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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 61340 ***</div>

<div class="transnote">
<h3>Transcriber's Note.</h3>

<p>A list of the changes made can be found at the <a href="#Transcribers_Note">end of the book</a>.
</p></div>

<hr class="chap" />
<h1>THE ART OF STORY-TELLING</h1>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/i_cover.jpg" width="400" height="621" alt="cover" />
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="400" height="640" alt="title" />
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p class="center">
<big><b>THE ART
OF STORY-TELLING</b></big></p>

<p class="center p2"><span class="smcap">By</span> MARIE L. SHEDLOCK</p>

<p class="center p2"><small>WITH A PREFACE BY</small>
<br />
<span class="smcap">Professor</span> JOHN ADAMS
<br />
CHAIR OF EDUCATION, UNIVERSITY OF LONDON</p>

<p class="center p4">LONDON<br />
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.<br />
1915</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p class="center p6">ALL RIGHTS RESERVED</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<h2>CONTENTS.</h2>

<table summary="contents">
<tr><td colspan="3">&nbsp;</td><td class="tdr">PAGE</td></tr>

<tr><td colspan="3"><span class="smcap">Preface</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_vii">vii</a></td></tr>

<tr><td colspan="3"><span class="smcap">Introduction</span> </td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr>

<tr><td>Chapter</td> <td class="tdr">I.</td> <td><span class="smcap">The Difficulties of Story-Telling connected
with Libraries and Clubs</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_6">6</a></td></tr>

<tr><td>”&nbsp;</td> <td class="tdr">II.</td> <td><span class="smcap">The Essentials of Story-Telling</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_25">25</a></td></tr>

<tr><td>”&nbsp;</td> <td class="tdr">III.</td>
<td><span class="smcap">The Artifices of Story-Telling</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_32">32</a></td></tr>

<tr><td>”&nbsp;</td> <td class="tdr">IV.</td>
<td><span class="smcap">Elements to Avoid</span> </td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_42">42</a></td></tr>

<tr><td>”&nbsp;</td> <td class="tdr">V.</td>
<td><span class="smcap">Elements to Seek</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_61">61</a></td></tr>

<tr><td>”&nbsp;</td> <td class="tdr">VI.</td>
<td><span class="smcap">How to Obtain and Maintain the Effect</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_89">89</a></td></tr>

<tr><td>”&nbsp;</td> <td class="tdr">VII.</td>
<td><span class="smcap">Questions and Answers</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_117">117</a></td></tr>

<tr><td>”&nbsp;</td> <td class="tdr">VIII.</td>
<td><span class="smcap">List of Stories Told in Full</span> </td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_138">138</a></td></tr>

<tr><td colspan="2">&nbsp;</td>
<td><span class="smcap">List of Titles of Individual Stories and
of Collections of Stories</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_210">210</a></td></tr>

<tr><td colspan="3"><span class="smcap">Index</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_235">235</a></td></tr>
</table>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">vii</a></span></p>

<h2>PREFACE.</h2>

<p class="center">By <span class="smcap">Professor John Adams</span>, <br />

<i>Chair of Education, University of London</i>.</p>

<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Those</span> who do not love schoolmasters tell us that the
man who can do something supremely well contents
himself with doing it, while the man who cannot do
it very well must needs set about showing other
people how it should be done. The masters in any
craft are prone to magnify their gifts by maintaining
that the poet&mdash;or the stove-pipe maker&mdash;is born, not
made. Teachers will accordingly be gratified to find
in the following pages the work of a lady who is at
the same time a brilliant executant and an admirable
expositor. Miss Shedlock stands in the very first
rank of story-tellers. No one can claim with greater
justice that the gift of Scheherazade is hers by birthright.
Yet she has recognised that even the highest
natural gifts may be well or ill manipulated: that in
short the poet, not to speak of the stove-pipe maker,
must take a little more trouble than to be merely born.</p>

<p>It is well when the master of a craft begins to take
thought and to discover what underlies his method.
It does not, of course, happen that every master is
able to analyse the processes that secure him success
in his art. For after all the expositor has to be born
as well as the executant; and it is perhaps one of the
main causes of the popularity of the born-not-made
theory that so few people are born both good artists
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">viii</a></span>
and good expositors. Miss Shedlock has had this
rare good fortune, as all those who have both read her
book and heard her exemplify her principles on the
platform will readily admit.</p>

<p>Let no one who lacks the gift of story-telling hope
that the following pages will confer it. Like Comenius
and like the schoolmaster in Shakespeare, Miss
Shedlock is entitled to claim a certain capacity or
ingenuity in her pupils, before she can promise
effective help. But on the other hand let no successful
story-teller form the impression that he has nothing
to learn from the exposition here given. The best
craftsmen are those who are not only most able but
most willing to learn from a fellow master. The most
inexperienced story-teller who has the love of the art
in his soul will gather a full harvest from Miss
Shedlock's teaching, while the most experienced and
skilful will not go empty away.</p>

<p>The reader will discover that the authoress is first
and last an artist. “Dramatic joy” is put in the
forefront when she is enumerating the aims of the
story-teller. But her innate gifts as a teacher will not
be suppressed. She objects to “didactic emphasis”
and yet cannot say too much in favour of the moral
effect that may be produced by the use of the story.
She raises here the whole problem of direct <i>versus</i>
indirect moral instruction, and decides in no uncertain
sound in favour of the indirect form. There is a great
deal to be said on the other side, but this is not the
place to say it. On the wide question Miss Shedlock
has on her side the great body of public opinion
among professional teachers. The orthodox master
proclaims that he is, of course, a moral instructor, but
adds that in the schoolroom the less <i>said</i> about the
matter the better. Like the authoress, the orthodox
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">ix</a></span>
teacher has much greater faith in example than in
precept: so much faith indeed that in many schools
precept does not get the place it deserves. But in the
matter of story-telling the artistic element introduces
something that is not necessarily involved in ordinary
school work. For better or for worse modern opinion
is against the explicitly stated lesson to be drawn from
any tale that is told. Most people agree with Mark
Twain's condemnation of “the moral that wags its
crippled tail at the end of most school-girls' essays.”</p>

<p>The justification of the old-fashioned “moral” was
not artistic but didactic. It embodied the determination
of the story-teller to see that his pupils got the
full benefit of the lesson involved. If the moral is to
be cut out, the story-teller must be sure that the lesson
is so clearly conveyed in the text that any further
elaboration would be felt as an impertinent addition.
Whately assures us that men prefer metaphors to
similes because in the simile the point is baldly stated,
whereas in the metaphor the reader or hearer has to
be his own interpreter. All education is in the last
resort self-education, and Miss Shedlock sees to it
that her stories compel her hearers to make the
application she desires.</p>

<p>In two other points modern opinion is prepared to
give our authoress rein where our forefathers would
have been inclined to restrain her. The sense of
humour has come to its proper place in our schoolrooms&mdash;pupils'
humour, be it understood, for there
always was scope enough claimed for the humour of
the teacher. So with the imagination. The time is
past when this “mode of being conscious” was
looked at askance in school. Parents and teachers
no longer speak contemptuously about “the busy
faculty,” and quote Genesis in its condemnation.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_x" id="Page_x">x</a></span>

Miss Shedlock has been well advised to keep to her
legitimate subject instead of wandering afield in a
Teutonic excursion into the realms of folk-lore. What
parents and teachers want is the story as here and now
existing and an account of how best to manipulate it.
This want the book now before us admirably meets.</p>

<p class="right">
JOHN ADAMS.
</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">1</a></span></p>

<h2>INTRODUCTION.</h2>

<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">Story-telling</span> is almost the oldest Art in the world&mdash;the
first conscious form of literary communication.
In the East it still survives, and it is not an uncommon
thing to see a crowd at a street-corner held by the
simple narration of a story. There are signs in the
West of a growing interest in this ancient art, and we
may yet live to see the renaissance of the troubadours
and the minstrels whose appeal will then rival that
of the mob orator or itinerant politician. One of the
surest signs of a belief in the educational power of the
story is its introduction into the curriculum of the
Training-College and the classes of the Elementary
and Secondary Schools. It is just at the time when
the imagination is most keen&mdash;the mind being unhampered
by accumulation of facts&mdash;that stories appeal
most vividly and are retained for all time.</p>

<p>It is to be hoped that some day stories will only
be told to school groups by experts who have devoted
special time and preparation to the art of telling them.
It is a great fallacy to suppose that the systematic
study of story-telling destroys the spontaneity of
narrative. After a long experience, I find the exact
converse to be true, namely, that it is only when one
has overcome the mechanical difficulties that one can
“let oneself go” in the dramatic interest of the
story.</p>

<p>By the expert story-teller I do not mean the professional
elocutionist. The name&mdash;wrongly enough&mdash;has
become associated in the mind of the public with
persons who beat their breast, tear their hair, and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">2</a></span>
declaim blood-curdling episodes. A decade or more
ago, the drawing-room reciter was of this type, and
was rapidly becoming the bugbear of social gatherings.
The difference between the stilted reciter and
the simple story-teller is perhaps best illustrated by
an episode in Hans C. Andersen's immortal story of
the Nightingale.<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> The real Nightingale and the
artificial Nightingale have been bidden by the
Emperor to unite their forces and to sing a duet at
a Court function. The duet turns out most disastrously,
and whilst the artificial Nightingale is singing
his one solo for the thirty-third time, the real
Nightingale flies out of the window back to the green
wood&mdash;a true artist, instinctively choosing his right
atmosphere. But the bandmaster&mdash;symbol of the
pompous pedagogue&mdash;in trying to soothe the outraged
feelings of the courtiers, says, “Because, you see,
Ladies and Gentlemen, and, above all, Your Imperial
Majesty, with the real nightingale you never can tell
what you will hear, but in the artificial nightingale
everything is decided beforehand. So it is, and so
it must remain. It cannot be otherwise.”</p>

<p>And as in the case of the two nightingales, so it is
with the stilted reciter and the simple narrator: one
is busy displaying the machinery, showing “how the
tunes go”&mdash;the other is anxious to conceal the art.
Simplicity should be the keynote of story-telling, but
(and here the comparison with the Nightingale breaks
down) it is a simplicity which comes after much
training in self-control, and much hard work in
overcoming the difficulties which beset the presentation.</p>

<p>I do not mean that there are not born story-tellers
who <i>could</i> hold an audience without preparation, but
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">3</a></span>
they are so rare in number that we can afford to
neglect them in our general consideration; for this
work is dedicated to the average story-tellers anxious
to make the best use of their dramatic ability, and it
is to them that I present my plea for special study and
preparation before telling a story to a group of
children&mdash;that is, if they wish for the far-reaching
effects I shall speak of later on. Only the preparation
must be of a much less stereotyped nature than that
by which the ordinary reciters are trained for their
career.</p>

<p>Some years ago, when I was in the States, I was
asked to put into the form of lectures my views upon
the educational value of telling stories. A sudden
inspiration seized me. I began to cherish a dream of
long hours to be spent in the British Museum, the
Congressional Library in Washington and the Public
Library at Boston&mdash;and this is the only portion of
the dream which has been realized. I planned an
elaborate scheme of research work which was to result
in a magnificent (if musty) philological treatise. I
thought of trying to discover by long and patient
researches what species of lullaby were crooned by
Egyptian mothers to their babes, and what were the
elementary dramatic poems in vogue among Assyrian
nursemaids which were the prototypes of “Little Jack
Horner,” “Dickory, Dickory Dock,” and other
nursery classics. I intended to follow up the study
of these ancient documents by making an appendix
of modern variants, showing what progress we had
made&mdash;if any&mdash;among modern nations.</p>

