made him think about. Then follow with
the poem, and the children will receive it gladly.
This same plan can be used with older children, but let the material be
given in story form instead of as a series of disconnected incidents.