<p>But there came to me suddenly one day the remembrance
of a scene from Racine's “Plaideurs” in
which the counsel for the defence, eager to show how
fundamental is his knowledge, begins his speech:&mdash;</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">4</a></span>

“Before the Creation of the World”&mdash;And the
Judge (with a touch of weariness tempered by humour)
suggests:&mdash;</p>

<p>“Let us pass on to the Deluge.”</p>

<p>And thus I, too, have “passed on to the Deluge.”
I have abandoned an account of the origin and past
of stories which at the best would only have displayed
a little recently-acquired book-knowledge. When I
thought of the number of scholars who could treat this
part of the question so infinitely better than myself,
I realized how much wiser it would be&mdash;though the
task is much more humdrum&mdash;to deal with the present
possibilities of story-telling for our generation of
parents and teachers, and, leaving out the folk-lore
side, devote myself to the story itself.</p>

<p>My objects in urging the use of stories in the
education of children are at least five-fold:</p>

<p><i>First</i>, to give them dramatic joy, for which they
have a natural craving. <i>Secondly</i>, to develop a sense
of humour, which is really a sense of proportion.
<i>Thirdly</i>, to correct certain tendencies by showing the
consequences in the career of the hero in the story.
(Of this motive the children must be quite unconscious,
and there must be no didactic emphasis.) <i>Fourthly</i>,
by means of example, not precept, to present such
ideals as will sooner or later (I care not which) be
translated into action. <i>Fifthly</i>, to develop the
imagination, which really takes in all the other points.</p>

<p>So much for the purely educational side of the book.
But the art of story-telling, quite apart from the
subject, appeals not only to the educational world or
to parents as parents, but also to a wider outside
public, who may be interested in the purely human
point of view.</p>

<p>In great contrast to the lofty scheme I had originally<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">5</a></span>
proposed to myself, I now simply place before all
those who are interested in the Art of Story-telling in
any form the practical experience I have had in my
travels across the United States and through England;
and, because I am confining myself to personal
experience which must of necessity be limited, I am
very anxious not to appear dogmatic or to give the
impression that I wish to lay down the law on the
subject. But I hope my readers may profit by my
errors, improve on my methods, and thus help to bring
about the revival of an almost lost art&mdash;one which
appeals more directly and more stirringly than any
other method to the majority of listeners.</p>

<p>In Sir Philip Sidney's “Defence of Poesy” we
find these words:</p>

<blockquote>

<p>“Forsooth he cometh to you with a tale, which
holdeth children from play, and old men from the
chimney-corner, and pretending no more, doth
intend the winning of the mind from wickedness
to virtue even as the child is often brought to take
most wholesome things by hiding them in such
other as have a pleasant taste.”</p></blockquote>

<p class="right">
MARIE L. SHEDLOCK.
</p>

<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> See p. <a href="#Page_138">138</a>.</p></div></div>

<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">6</a></span></p>

<h2>CHAPTER I.</h2>

<p class="center"><span class="smcap">The Difficulties of the Story.</span></p>

<p class="noin">I <span class="smcap">propose</span> to deal in this chapter with the difficulties
or dangers which beset the path of the Story-teller,
because, until we have overcome these, we cannot hope
for the finished and artistic presentation which is to
bring out the full value of the story.</p>

<p>The difficulties are many, and yet they ought not to
discourage the would-be narrators, but only show them
how all-important is the preparation for the story, if
it is to have the desired effect.</p>

<p>I propose to illustrate by concrete examples, thereby
hoping to achieve a two-fold result: one to fix the
subject more clearly in the mind of the student&mdash;the
other to use the Art of Story-telling to explain itself.</p>

<p>I have chosen one or two instances from my own
personal experience. The grave mistakes made in my
own case may serve as a warning to others, who will
find, however, that experience is the best teacher. For
positive work, in the long run, we generally find out
our own method. On the negative side, however, it
is useful to have certain pitfalls pointed out to us, in
order that we may save time by avoiding them: it is
for this reason that I sound a note of warning. These
are:&mdash;</p>

<p>I.&mdash;<i>The danger of side issues.</i> An inexperienced
story-teller is exposed to the temptation of breaking
off from the main dramatic interest in a short exciting
story, in order to introduce a side issue, which is often
interesting and helpful, but should be reserved for a
longer and less dramatic story. If the interest turns
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">7</a></span>
on some dramatic moment, the action must be quick
and uninterrupted, or it will lose half its effect.</p>

<p>I had been telling a class of young children the
story of Polyphemus and Ulysses, and, just at the
most dramatic moment in it, some impulse prompted
me to go off on a side issue to describe the personal
appearance of Ulysses.</p>

<p>The children were visibly bored, but with polite
indifference they listened to my elaborate description
of the hero. If I had given them an actual description
from Homer, I believe that the strength of the
language would have appealed to their imagination
(all the more strongly because they might not have
understood the individual words) and have lessened
their disappointment at the dramatic issue being
postponed; but I trusted to my own lame verbal
efforts, and signally failed. Attention flagged, fidgeting
began, the atmosphere was rapidly becoming
spoiled, in spite of the patience and toleration still
shown by the children. At last, however, one little
girl in the front row, as spokeswoman for the class,
suddenly said: “If you please, before you go any
further, do you mind telling us whether, after all, that
Poly ... (slight pause) that (final attempt)
<i>Polyanthus</i> died?”</p>

<p>Now, the remembrance of this question has been of
extreme use to me in my career as a story-teller. I
have realized that in a short dramatic story the mind
of the listeners must be set at ease with regard to the
ultimate fate of the special “Polyanthus” who takes
the centre of the stage.</p>

<p>I remember too the despair of a little boy at a
dramatic representation of “Little Red Riding-Hood,”
when that little person delayed the thrilling catastrophe
with the Wolf, by singing a pleasant song on her way
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">8</a></span>
through the wood. “Oh, why,” said the little boy,
“does she not get on?” And I quite shared his
impatience.</p>

<p>This warning is only necessary in connection with
the short dramatic narrative. There are occasions
when we can well afford to offer short descriptions for
the sake of literary style, and for the purpose of
enlarging the vocabulary of the child. I have found,
however, in these cases, it is well to take the children
into your confidence&mdash;warning them that they are to
expect nothing particularly exciting in the way of
dramatic event: they will then settle down with a
freer mind (though the mood may include a touch of
resignation) to the description you are about to offer
them.<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p>

<p>II.&mdash;<i>The danger of altering the story to suit special
occasions.</i> This is done sometimes from extreme
conscientiousness, sometimes from sheer ignorance of
the ways of children; it is the desire to protect them
from knowledge which they already possess and with
which they (equally conscientious) are apt to “turn
and rend” the narrator. I remember once when I
was telling the story of the siege of Troy to very
young children, I suddenly felt anxious lest there
should be anything in the story of the Rape of Helen
not altogether suitable for the average age of the
class&mdash;namely, nine years. I threw therefore, a
domestic colouring over the whole subject, and
presented an imaginary conversation between Paris
and Helen, in which Paris tried to persuade Helen
that she was a strong-minded woman, thrown away
on a limited society in Sparta, and that she should
come away and visit some of the institutions of the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">9</a></span>
world with him, which would doubtless prove a
mutually instructive journey.<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a>
I then gave the
children the view taken by Herodotus that Helen
never went to Troy, but was detained in Egypt. The
children were much thrilled by the story, and
responded most eagerly when, in my inexperience, I
invited them to reproduce for the next day the tale
I had just told them.</p>

<p>A small child in the class presented me, as you will
see, with the ethical problem from which I had so
laboriously protected <i>her</i>. The essay ran:</p>

<blockquote>
<p>“Once upon a time the King of Troy's son was
called Paris. And he went over to <i>Greace</i> to see
what it was like. And here he saw the beautiful
Helen<i>er</i>, and likewise her husband Menela<i>yus</i>.
And one day, Menelayus went out hunting, and left
Paris and Helener alone, and Paris said: ‘Do you
not feel <i>dul</i> in this <i>palis</i>?’ And Helener said: ‘I
feel very dull in this <i>pallice</i>,<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a>
and Paris said:
'Come away and see the world with me.’ So they
<i>sliped</i> off together, and they came to the King of
Egypt, and <i>he</i> said: ‘Who <i>is</i> the young lady?’
So Paris told him. ‘But,’ said the King, ‘it is not
<i>propper</i> for you to go off with other people's <i>wifes</i>.
So <i>Helener</i> shall stop here.’ Paris stamped his
foot. When Menelayus got home, <i>he</i> stamped his
foot. And he called round him all his soldiers, and
they stood round Troy for eleven years. At last
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">10</a></span>
they thought it was no use <i>standing</i> any longer, so
they built a wooden horse in memory of Helener
and the Trojans and it was taken into the town.”</p></blockquote>

<p>Now the mistake I made in my presentation was to
lay particular stress on the reason for elopement by
my careful readjustment, which really called more
attention to the episode than was necessary for the
age of my audience; and evidently caused confusion
in the minds of some of the children who knew the
story in its more accurate original form.</p>

<p>Whilst travelling in the States, I was provided with
a delightful appendix to this story. I had been telling
Miss Longfellow and her sister the little girl's version
of the Siege of Troy, and Mrs. Thorpe made the
following comment, with the American humour whose
dryness adds so much to its value:</p>

<p>“I never realised before,” she said, “how glad the
Greeks must have been to sit down even inside a
horse, when they had been <i>standing</i> for eleven years.”</p>

<p>III.&mdash;<i>The danger of introducing unfamiliar words.</i>
This is the very opposite danger of the one to which
I have just alluded; it is the taking for granted that
children are acquainted with the meaning of certain
words upon which turns some important point in the
story. We must not introduce (without at least a
passing explanation) words which, if not rightly
understood, would entirely alter the picture we wish
to present.</p>

<p>I had once promised to tell stories to an audience of
Irish peasants, and I should like to state here that,
though my travels have brought me into touch with
almost every kind of audience, I have never found
one where the atmosphere is so “self-prepared” as in
that of a group of Irish peasants. To speak to them
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">11</a></span>
(especially on the subject of Fairy-tales) is like playing
on a delicate harp: the response is so quick and the
sympathy is so keen. Of course the subject of Fairy-tales
is one which is completely familiar to them and
comes into their every-day life. They have a feeling
of awe with regard to fairies, which in some parts of
Ireland is very deep.<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a></p>

<p>On this particular occasion I had been warned by
an artist friend who had kindly promised to sing
songs between the stories, that my audience would be
of varying age and almost entirely illiterate. Many
of the older men and women, who could neither read
nor write, had never been beyond their native village.
I was warned to be very simple in my language and
to explain any difficult words which might occur in
the particular Indian story I had chosen for that night,
namely, “The Tiger, The Jackal and the Brahman.”<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a>
It happened that the older portion of the audience had
scarcely ever seen even the picture of wild animals.
I profited by the advice, and offered a word of explanation
with regard to the Tiger and the Jackal. I
also explained the meaning of the word Brahman&mdash;at
a proper distance, however, lest the audience should
class him with wild animals. I then went on with
my story, in the course of which I mentioned the
Buffalo. In spite of the warning I had received, I
found it impossible not to believe that the name of
this animal would be familiar to any audience. I
therefore went on with the sentence containing this
word, and ended it thus: “And then the Brahman
went a little further and met an old Buffalo turning a
wheel.”</p>

<p>The next day, whilst walking down the village
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">12</a></span>
street, I entered into conversation with a thirteen-year-old
girl who had been in my audience the night before,
and who began at once to repeat in her own words
the Indian story in question. When she came to the
particular sentence I have just quoted, I was greatly
startled to hear <i>her</i> version, which ran thus: “And
the priest went on a little further, and he met another
old gentleman pushing a wheelbarrow.” I stopped
her at once, and not being able to identify the sentence
as part of the story I had told, I questioned her a
little more closely. I found that the word Buffalo
had evidently conveyed to her mind an old “<i>buffer</i>”
whose name was “Lo” (probably taken to be an
Indian form of appellation, to be treated with tolerance
though it might not be Irish in sound). Then, not
knowing of any wheel more familiarly than that
attached to a barrow, the young narrator completed
the picture in her own mind&mdash;which, doubtless, was
a vivid one&mdash;but one must admit that it had lost
something of the Indian atmosphere which I had
intended to gather about it.</p>

<p>IV.&mdash;<i>The danger of claiming the co-operation of
the class by means of questions.</i> The danger in this
case is more serious for the teacher than the child,
who rather enjoys the process and displays a fatal
readiness to give any sort of answer if only he can
play a part in the conversation. If we could depend
on the children giving the kind of answer we expect,
all might go well, and the danger would be lessened;
but children have a perpetual way of frustrating our
hopes in this direction, and of landing us in unexpected
bypaths from which it is not always easy to
return to the main road without a very violent reaction.
As illustrative of this, I quote from “The Madness of
Philip,” by Josephine Dodge Daskam Bacon, a truly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">13</a></span>
delightful essay on Child Psychology, in the guise
of the lightest of stories.</p>

<p>The scene takes place in a Kindergarten&mdash;where a
bold and fearless visitor has undertaken to tell a story
on the spur of the moment to a group of restless
children.</p>

<p>She opens thus: “Yesterday, children, as I came
out of my yard, what do you think I saw?”</p>

<p>The elaborately concealed surprise in store was so
obvious that Marantha rose to the occasion and
suggested “an el'phunt.”</p>

<p>“Why, no. Why should I see an elephant in my
yard? It was not <i>nearly</i> so big as that&mdash;it was a
little thing.”</p>

<p>“A fish,” ventured Eddy Brown, whose eye fell
upon the aquarium in the corner. The raconteuse
smiled patiently.</p>

<p>“Now, how could a fish, a live fish, get into my
front yard?”</p>

<p>“A dead fish,” says Eddy. He had never been
known to relinquish voluntarily an idea.</p>

<p>“No; it was a little kitten,” said the story-teller
decidedly. “A little white kitten. She was standing
right near a big puddle of water. Now, what else do
you think I saw?”</p>

<p>“Another kitten,” suggests Marantha, conservatively.</p>

<p>“No; it was a big Newfoundland dog. He saw the
little kitten near the water. Now, cats don't like
water, do they? What do they like?”</p>

<p>“Mice,” said Joseph Zukoffsky abruptly.</p>

<p>“Well, yes, they do; but there were no mice in
my yard. I'm sure you know what I mean. If they
don't like <i>water</i>, <i>what</i> do they like?”</p>

<p>“Milk,” cried Sarah Fuller confidently.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">14</a></span>

“They like a dry place,” said Mrs. R. B. Smith.
“Now, what do you suppose the dog did?”</p>

<p>It may be that successive failures had disheartened
the listeners. It may be that the very range of choice
presented to them and the dog alike dazzled their
imagination. At all events, they made no answer.</p>

<p>“Nobody knows what the dog did?” repeated the
story-teller encouragingly. “What would you do if
you saw a little kitten like that?”</p>

<p>And Philip remarked gloomily:</p>

<p>“I'd pull its tail.”</p>

<p>“And what do the rest of you think? I hope you
are not as cruel as that little boy.”</p>

<p>A jealous desire to share Philip's success prompted
the quick response:</p>

<p>“I'd pull it too.”</p>

<p>Now, the reason of the total failure of this story
was the inability to draw any real response from the
children, partly because of the hopeless vagueness of
the questions, partly because, there being no time for
reflection, the children said the first thing that comes
into their head without any reference to their real
thoughts on the subject.</p>

<p>I cannot imagine anything less like the enlightened
methods of the best Kindergarten teaching. Had
Mrs. R. B. Smith been a real, and not a fictional,
person, it would certainly have been her last appearance
as a <i>raconteuse</i> in this educational institution.</p>

<p>V.&mdash;<i>The difficulty of gauging the effect of a story
upon the audience.</i> This rises from lack of observation
and experience; it is the want of these qualities
which leads to the adoption of such a method as I
have just presented. We learn in time that want of
expression on the faces of the audience and want of
any kind of external response does not always mean
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">15</a></span>
either lack of interest or attention. There is often
real interest deep down, but no power, or perhaps no
wish, to display that interest, which is deliberately
concealed at times so as to protect oneself from
questions which may be put.</p>

<p>I was speaking on one occasion in Davenport in
the State of Iowa. I had been engaged to deliver a
lecture to adults on the “Fun and Philosophy” of
Hans C. Andersen's Fairy Tales. When I arrived
at the Hall, I was surprised and somewhat annoyed
to find four small boys sitting in the front row. They
seemed to be about ten years old, and, knowing pretty
well from experience what boys of that age usually
like, I felt rather anxious as to what would happen,
and I must confess that for once I wished children
had the useful faculty, developed in adults, of successfully
concealing their feelings. Any hopes I had
conceived on this point were speedily shattered. After
listening to the first few sentences, two of the boys
evidently recognised the futility of bestowing any
further attention on the subject, and consoled themselves
for the dulness of the occasion by starting a
“scrap.” I watched this proceeding for a minute
with great interest, but soon recalled the fact that I
had not been engaged in the capacity of spectator, so,
addressing the antagonists in as severe a manner as
I could assume, I said: “Boys, I shall have to ask
you to go to the back of the hall.” They responded
with much alacrity, and evident gratitude, and even
exceeded my instructions by leaving the hall
altogether.</p>

<p>My sympathy was now transferred to the two
remaining boys, who sat motionless, and one of them
never took his eyes off me during the whole lecture.
I feared lest they might be simply cowed by the treatment
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">16</a></span>
meted out to their companions, whose joy in
their release had been somewhat tempered by the
disgrace of ejection. I felt sorry that I could not
provide these model boys with a less ignominious
retreat, and I cast about in my mind how I could make
it up to them. At the end of the lecture, I addressed
them personally and, congratulating them on their
quiet behaviour, said that, as I feared the main part
of the lecture could scarcely have interested them, I
should conclude, not with the story I had intended
for the adults, but with a special story for them, as a
reward for their good behaviour. I then told Hans
C. Andersen's “Jack the Dullard,” which I have
always found to be a great favourite with boys. These
particular youths smiled very faintly, and left any
expression of enthusiasm to the adult portion of the
audience. My hostess, who was eager to know what
the boys thought, enquired of them how they liked the
lecture. The elder one said guardedly: “I liked it
very well, but I was <i>piqued</i> at her underrating my
appreciation of Hans Andersen.”</p>

<p>I was struck with the entirely erroneous impression
I had received of the effect I was producing upon the
boys. I was thankful at least that a passing allusion
to Schopenhauer in my lecture possibly provided
some interest for this “young old” child.</p>

<p>I felt somewhat in the position of a Doctor of
Divinity in Canada to whom a small child confided
the fact that she had written a parody on “The Three
Fishers,” but that it had dropped into the fire. The
Doctor made some facetious rejoinder about the
impertinence of the flames in consuming her manuscript.
The child reproved him in these grave words:
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">17</a></span>
“Nature, you know, <i>is</i> Nature, and her laws are
inviolable.”</p>

<p>VI.&mdash;<i>The danger of over illustration.</i> After long
experience, and after considering the effect produced
on children when pictures are shown to them during
the narration, I have come to the conclusion that the
appeal to the eye and the ear at the same time is of
doubtful value, and has, generally speaking, a
distracting effect; the concentration on one channel
of communication attracts and holds the attention
more completely. I was confirmed in this theory
when I addressed an audience of blind people for the
first time, and noticed how closely they attended, and
how much easier it seemed to them, because they were
so completely “undistracted by the sights around
them.”<a name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a></p>

<p>I have often suggested to young teachers two
experiments in support of this theory. They are not
practical experiments, nor could they be repeated
often with the same audience, but they are intensely
interesting and they serve to show the <i>actual</i> effect
of appealing to one sense at a time. The first of these
experiments is to take a small group of children and
suggest that they should close their eyes whilst you
tell them a story. You will then notice how much
more attention is given to the intonation and inflection
of the voice. The reason is obvious: because there
is nothing to distract the attention, it is concentrated
on the only thing offered to the listeners (that is,
sound), to enable them to seize the dramatic interest
of the story.</p>

<p>We find an example of the dramatic power of the
voice in its appeal to the imagination, in one of the
tributes brought by an old pupil to Thomas Edward
Brown (Master at Clifton College):</p>

<blockquote>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">18</a></span>
“My earliest recollection is that his was the most
vivid teaching I ever received: great width of view
and poetical, almost passionate, power of presentment.
We were reading Froude's History, and I
shall never forget how it was Brown's words,
Brown's voice, not the historian's, that made me
feel the great democratic function which the
monasteries performed in England: the view
became alive in his mouth.”</p></blockquote>

<p class="noin">And in another passage:</p>

<blockquote>

<p>“All set forth with such dramatic force and aided
by such a splendid voice, left an indelible impression
on my mind.” (<i>Letters of T. E. Brown</i>, p. 55.)</p></blockquote>

<p>A second experiment, and a much more subtle and
difficult one, is to take the same group of children on
another occasion, telling them a story in pantomime
form, giving them first the briefest outline of it. In
this case this must be of the simplest construction,
until the children are able (if you continue the experiment)
to look for something more subtle.</p>

<p>I have never forgotten the marvellous performance
of a play given in London, many years ago, entirely
in pantomime form. The play was called <i>L'Enfant
Prodigue</i>, and was presented by a company of French
artists. It would be almost impossible to exaggerate
the strength of that “silent appeal” to the public.
One was so unaccustomed to reading meaning and
development of character into gesture and facial
expression that it was really a revelation to most
present&mdash;certainly to all Anglo-Saxons.</p>

<p>I cannot touch on this subject without admitting
the enormous dramatic value connected with the
kinematograph. Though it can never take the place
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">19</a></span>
of an actual performance, whether in story form or
on the stage, it has a real educational value in its
possibilities of representation which it is difficult to
over-estimate, and I believe that its introduction into
the school curriculum, under the strictest supervision,
will be of extraordinary benefit. The movement, in
its present chaotic condition, and in the hands of a
commercial management, is more likely to stifle than
to awaken or stimulate the imagination, but the
educational world is fully alive to the danger, and I
am convinced that in the future of the movement good
will predominate.</p>

<p>The real value of the cinematograph in connection
with stories is that it provides the background that is
wanting to the inner vision of the average child, and
does not prevent its imagination from filling in the
details later. For instance, it would be quite impossible
for the average child to get an idea from mere
word-painting of the atmosphere of the Polar regions,
as represented lately on the film in connection with
Captain Scott's expedition; but any stories told later
on about these regions would have an infinitely
greater interest.</p>

<p>There is, however, a real danger in using pictures
to illustrate the story&mdash;especially if it be one which
contains a direct appeal to the imagination of the
child (as quite distinct from the stories which deal
with facts)&mdash;which is that you force the whole audience
of children to see the same picture, instead of giving
each individual child the chance of making his own
mental picture, which is of far greater joy, and of
much greater educational value, since by this process
the child co-operates with you instead of having all
the work done for it.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">20</a></span>
Queyrat, in his work on “La Logique chez l'Enfant”
quotes Madame Necker de Saussure:<a name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a>
 “To children and animals actual objects present themselves,
not the terms of their manifestations. For them
thinking is seeing over again, it is going through the
sensations that the real object would have produced.
Everything which goes on within them is in the form
of pictures, or rather, inanimate scenes in which Life
is partially reproduced.... Since the child has,
as yet, no capacity for abstraction, he finds a stimulating
power in words and a suggestive inspiration
which holds him enchanted. They awaken vividly-coloured
images, pictures far more brilliant than would
be called into being by the objects themselves.”</p>

<p>Surely, if this be true, we are taking from children
that rare power of mental visualisation by offering to
their outward vision an <i>actual</i> picture.</p>

<p>I was struck with the following note by a critic of
the “Outlook,” referring to a Japanese play but
bearing directly on the subject in hand.</p>

<p>“First, we should be inclined to put insistence upon
appeal by <i>imagination</i>. Nothing is built up by lath
and canvas; everything has to be created by the poet's
speech.”</p>

<p>He alludes to the decoration of one of the scenes,
which consists of three pines, showing what can be
conjured up in the mind of the spectator.</p>

<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">Ah, yes. Unfolding now before my eyes</div>
<div class="i0">The views I know: the Forest, River, Sea</div>
<div class="i0">And Mist&mdash;the scenes of Ono now expand.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>I have often heard objections raised to this theory
by teachers dealing with children whose knowledge
of objects outside their own little limited circle is so
scanty that words we use without a suspicion that they
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">21</a></span>
are unfamiliar are really foreign expressions to them.
Such words as sea, woods, fields, mountains would
mean nothing to them, unless some explanation were
offered. To these objections I have replied that
where we are dealing with objects that can actually
be seen with the bodily eyes, then it is quite legitimate
to show pictures of those objects before you begin the
story, so that the distraction between the actual and
mental presentation may not cause confusion; but, as
the foregoing example shows, we should endeavour
to accustom the children to seeing much more than
the mere objects themselves, and in dealing with
abstract qualities we must rely solely on the power
and choice of words and dramatic qualities of presentation,
nor need we feel anxious if the response is not
immediate, or even if it is not quick and eager.<a name="FNanchor_9_9" id="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a></p>

<p>VII.&mdash;<i>The danger of obscuring the point of the
story with too many details.</i> This is not peculiar to
teachers, nor is it only shown in the narrative form.
I have often heard really brilliant after-dinner stories
marred by this defect. One remembers the attempt
made by Sancho Panza to tell a story to Don Quixote,
and I have always felt a keen sympathy with the latter
in his impatience over the recital.</p>

<blockquote>

<p>“‘In a village of Estramadura there was a
shepherd&mdash;no, I mean a goatherd&mdash;which shepherd&mdash;or
goatherd&mdash;as my story says, was called Lope
Ruiz&mdash;and this Lope Ruiz was in love with a
shepherdess called Torralva, who was daughter to a
rich herdsman, and this rich herdsman&mdash;&mdash;’</p>

<p>‘If this be thy story, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">22</a></span>
‘thou wilt not have done these two days. Tell it
concisely like a man of sense, or else say no more.’</p>

<p>‘I tell it in the manner they tell all stories in
my country,’ answered Sancho, ‘and I cannot tell
it otherwise, nor ought your Worship to require
me to make new customs.’</p>

<p>‘Tell it as thou wilt, then,’ said Don Quixote;
‘since it is the will of fate that I should hear it, go
on.’</p>

<p>Sancho continued:</p>

<p>‘He looked about him until he espied a fisherman
with a boat near him, but so small that it could only
hold one person and one goat. The fisherman got
into the boat and carried over one goat; he returned
and carried another; he came back again and carried
another. Pray, sir, keep an account of the goats
which the fisherman is carrying over, for if you lose
count of a single one, the story ends, and it will be
impossible to tell a word more.... I go on, then....
He returned for another goat, and another,
and another and another&mdash;&mdash;’</p>

<p>‘<i>Suppose</i> them all carried over,’ said Don
Quixote, ‘or thou wilt not have finished carrying
them this twelve months.’</p>

<p>‘Tell me, how many have passed already?’
said Sancho.</p>

<p>‘How should I know?’ answered Don Quixote.</p>

<p>‘See there, now! Did I not tell thee to keep
an exact account? There is an end of the story.
I can go no further.’</p>

<p>‘How can this be?’ said Don Quixote. ‘Is it
so essential to the story to know the exact number
of goats that passed over, that if one error be made
the story can proceed no further?’</p>

<p>‘Even so,’ said Sancho Panza.”</p></blockquote>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">23</a></span>

VIII.&mdash;<i>The danger of over-explanation.</i> Again,
another danger lurks in the temptation to offer over
much explanation of the story, which is common to
most story-tellers. This is fatal to the artistic success
of any story, but it is even more serious in connection
with stories told from an educational point of view,
because it hampers the imagination of the listener;
and since the development of that faculty is one of our
chief aims in telling these stories, we must let it have
free play, nor must we test the effect, as I have said
before, by the material method of asking questions.
My own experience is that the fewer explanations you
offer (provided you have been careful with the choice
of your material and artistic in the presentation) the
more readily the child will supplement by his own
thinking power what is necessary for the understanding
of the story.</p>

<p>Queyrat says: “A child has no need of seizing on
the exact meaning of words; on the contrary, a certain
lack of precision seems to stimulate his imagination
only the more vigorously, since it gives it a broader
liberty and firmer independence.”<a name="FNanchor_10_10" id="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a></p>

<p>IX.&mdash;One special danger lies in the <i>lowering of
the standard of the story</i> in order to cater to
the undeveloped taste of the child. I am alluding
here only to the story which is presented from the
educational point of view. There are moments of
relaxation in a child's life, as in that of an adult, when
a lighter taste can be gratified. I am alluding now to
the standard of story for school purposes.</p>

<p>There is one development of the subject which
seems to have been very little considered either in the
United States or in our own country, namely, the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">24</a></span>
telling of stories to <i>old</i> people, and that not only in
institutions or in quiet country villages, but in the
heart of the busy cities and in the homes of these old
people. How often, when the young people are able
to enjoy outside amusements, the old people, necessarily
confined to the chimney-corner and many
unable to read much for themselves, might return to
the joy of their childhood by hearing some of the old
stories told them in dramatic form. Here is a
delightful occupation for those of the leisured class
who have the gift, and a much more effective way of
capturing attention than the more usual form of
reading aloud.</p>

<p>Lady Gregory, in talking to the workhouse folk in
Ireland, was moved by the strange contrast between
the poverty of the tellers and the splendours of the
tale.</p>

<p>She says: “The stories they love are of quite
visionary things; of swans that turn into kings'
daughters, and of castles with crowns over the doors,
and of lovers' flight on the backs of eagles, and music-loving
witches, and journeys to the other world, and
sleeps that last for 700 years.”</p>

<p>I fear it is only the Celtic imagination that will
glory in such romantic material; but I am sure the
men and women of the poorhouse are much more
interested than we are apt to think in stories outside
the small circle of their lives.</p>

<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> With regard to the right moment for choosing this kind of
story, I shall return to the subject in a later chapter.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> I venture to hope (at this long distance of years) that my
language in telling the story was more simple than appears from
this account.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> This difference of spelling in the same essay will be much
appreciated by those who know how gladly children offer an
orthographical alternative, in hopes that one if not the other may
satisfy the exigency of the situation.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> I refer, of course, to the Irish in their native atmosphere.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> See<a href="#Page_210"> List of Stories</a>.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> This was at the Congressional Library at Washington.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> Page <a href="#Page_55">55</a>.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> In further illustration of this point see “When Burbage
played” (Austin Dobson) and “In the Nursery” (Hans C.
Andersen).</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_10_10" id="Footnote_10_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> From “Les Jeux des Enfants,” page 16.</p></div></div>

<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">25</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER II</h2>

<p class="center"><span class="smcap">The Essentials of the Story.</span></p>

<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">It</span> would be a truism to suggest that dramatic instinct
and dramatic power of expression are naturally the
first essentials for success in the Art of Story-telling,
and that, without these, no story-teller would go very
far; but I maintain that, even with these gifts, no high
standard of performance will be reached without
certain other qualities&mdash;among the first of which I
place <i>apparent</i> simplicity, which is really the <i>art</i> of
<i>concealing</i> the art.</p>

<p>I am speaking here of the public story-teller, or of
the teachers with a group of children&mdash;not the
spontaneous (and most rare) power of telling stories
at the fireside by some gifted village grandmother,
such as Béranger gives us in his poem, <i>Souvenirs du
Peuple</i>:</p>

<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">Mes enfants, dans ce village,</div>
<div class="i0">Suivi de rois, il passa;</div>
<div class="i0">Voilà bien longtemps de ça;</div>
<div class="i0">Je venais d'entrer en ménage.</div>
<div class="i0">A pied grimpant le côteau,</div>
<div class="i0">Où pour voir je m'étais mise.</div>
<div class="i0">Il avait petit chapeau</div>
<div class="i0">Avec redingote grise.</div>
<div class="i0">Près de lui je me troublai!</div>
<div class="i0">Il me dit: Bonjour, ma chère,</div>
<div class="i2">Bonjour, ma chère.</div>
<div class="i0">Il vous a parlé, grand'mère?</div>
<div class="i2">Il vous a parlé?</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>I am sceptical enough to think that it is not the
spontaneity of the grandmother but the art of Béranger
which enhances the effect of the story told in the poem.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">26</a></span>

This intimate form of narration, which is delightful
in its special surroundings, would fail to <i>reach</i>, much
less <i>hold</i>, a large audience, <i>not</i> because of its simplicity
but often because of the want of skill in arranging
material and of the artistic sense of selection which
brings the interest to a focus and arranges the sidelights.
In short, the simplicity we need for the
ordinary purpose is that which comes from ease and
produces a sense of being able to let ourselves go,
because we have thought out our effects: it is when
we translate our instinct into art that the story becomes
finished and complete.</p>

<p>I find it necessary to emphasise this point because
people are apt to confuse simplicity of delivery with
carelessness of utterance, loose stringing of sentences
of which the only connections seem to be the ever-recurring
use of “and” and “so,” and “er ...”&mdash;this
latter inarticulate sound has done more to ruin a
story and distract the audience than many more
glaring errors of dramatic form.</p>

<p>The real simplicity holds the audience because the
lack of apparent effort in the artist has the most
comforting effect upon the listener. It is like turning
from the whirring machinery of process to the finished
article, bearing no trace of manufacture except in
the harmony and beauty of the whole, from which we
realise that the individual parts have received all
proper attention.</p>

<p>And what really brings about this apparent simplicity
which ensures the success of the story? It
has been admirably expressed in a passage from
Henry James's lecture on Balzac:</p>

<p>“The fault in the Artist which amounts most
completely to a failure of dignity is the absence of
<i>saturation with his idea</i>. When saturation fails, no
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">27</a></span>
other real presence avails, as when, on the other hand,
it operates, no failure of method fatally interferes.”</p>

<p>I now offer two illustrations of the effect of this
saturation, one to show that the failure of method
does not prevent successful effect, the other to show
that when it is combined with the necessary secondary
qualities the perfection of art is reached.</p>

<p>In illustration of the first point, I recall an experience
in the North of England when the Head Mistress of
an elementary school asked me to hear a young,
inexperienced girl tell a story to a group of very small
children.</p>

<p>When she began, I felt somewhat hopeless, because
of the complete failure of method. She seemed to
have all the faults most damaging to the success of
a speaker. Her voice was harsh, her gestures
awkward, her manner was restless and melodramatic;
but as she went on, I soon began to discount all these
faults and, in truth, I soon forgot about them, for so
absorbed was she in her story, so saturated with her
subject, that she quickly communicated her own
interest to her audience, and the children were
absolutely spellbound.</p>

<p>The other illustration is connected with a memorable
peep behind the stage, when the late M. Coquelin had
invited me to see him in the green-room between the
first and second Acts of “L'Abbé Constantin,” one
of the plays given during his last season in London,
the year before his death. The last time I had met
M. Coquelin was at a dinner-party, where I had been
dazzled by the brilliant conversation of this great
artist in the rôle of a man of the world. But on this
occasion, I met the simple, kindly priest, so absorbed
in his rôle that he inspired me with the wish to offer
a donation for his poor, and on taking leave to ask
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">28</a></span>
for his blessing for myself. Whilst talking to him,
I had felt puzzled: it was only when I had left him
that I realised what had happened&mdash;namely, that he
was too thoroughly saturated with his subject to be
able to drop his rôle during the interval, in order to
assume the more ordinary one of host and man of the
world.</p>

<p>Now, it is this spirit I would wish to inculcate into
the would-be story-tellers. If they would apply themselves
in this manner to their work, it would bring
about a revolution in the art of presentation, that is,
in the art of teaching. The difficulty of the practical
application of this theory is the constant plea, on the
part of the teachers, that there is not the time to work
for such a standard in an art which is so apparently
simple that the work expended on it would never be
appreciated.</p>

<p>My answer to this objection is that, though the
counsel of perfection would be to devote a great deal
of time to the story, so as to prepare the atmosphere
quite as much as the mere action of the little drama
(just as photographers use time exposure to obtain
sky effects, as well as the more definite objects in the
picture), yet it is not so much a question of time as
concentration on the subject which is one of the chief
factors in the preparation of the story.</p>

<p>So many story-tellers are satisfied with cheap results,
and most audiences are not critical enough to
encourage a high standard.<a name="FNanchor_11_11" id="FNanchor_11_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a> The method of “showing
the machinery” has more immediate results, and it is
easy to become discouraged over the drudgery which
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">29</a></span>
is not necessary to secure the approbation of the
largest number. But, since I am dealing with the
essentials of really good story-telling, I may be
pardoned for suggesting the highest standard and the
means for reaching it.</p>

<p>Therefore I maintain that capacity for work, and
even drudgery, is among the essentials of story work.
Personally I know of nothing more interesting than
to watch the story grow gradually from mere outline
into a dramatic whole. It is the same pleasure, I
imagine, which is felt over the gradual development
of a beautiful design on a loom. I do not mean
machine-made work, which has to be done under
adverse conditions, in a certain time, and is similar
to thousands of other pieces of work; but that work
upon which we can bestow unlimited time and concentrated
thought.</p>

<p>The special joy in the slowly-prepared story comes
in the exciting moment when the persons, or even the
inanimate objects, become alive and move as of
themselves.</p>

<p>I remember spending two or three discouraging
weeks with Andersen's story of the “Adventures of
a Beetle.” I passed through times of great depression,
because all the little creatures&mdash;beetles, earwigs,
frogs, etc.&mdash;behaved in such a conventional, stilted
way (instead of displaying the strong individuality
which Andersen had bestowed upon them) that I
began to despair of presenting a live company at all.</p>

<p>But one day the Beetle, so to speak, “took the
stage,” and at once there was life and animation
among the minor characters. Then the main work
was done, and there remained only the comparatively
easy task of guiding the movement of the little drama,
suggesting side issues and polishing the details,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">30</a></span>
always keeping a careful eye on the Beetle, that he
might “gang his ain gait” and preserve to the full
his own individuality.</p>

<p>There is a tendency in preparing stories to begin
with detail work (often a gesture or side issue which
one has remembered from hearing a story told), but
if this is done before the contemplative period, only
scrappy, jerky and ineffective results are obtained, on
which one cannot count for dramatic effects. This
kind of preparation reminds one of a young peasant
woman who was taken to see a performance of
<i>Wilhelm Tell</i>, and when questioned as to the plot,
could only sum it up by saying, “I know some fruit
was shot at.”<a name="FNanchor_12_12" id="FNanchor_12_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a></p>

<p>I realise the extreme difficulty for teachers to devote
the necessary time to the perfecting of the stories they
tell in school, because this is only one of the subjects
they have to take in an already over-crowded curriculum.
To them I would offer this practical advice:
<i>Do not be afraid to repeat your stories</i>.<a name="FNanchor_13_13" id="FNanchor_13_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a>
If you did
not undertake more than seven stories a year (chosen
with infinite care), and if you repeated these stories
six times during the year of forty-two weeks, you
would be able to do artistic (and therefore lasting)
work; you would give a very great deal of pleasure
to the children, who delight in hearing a story many
times. You would be able to avoid the direct moral
application (to which subject I shall return later on);
for each time a child hears a story artistically told, a
little more of the meaning underlying the simple story
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">31</a></span>
will come to him without any explanation on your
part. The habit of doing one's best, instead of one's
second-best, means, in the long run, that one has no
interest except in the preparation of the best, and the
stories, few in number, polished and finished in style,
will have an effect of which one can scarcely over-state
the importance.</p>

<p>In the story of the Swineherd,<a name="FNanchor_14_14" id="FNanchor_14_14"></a><a href="#Footnote_14_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a> Hans Andersen
says:</p>

<p>“On the grave of the Prince's father there grew a
rose-tree. It only bloomed once in five years, and
only bore one rose. But what a rose! Its perfume
was so exquisite that whoever smelt it forgot at once
all his cares and sorrows.”</p>

<p>Lafcadio Hearn says: “Time weeds out the errors
and stupidities of cheap success, and presents the
Truth. It takes, like the aloe, a long time to flower,
but the blossom is all the more precious when it
appears.”</p>

<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_11_11" id="Footnote_11_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_11">
<span class="label">[11]</span></a> A noted Greek gymnast struck his pupil, though he was
applauded by the whole assembly. “You did it clumsily, and not
as you ought, for these people would never have praised you for
anything really artistic.”</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_12_12" id="Footnote_12_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_12_12"><span class="label">[12]</span></a> For further details on the question of preparation of the
story, see chapter on “<a href="#Page_117">Questions asked by Teachers</a>.”</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_13_13" id="Footnote_13_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_13_13"><span class="label">[13]</span></a> Sully says that children love exact repetition because of the
intense enjoyment bound up with the process of imaginative
realisation.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_14_14" id="Footnote_14_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor_14_14"><span class="label">[14]</span></a> See p. <a href="#Page_150">150</a>.</p></div></div>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">32</a></span></p>
<h2>CHAPTER III.</h2>

<p class="center">

<span class="smcap">The Artifices of Story-telling.</span></p>

<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">By</span> this term I do not mean anything against the
gospel of simplicity which I am so constantly preaching,
but, for want of a better term, I use the word
“artifice” to express the mechanical devices by which
we endeavour to attract and hold the attention of the
audience. The art of telling stories is, in truth, much
more difficult than acting a part on the stage: first,
because the narrator is responsible for the whole
drama and the whole atmosphere which surrounds it.
He has to live the life of each character and understand
the relation which each bears to the whole.
Secondly, because the stage is a miniature one,
gestures and movements must all be so adjusted as
not to destroy the sense of proportion. I have often
noticed that actors, accustomed to the more roomy
public stage, are apt to be too broad in their gestures
and movements when they tell a story. The special
training for the Story-teller should consist not only in
the training of the voice and in choice of language,
but above all in power of <i>delicate</i> suggestion, which
cannot always be used on the stage because this is
hampered by the presence of <i>actual things</i>. The
Story-teller has to present these things to the more
delicate organism of the “inward eye.”</p>

<p>So deeply convinced am I of the miniature character
of the Story-telling Art that I do not believe you can
ever get a perfectly artistic presentation of this kind
in a very large hall or before a very large audience.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">33</a></span></p>

<p>I have made experiments along this line, having
twice told a story to an audience exceeding five
thousand, in the States,<a name="FNanchor_15_15" id="FNanchor_15_15"></a><a href="#Footnote_15_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a> but on both occasions,
though the dramatic reaction upon oneself from the
response of so large an audience was both gratifying
and stimulating, I was forced to sacrifice the delicacy
of the story and to take from its artistic value by the
necessity of emphasis, in order to be heard by all
present.</p>

<p>Emphasis is the bane of all story-telling, for it
destroys the delicacy, and the whole performance
suggests a struggle in conveying the message; the
indecision of the victory leaves the audience restless
and unsatisfied.</p>

<p>Then, again, as compared with acting on the stage,
in telling a story you miss the help of effective
entrances and exits, the footlights, the costume, the
facial expression of your fellow-actor which interprets
so much of what you yourself say without further
elaboration on your part; for, in the story, in case of
a dialogue which necessitates great subtlety and
quickness in facial expression and gesture, you have
to be both speaker and listener.</p>

<p>Now, of what artifices can we make use to take the
place of all the extraneous help offered to actors on
the stage?</p>

<p>First and foremost, as a means of suddenly pulling
up the attention of the audience, is the judicious Art
of Pausing.</p>

<p>For those who have not actually had experience in
the matter, this advice will seem trite and unnecessary,
but those who have even a little experience will realise
with me the extraordinary efficacy of this very simple<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">34</a></span>
means. It is really what Coquelin spoke of as a
“high light,” where the interest is focussed, as it
were, to a point.</p>

<p>I have tried this simple art of <i>pausing</i> with every
kind of audience, and I have very rarely known it to
fail. It is very difficult to offer a concrete example of
this, unless one is giving a “live” representation;
but I shall make an attempt, and at least I shall hope
to make myself understood by those who have heard
me tell stories.</p>

<p>In Hans C. Andersen's “Princess and the Pea,”<a name="FNanchor_16_16" id="FNanchor_16_16"></a><a href="#Footnote_16_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a>
the King goes down to open the door himself. Now,
you may make this point in two ways. You may
either say: “And then the King went to the door,
and at the door there stood a real Princess,” or, “And
then the King went to the door, and at the door there
stood&mdash;(pause)&mdash;a real Princess.”</p>

<p>It is difficult to exaggerate the difference of effect
produced by so slight a cause.<a name="FNanchor_17_17" id="FNanchor_17_17"></a><a href="#Footnote_17_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a> With children it
means an unconscious curiosity which expresses itself
in a sudden muscular tension&mdash;there is just time,
during that instant's pause, to <i>feel</i>, though not to
<i>formulate</i>, the question: “What is standing at the
door?” By this means half your work of holding
the attention is accomplished. It is not necessary for
me to enter into the psychological reason of this, but
I strongly recommend those who are interested in the
question to read the chapter in Ribot's work on this
subject, <i>Essai sur l'Imagination créatrice</i>, as well as
Mr. Keatinge's work on “Suggestion.”</p>

<p>I would advise all teachers to revise their stories
with a view to introducing the judicious Pause, and
to vary its use according to the age, the number and,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">35</a></span>
above all, the mood of the audience. Experience
alone can ensure success in this matter. It has taken
me many years to realise the importance of this
artifice.</p>

<p>Among other means of holding the attention of the
audience and helping to bring out the points of the
story is the use of gesture. I consider, however, it
must be a sparing use, and not of a broad or definite
character. We shall never improve on the advice
given by Hamlet to the actors on this subject: “See
that ye o'erstep not the modesty of Nature.”</p>

<p>And yet, perhaps, it is not necessary to warn Story-tellers
against <i>abuse</i> of gesture: it is more helpful to
encourage them in the use of it, especially in Anglo-Saxon
countries, where we are fearful of expressing
ourselves in this way, and, when we do, the gesture
often lacks subtlety. The Anglo-Saxon, when he does
move at all, moves in solid blocks&mdash;a whole arm, a
whole leg, the whole body&mdash;but if you watch a
Frenchman or an Italian in conversation, you suddenly
realise how varied and subtle are the things which can
be suggested by the mere turn of the wrist or the
movement of a finger. The power of the hand has
been so wonderfully summed up in a passage from
Quintilian that I am justified in offering it to all
those who wish to realise what can be done by
gesture:</p>

<p>“As to the hands, without the aid of which all
delivery would be deficient and weak, it can scarcely
be told of what a variety of motions they are susceptible,
since they almost equal in expression the power
of language itself. For other parts of the body assist
the speaker, but these, I may almost say, speak
themselves. With our hands we ask, promise, call
persons to us and send them away, threaten, supplicate,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">36</a></span>
intimate dislike or fear; with our hands we
signify joy, grief, doubt, acknowledgment, penitence,
and indicate measure, quantity, number and time.
Have not our hands the power of inciting, of restraining,
or beseeching, of testifying approbation....
So that amidst the great diversity of tongues pervading
all nations and peoples, the language of the
hands appears to be a language common to all men.”
(From “Education of an Orator,” Book II, Chap. 3.)</p>

<p>One of the most effective artifices in telling stories
to young children is the use of mimicry&mdash;the imitation
of animals' voices and sounds in general is of never-ending
joy to the listeners. Only, I should wish to
introduce a note of grave warning in connection with
this subject. This special artifice can only be used
by such narrators as have special aptitude and gifts
in this direction. There are many people with good
imaginative power but wholly lacking in the power
of mimicry, whose efforts in this direction, however
painstaking, would remain grotesque and therefore
ineffective. When listening to such performances (of
which children are strangely critical) one is reminded
of the French story in which the amateur animal
painter is showing her picture to an undiscriminating
friend:</p>

<p>“Ah!” says the friend, “this is surely meant for a
lion?”</p>

<p>“No,” says the artist, with some slight show of
temper; “it is my little lap-dog.”</p>

<p>Another artifice which is particularly successful
with very small children is to ensure their attention
by inviting their co-operation before you actually
begin the story. The following has proved quite
effective as a short introduction to my stories when I
was addressing large audiences of children:</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">37</a></span>

“Do you know that last night I had a very strange
dream, which I am going to tell you before I begin
the stories. I dreamed that I was walking along the
streets of&mdash;&mdash; (here would follow the town in which
I happened to be speaking), with a large bundle on
my shoulders, and this bundle was full of stories which
I had been collecting all over the world in different
countries; and I was shouting at the top of my voice:
‘Stories! Stories! Stories! Who will listen to my
stories?’ And the children came flocking round me
in my dream, saying: ‘Tell <i>us</i> your stories. <i>We</i> will
listen to your stories.’ So I pulled out a story from
my big bundle and I began in a most excited way,
‘Once upon a time there lived a King and a Queen
who had no children, and they&mdash;&mdash;’ Here a little boy,
<i>very</i> much like that little boy I see sitting in the front
row, stopped me, saying: ‘Oh! I know <i>that</i> old
story; it's Sleeping Beauty.’</p>

<p>“So I pulled out a second story, and began: ‘Once
upon a time there was a little girl who was sent by
her mother to visit her grandmother&mdash;&mdash;’ Then a
little girl, so much like the one sitting at the end of
the second row, said: 'Oh! everybody knows that
story! It's&mdash;&mdash;’”</p>

<p>Here I would make a judicious pause, and then the
children in the audience would shout in chorus, with
joyful superiority: “Little Red Riding-Hood!”
(before I had time to explain that the children in my
dream had done the same).</p>

<p>This method I repeated two or three times, being
careful to choose very well-known stories. By this
time the children were all encouraged and stimulated.
I usually finished with congratulations on the number
of stories they knew, expressing a hope that some of
those I was going to tell that afternoon would be new
to them.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">38</a></span>

I have rarely found this plan fail for establishing a
friendly relation between oneself and the juvenile
audience.</p>

<p>It is often a matter of great difficulty, not to <i>win</i> the
attention of an audience but to <i>keep</i> it, and one of the
most subtle artifices is to let the audience down
(without their perceiving it) after a dramatic situation,
so that the reaction may prepare them for the interest
of the next situation.</p>

<p>An excellent instance of this is to be found in
Rudyard Kipling's story of “The Cat that walked ...”
where the repetition of words acts as a sort of sedative
until you realise the beginning of a fresh situation.</p>

<p>The great point is never to let the audience quite
down, that is, in stories which depend on dramatic
situations. It is just a question of shade and colour
in the language. If you are telling a story in sections,
and spread over two or three occasions, you should
always stop at an exciting moment. It encourages
speculation between whiles in the children's minds,
which increases their interest when the story is taken
up again.</p>

<p>Another very necessary quality in the mere artifice
of story-telling is to watch your audience, so as to
be able to know whether its mood is for action or
reaction, and to alter your story accordingly. The
moods of reaction are rarer, and you must use them
for presenting a different kind of material. Here is
your opportunity for introducing a piece of poetic
description, given in beautiful language, to which the
children cannot listen when they are eager for action
and dramatic excitement.</p>

<p>Perhaps one of the greatest artifices is to take a
quick hold of your audience by a striking beginning
which will enlist their attention from the start; you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">39</a></span>
can then relax somewhat, but you must be careful
also of the end, because that is what remains most
vivid for the children. If you question them as to
which story they like best in a programme, you will
constantly find it to be the last one you have told,
which has for the moment blurred out the others.</p>

<p>Here are a few specimens of beginnings which
seldom fail to arrest the attention of the child:</p>

<blockquote>

<p>“There was once a giant ogre, and he lived in a
cave by himself.”</p>

<p class="right">
&mdash;<i>From</i> “<i>The Giant and the Jackstraws</i>,”
Starr Jordan.
</p></blockquote>

<blockquote>

<p>“There were once twenty-five tin soldiers, who were
all brothers, for they had been made out of the same
old tin spoon.”</p>

<p class="right">
&mdash;<i>From</i> “<i>The Tin Soldier</i>,” Hans C. Andersen.
</p></blockquote>

<blockquote>

<p>“There was once an Emperor who had a horse shod
with gold.”</p>

<p class="right">
&mdash;<i>From</i> “<i>The Beetle</i>,” Hans C. Andersen.
</p></blockquote>

<blockquote>

<p>“There was once a merchant who was so rich that
he could have paved the whole street with gold, and
even then he would have had enough for a small
alley.”</p>

<p class="right">
&mdash;<i>From</i> “<i>The Flying Trunk</i>,” Hans C. Andersen.
</p></blockquote>

<blockquote>

<p>“There was once a shilling which came forth from
the mint springing and shouting, 'Hurrah! Now I
am going out into the wide world.'”</p>

<p class="right">
&mdash;<i>From</i> “<i>The Silver Shilling</i>,” Hans C. Andersen.
</p></blockquote>

<blockquote>

<p>“In the High and Far Off Times the Elephant, O
Best Beloved, had no trunk.”</p>

<p class="right">
&mdash;<i>From</i> “<i>The Elephant's Child</i>”: <i>Just So
Stories</i>, Rudyard Kipling.
</p></blockquote>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">40</a></span></p>

<blockquote>

<p>“Not always was the Kangaroo as now we behold
him, but a Different Animal with four short legs.”</p>

<p class="right">
&mdash;<i>From</i> “<i>Old Man Kangaroo</i>”: <i>Just So
Stories</i>, Rudyard Kipling.
</p></blockquote>

<blockquote>

<p>“Whichever way I turn,” said the weather-cock on
a high steeple, “no one is satisfied.”</p>

<p class="right">
&mdash;<i>From</i> “<i>Fireside Fables</i>,” Edwin Barrow.
</p></blockquote>

<blockquote>

<p>“A set of chessmen, left standing on their board,
resolved to alter the rules of the game.”</p>

<p class="right">
&mdash;<i>From the same source.</i>
</p></blockquote>

<blockquote>

<p>“The Pink Parasol had tender whalebone ribs and
a slender stick of cherry-wood.”</p>

<p class="right">
&mdash;<i>From</i> “<i>Very Short Stories</i>,” Mrs. W. K. Clifford.
</p></blockquote>

<blockquote>

<p>“There was once a poor little Donkey on Wheels;
it had never wagged its tail, or tossed its head, or said
‘Hee-haw,’ or tasted a tender thistle.”</p>

<p class="right">
&mdash;<i>From the same source.</i>
</p></blockquote>

<p>Now, some of these beginnings are, of course, for
very young children, but they all have the same
advantage, that of plunging <i>in medias res</i>, and therefore
are able to arrest attention at once, as distinct
from the stories which open on a leisurely note of
description.</p>

<p>In the same way we must be careful about the
endings of the stories; in some way or other they must
impress themselves either in a very dramatic climax
to which the whole story has worked up, such as we
have in the following:</p>

<blockquote>

<p>“Then he goes out to the Wet Wild Woods, or up
the Wet Wild Trees, or on the Wet Wild Roofs,
waving his Wild Tail, and walking by his Wild
Lone.”</p>

<p class="right">
&mdash;<i>From</i> “<i>Just So Stories</i>,” Rudyard Kipling.
</p></blockquote>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">41</a></span></p>

<p>Or by an anti-climax for effect:</p>

<blockquote>

<p>“We have all this straight out of the alderman's
newspaper, but it is not to be depended on.”</p>

<p class="right">
&mdash;<i>From</i> “<i>Jack the Dullard</i>,” Hans C. Andersen.
</p></blockquote>

<p>Or by evading the point:</p>

<blockquote>

<p>“Whoever does not believe this must buy shares
in the Tanner's yard.”</p>

<p class="right">
&mdash;<i>From</i> “<i>A Great Grief</i>,” Hans C. Andersen.
</p></blockquote>

<p>Or by some striking general comment:</p>

<blockquote>

<p>“He has never caught up with the three days he
missed at the beginning of the world, and he has
never learnt how to behave.”</p>

<p class="right">
&mdash;<i>From</i> “<i>How the Camel got his Hump</i>”:
<i>Just So Stories</i>, Rudyard Kipling.
</p></blockquote>

<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_15_15" id="Footnote_15_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor_15_15"><span class="label">[15]</span></a> Once at the Summer School at Chatauqua, New York, and once
in Lincoln Park, Chicago.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_16_16" id="Footnote_16_16"></a><a href="#FNanchor_16_16"><span class="label">[16]</span></a> See p. <a href="#Page_156">156</a>.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_17_17" id="Footnote_17_17"></a><a href="#FNanchor_17_17"><span class="label">[17]</span></a> There must be no more emphasis in the second manner than the
first.</p></div></div>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">42</a></span></p>

<h2>CHAPTER IV.</h2>
<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Elements to Avoid in Selection of Material.</span></p>

<p class="noin">I <span class="smcap">am</span> confronted, in this portion of my work, with a
great difficulty, because I cannot afford to be as
catholic as I could wish (this rejection or selection of
material being primarily intended for those story-tellers
dealing with normal children); but I wish from
the outset to distinguish between a story told to an
individual child in the home circle or by a personal
friend, and a story told to a group of children as part
of the school curriculum. And if I seem to reiterate
this difference, it is because I wish to show very clearly
that the recital of parents and friends may be quite
separate in content and manner from that offered by
the teaching world. In the former case, almost any
subject can be treated, because, knowing the individual
temperament of the child, a wise parent or friend
knows also what can be presented or <i>not</i> presented
to the child; but in dealing with a group of normal
children in school, much has to be eliminated that
could be given fearlessly to the abnormal child: I
mean the child who, by circumstances or temperament,
is developed beyond its years.</p>

<p>I shall now mention some of the elements which
experience has shown me to be unsuitable for class
stories.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">43</a></span>

I.&mdash;<i>Stories dealing with analysis of motive and
feeling.</i></p>

<p>This warning is specially necessary to-day, because
this is above all an age of introspection and analysis.
We have only to glance at the principal novels and
plays during the last quarter of a century&mdash;most
especially during the last ten years&mdash;to see how this
spirit has crept into our literature and life.</p>

<p>Now, this tendency to analyse is obviously more
dangerous for children than for adults, because, from
lack of experience and knowledge of psychology, the
child's analysis is incomplete. He cannot see all the
causes of the action, nor can he make that philosophical
allowance for mood which brings the adult to truer
conclusions.</p>

<p>Therefore we should discourage children who show
a tendency to analyse too closely the motives of their
actions, and refrain from presenting in our stories
any example which might encourage them to persist
in this course.</p>

<p>I remember, on one occasion, when I went to say
good-night to a little girl of my acquaintance, I found
her sitting up in bed, very wide awake. Her eyes
were shining, her cheeks were flushed, and when I
asked her what had excited her so much, she said:</p>

<p>“I <i>know</i> I have done something wrong to-day, but
I cannot quite remember what it was.”</p>

<p>I said: “But Phyllis, if you put your hand, which
is really quite small, in front of your eyes, you could
not see the shape of anything else, however large it
might be. Now, what you have done to-day appears
very large because it is so close, but when it is a little
further off, you will be able to see better and know
more about it. So let us wait till to-morrow morning.”</p>

<p>I am happy to say that she took my advice. She
was soon fast asleep, and the next morning she had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">44</a></span>
forgotten the wrong over which she had been
unhealthily brooding the night before.<a name="FNanchor_18_18" id="FNanchor_18_18"></a><a href="#Footnote_18_18" class="fnanchor">[18]</a></p>

<p>II.&mdash;<i>Stories dealing too much with sarcasm and
satire.</i> These are weapons which are too sharply
polished, and therefore too dangerous, to place in the
hands of children. For here again, as in the case of
analysis, they can only have a very incomplete conception
of the case. They do not know the real cause which
produces the apparently ridiculous situation: it is
experience and knowledge which lead to the discovery
of the pathos and sadness which often underlie the
ridiculous appearance, and it is only the abnormally
gifted child or grown-up person who discovers this by
instinct. It takes a lifetime to arrive at the position
described in Sterne's words: “I would not have let
fallen an unseasonable pleasantry in the venerable
presence of misery to be entitled to all the Wit which
Rabelais has ever scattered.”</p>

<p>I will hasten to add that I should not wish children
to have their sympathy too much drawn out, or their
emotions kindled too much to pity, because this would
be neither healthy nor helpful to themselves or others.
I only want to protect the children from the dangerous
critical attitude induced by the use of satire: it
sacrifices too much of the atmosphere of trust and
belief in human beings which ought to be an essential
of child-life. If we indulge in satire, the sense of
kindness in children tends to become perverted, their
sympathy cramped, and they themselves to become old
before their time. We have an excellent example of
this in Hans C. Andersen's “Snow Queen.”</p>

<p>When Kay gets the piece of broken mirror into his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">45</a></span>
eye, he no longer sees the world from the normal
child's point of view: he can no longer see anything
but the foibles of those about him&mdash;a condition usually
only reached by a course of pessimistic experience.</p>

<p>Andersen sums up the unnatural point of view in
these words:</p>

<p>“When Kay tried to repeat the Lord's Prayer, he
could only remember the multiplication table.” Now,
without taking these words in any literal sense, we
can admit that they represent the development of the
head at the expense of the heart.</p>

<p>An example of this kind of story to avoid is
Andersen's “Story of the Butterfly.” The bitterness
of the Anemones, the sentimentality of the Violets,
the schoolgirlishness of the Snowdrops, the domesticity
of the Sweet-peas&mdash;all this tickles the palate of
the adult, but does not belong to the plane of the
normal child. Again I repeat that the unusual child
may take all this in and even preserve its kindly
attitude towards the world, but it is a dangerous
atmosphere for the ordinary child.</p>

<p>III.&mdash;<i>Stories of a sentimental kind.</i> Strange to say,
this element of sentimentality often appeals more to
the young teachers than to the children themselves.
It is difficult to define the difference between sentiment
and sentimentality, but the healthy normal boy or
girl of&mdash;let us say ten or eleven years old seems to
feel it unconsciously, though the distinction is not
so clear a few years later.</p>

<p>Mrs. Elizabeth McKracken contributed an excellent
article some years ago to the American <i>Outlook</i> on
the subject of literature for the young, in which we
find a good illustration of this power of discrimination
on the part of a child.</p>

<p>A young teacher was telling her pupils the story of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">46</a></span>
the emotional lady who, to put her lover to the test,
bade him pick up the glove which she had thrown
down into the arena between the tiger and the lion.
The lover does her bidding, in order to vindicate his
character as a brave knight. One boy, after hearing
the story, at once states his contempt for the knight's
acquiescence, which he declares to be unworthy.</p>

<p>“But,” says the teacher, “you see he really did it
to show the lady how foolish she was.” The answer
of the boy sums up what I have been trying to show:
“There was no sense in <i>his</i> being sillier than <i>she</i> was,
to show her <i>she</i> was silly.”</p>

<p>If the boy had stopped there, we might have
concluded that he was lacking in imagination or
romance, but his next remark proves what a balanced
and discriminating person he was, for he added:
“Now, if <i>she</i> had fallen in, and he had leapt after
her to rescue her, that would have been splendid and
of some use.” Given the character of the lady, we
might, as adults, question the last part of the boy's
statement, but this is pure cynicism and fortunately
does not enter into the child's calculations.</p>

<p>In my own personal experience (and I have told this
story often in the German ballad form to girls of ten
and twelve in the High Schools in England) I have
never found one girl who sympathised with the lady or
who failed to appreciate the poetic justice meted out to
her in the end by the dignified renunciation of the
knight.</p>

<p>Chesterton defines sentimentality as “a tame, cold,
or small and inadequate manner of speaking about
certain matters which demand very large and beautiful
expression.”</p>

<p>I would strongly urge upon young teachers to revise,
by this definition, some of the stories they have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">47</a></span>
included in their repertory, and see whether they would
stand the test or not.</p>

<p>IV.&mdash;<i>Stories containing strong sensational episodes.</i>
The danger is all the greater because many children
delight in it, and some crave for it in the abstract, but
fear it in the concrete.<a name="FNanchor_19_19" id="FNanchor_19_19"></a><a href="#Footnote_19_19" class="fnanchor">[19]</a></p>

<p>An affectionate aunt, on one occasion, anxious to
curry favour with a four-year-old nephew, was taxing
her imagination to find a story suitable for his tender
years. She was greatly startled when he suddenly
said, in a most imperative tone: “Tell me the story
of a <i>bear</i> eating a small boy.” This was so remote
from her own choice of subject that she hesitated at
first, but coming to the conclusion that as the child
had chosen the situation he would feel no terror in the
working up of its details, she began a most thrilling
and blood-curdling story, leading up to the final
catastrophe. But just as she had reached the great
dramatic moment, the child raised his hands in terror
and said: “Oh! Auntie, don't let the bear <i>really</i> eat
the boy!”</p>

<p>“Don't you know,” said an impatient boy who had
been listening to a mild adventure story considered
suitable to his years, “that I don't take any interest
in the story until the decks are dripping with gore?”
Here we have no opportunity of deciding whether or
not the actual description demanded would be more
alarming than the listener had realised.</p>

<p>Here is a poem of James Stephens, showing a
child's taste for sensational things:&mdash;</p>

<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">A man was sitting underneath a tree</div>
<div class="i0">Outside the village, and he asked me</div>
<div class="i0">What name was upon this place, and said he</div>
<div class="i0">Was never here before. He told a</div>
<div class="i0">Lot of stories to me too. His nose was flat.</div>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">48</a></span>
<div class="i0">I asked him how it happened, and he said,</div>
<div class="i0">The first mate of the  “Mary Ann”  done that,</div>
<div class="i0">With a marling-spike one day, but he was dead,</div>
<div class="i0">And a jolly job too, but he'd have gone a long way to have killed him.</div>
<div class="i0">A gold ring in one ear, and the other was bit off by a crocodile, bedad,</div>
<div class="i0">That's what he said: He taught me how to chew.</div>
<div class="i0">He was a real nice man. He liked me too.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>The taste that is fed by the sensational contents of
the newspapers and the dramatic excitement of street
life, and some of the lurid representations of the
Kinematograph, is so much stimulated that the interest
in normal stories is difficult to rouse. I will not here
dwell on the deleterious effects of over dramatic
stimulation, which has been known to lead to crime,
since I am keener to prevent the telling of too many
sensational stories than to suggest a cure when the
mischief is done. Kate Douglas Wiggin has said:</p>

<p>“Let us be realistic, by all means, but beware, O
Story-teller, of being too realistic. Avoid the shuddering
tale of ‘the wicked boy who stoned the birds,’ lest
some hearer should be inspired to try the dreadful
experiment and see if it really does kill.”</p>

<p>I must emphasise the fact, however, that it is only
the excess of this dramatic element which I deplore.
A certain amount of excitement is necessary; but this
question belongs to the positive side of the subject, and
I shall deal with it later on.</p>

<p>V.&mdash;<i>Stories presenting matters quite outside the
plane of the child</i> (unless they are wrapped in mystery,
which is of great educational value).</p>

<p>The element I wish to eliminate is the one which
would make children world-wise and old before their
time.</p>

<p>A small American child who had entertained a guest
in her mother's absence, when questioned as to whether<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">49</a></span>
she had shown all the hospitality the mother would
have considered necessary, said: “Oh! yes. And I
talked to her in the kind of ‘dressy’ tone <i>you</i> use on
your ‘At Home’ days.”</p>

<p>On one occasion I was lecturing in the town of
Cleveland, and was to stay in the house of a lady
whom I had met only once, in New York, but with true
American hospitality she had begged me to make her
house my home during the whole of my stay in
Cleveland. In writing to invite me, she mentioned the
pleasure it would afford her little ten-year-old daughter
to make my acquaintance, and added this somewhat
enigmatic sentence: “Mignon has asked permission
to dedicate her <i>last</i> work to you.” I was alarmed at
the word <i>last</i>, given the age of the author, and felt
sorry that the literary faculty had developed quite so
early, lest the unfettered and irresponsible years of
childhood should have been sacrificed. I was still
more troubled when, upon my arrival, I learned that
the title of the book which was to be dedicated to me
was “The Two Army Girls,” and contained the
elaborate history of a double courtship. But, as the
story was read to me, I was soon disarmed. A more
innocent recital I never heard&mdash;and it was all the
quainter because of certain little grown-up sentences
gathered from the conversation of elders in unguarded
moments, which evidently conveyed but slight meaning
to the youthful authoress. The final scene between
two of the lovers is so characteristic that I cannot
refrain from quoting the actual words. Said John:
“I love you, and I wish you to be my wife.” “That
I will,” said Mary, without any hesitation. “That's
all right,” said John. “And now let us <i>get back to
the Golf Links</i>.”</p>

<p>Oh, that modern writers of fiction would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">50</a></span> “get back
to the Golf Links” sooner than they do, realising with
this little unconscious philosopher that there are some
reactions from love-making which show a healthy and
balanced constitution.</p>

<p>Experience with children ought to teach us to avoid
stories which contain too much <i>allusion</i> to matters of
which the hearers are entirely ignorant; but, judging
from the written stories of to-day, supposed to be for
children, it is still a matter of difficulty to realise that
this form of allusion to “foreign” matters, or making
a joke the appreciation of which depends solely on a
special and “inside” knowledge, is always bewildering
and fatal to sustained dramatic interest.</p>

<p>It is a matter of intense regret that so very few
people have sufficiently clear remembrance of their own
childhood to help them to understand the taste and
point of view of the <i>normal</i> child. There is a passage
in the “Brownies” (by Mrs. Ewing) which illustrates
the confusion created in the child mind by a facetious
allusion in a dramatic moment which needed a more
direct treatment.</p>

<p>When the nursery toys have all gone astray, one
little child exclaims joyfully:</p>

<p>“Why, the old Rocking-Horse's nose has turned
up in the oven!”</p>

<p>“It couldn't” remarks a tiresome, facetious doctor,
far more anxious to be funny than to sympathise with
the joy of the child; “it was the purest Grecian,
modelled from the Elgin marbles.”</p>

<p>Now, for grown-up people this is an excellent joke,
but for a child who has not yet become acquainted with
these Grecian masterpieces, the whole remark is pointless
and hampering.<a name="FNanchor_20_20" id="FNanchor_20_20"></a><a href="#Footnote_20_20" class="fnanchor">[20]</a>
</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">51</a></span>

VI.&mdash;<i>Stories which appeal to fear or priggishness.</i>
This is a class of story to be avoided which scarcely
counts to-day and against which the teacher does not
need a warning; but I wish to make a passing allusion
to it, partly to round off my subject and partly to
show that we have made some improvement in choice
of subject.</p>

<p>When I study the evolution of the story from the
crude recitals offered to our children within the last
hundred years, I feel that, though our progress in
intelligent mental catering may be slow, it is real and
sure. One has only to take some examples from the
Chap Books of the beginning of last century to realise
the difference of appeal. Everything offered then was
either an appeal to fear or to priggishness, and one
wonders how it is that our grandparents and their
parents ever recovered from the effects of such stories
as were offered to them. But there is the consoling
thought that no lasting impression was made upon
them, such as I believe <i>may</i> be possible by the right
kind of story.</p>

<p>I offer a few examples of the old type of story:</p>

<p>Here is an encouraging address offered by a certain
Mr. Janeway to children about the year 1828:</p>

<p>“Dare you do anything which your parents forbid
you, and neglect to do what they command? Dare
you to run up and down on the Lord's Day, or do
you keep in to read your book, and learn what your
good parents command?”</p>

<p>Such an address would have almost tempted children
to envy the lot of orphans, except that the guardians
and less close relations might have been equally, if not
more, severe.</p>

<p>From “The Curious Girl,” published about 1809:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">52</a></span>
“Oh! papa, I hope you will have no reason to be
dissatisfied with me, for I love my studies very much,
and I am never so happy at my play as when I have
been assiduous at my lessons all day.”</p>

<p>“Adolphus: How strange it is, papa, you should
believe it possible for me to act so like a child, now
that I am twelve years old!”</p>

<p>Here is a specimen taken from a Chap-book about
1825:</p>

<p>Edward refuses hot bread at breakfast. His hostess
asks whether he likes it. “Yes, I am extremely fond
of it.” “Why did you refuse it?” “Because I
know that my papa does not approve of my eating it.
Am I to disobey a Father and Mother I love so well,
and forget my duty, because they are a long way off?
I would not touch the cake, were I sure nobody could
see me. I myself should know it, and that would
be sufficient.”</p>

<p>“Nobly replied!” exclaimed Mrs. C. “Act always
thus, and you must be happy, for although the whole
world should refuse the praise that is due, you must
enjoy the approbation of your conscience, which is
beyond anything else.”</p>

<p>Here is a quotation of the same kind from Mrs.
Sherwood:</p>

<p>“Tender-souled little creatures, desolated by a sense
of sin, if they did but eat a spoonful of cupboard jam
without Mamma's express permission.... Would a
modern Lucy, jealous of her sister Emily's doll, break
out thus easily into tearful apology for her guilt?&mdash;‘I
know it is wicked in me to be sorry that Emily is
happy, but I feel that I cannot help it.’ And would a
modern mother retort with heartfelt joy?&mdash;'My dear
child, I am glad you have confessed. Now I shall tell
you why you feel this wicked sorrow'&mdash;proceeding to
an account of the depravity of human nature so unredeemed
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">53</a></span>
by comfort for a childish mind of common
intelligence that one can scarcely imagine the
interview ending in anything less tragic than a fit of
juvenile hysteria.”</p>

<p>Description of a Good Boy. “A good boy is dutiful
to his Father and Mother, obedient to his master and
loving to his playfellows. He is diligent in learning
his book, and takes a pleasure in improving himself
in everything that is worthy of praise. He rises early
in the morning, makes himself clean and decent, and
says his prayers. He loves to hear good advice, is
thankful to those who give it and always follows it.
He never swears<a name="FNanchor_21_21" id="FNanchor_21_21"></a><a href="#Footnote_21_21" class="fnanchor">[21]</a> or calls names or uses ill words to
companions. He is never peevish and fretful, always
cheerful and good-tempered.”</p>

<p>VII.&mdash;<i>Stories of exaggerated and coarse fun.</i> In the
chapter on the positive side of this subject I shall
speak more in detail of the educational value of robust
and virile representation of fun and of sheer nonsense,
but as a representation to these statements, I should
like to strike a note of warning about the element of
exaggerated and coarse fun being encouraged in our
school stories, partly because of the lack of humour in
such presentations&mdash;a natural product of stifling
imagination&mdash;and partly because the train of the
abnormal has the same effect as the too frequent use
of the melodramatic.</p>

<p>You have only to read the adventures of Buster
Brown, which for years formed the Sunday reading of
millions of children in the United States, to realise
what would be the effect of coarse fun and entire
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">54</a></span>absence of humour upon the normal child in its everyday
experience, an effect all the greater because of the
real skill with which the illustrations are drawn. It is
only fair to state that this series was not originally
prepared or intended for the young, but it is a matter
of regret (shared by most educationists in the States)
that they should ever have been given to children at
all.</p>

<p>In an article in <i>Macmillan's Magazine</i>, Dec. 1869,
Miss Yonge writes: “A taste for buffoonery is much
to be discouraged, an exclusive taste for extravagance
most unwholesome and even perverting. It becomes
destructive of reverence and soon degenerates into
coarseness. It permits nothing poetical or imaginative,
nothing sweet or pathetic to exist, and there is a
certain self-satisfaction and superiority in making
game of what others regard with enthusiasm and
sentiment which absolutely bars the way against a
higher or softer tone.”</p>

<p>Although these words were written nearly half a
century ago, they are so specially applicable to-day
that they seem quite “up-to-date”: indeed, I think
they will hold equally good fifty years hence.</p>

<p>In spite of a strong taste on the part of children for
what is ugly and brutal, I am sure that we ought to
eliminate this element as far as possible from the
school stories&mdash;especially among poor children. Not
because I think children should be protected from all
knowledge of evil, but because so much of this knowledge
comes into their life outside school that we can
well afford to ignore it during school hours. At the
same time, however, as I shall show by example when
I come to the positive side, it would be well to show
children by story illustration the difference between
brute ugliness without anything to redeem it and
surface ugliness, which may be only a veil over the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">55</a></span>
beauty that lies underneath. It might be possible, for
instance, to show children the difference between the
real ugliness of a brutal story of crime and an illustration
of it in the sensational papers, and the apparent
ugliness in the priest's face of the “Laocoon” group,
because of the motive of courage and endurance behind
the suffering. Many stories in everyday life could be
found to illustrate this.</p>

<p>VIII.&mdash;<i>Stories of infant piety and death-bed scenes.</i>
The stories for children forty years ago contained
much of this element, and the following examples will
illustrate this point:</p>

<p>Notes from poems written by a child between six and
eight years of age, by name Philip Freeman, afterwards
Archdeacon of Exeter:</p>
<div class="center">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">Poor Robin, thou canst fly no more,</div>
<div class="i0">Thy joys and sorrows all are o'er.</div>
<div class="i0">Through Life's tempestuous storms thou'st trod,</div>
<div class="i0">But now art sunk beneath the sod.</div>
<div class="i0">Here lost and gone poor Robin lies,</div>
<div class="i0">He trembles, lingers, falls and dies.</div>
<div class="i0">He's gone, he's gone, forever lost,</div>
<div class="i0">No more of him they now can boast.</div>
<div class="i0">Poor Robin's dangers all are past,</div>
<div class="i0">He struggled to the very last.</div>
<div class="i0">Perhaps he spent a happy Life,</div>
<div class="i0">Without much struggle and much strife.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="right">
<i>Published by John Loder, bookseller,
Woodbridge, in 1829.</i>
</p>

<p>The prolonged gloom of the main theme is somewhat
lightened by the speculative optimism of the last
verse.</p>
<div class="center">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">Life, transient Life, is but a dream,</div>
<div class="i0">Like Sleep which short doth lengthened seem</div>
<div class="i0">Till dawn of day, when the bird's lay</div>
<div class="i0">Doth charm the soul's first peeping gleam.</div>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">56</a></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">Then farewell to the parting year,</div>
<div class="i0">Another's come to Nature dear.</div>
<div class="i0">In every place, thy brightening face</div>
<div class="i0">Does welcome winter's snowy drear.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">Alas! our time is much mis-spent.</div>
<div class="i0">Then we must haste and now repent.</div>
<div class="i0">We have a book in which to look,</div>
<div class="i0">For we on Wisdom should be bent.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">Should God, the Almighty, King of all,</div>
<div class="i0">Before His judgment-seat now call</div>
<div class="i0">Us to that place of Joy and Grace</div>
<div class="i0">Prepared for us since Adam's fall.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>I think there is no doubt that we have made considerable
progress in this matter. Not only do we
refrain from telling these highly moral (<i>sic</i>) stories
but we have reached the point of parodying them, in
sign of ridicule, as, for instance, in such writing as
Belloc's “Cautionary Tales.” These would be a
trifle too grim for a timid child, but excellent fun for
adults.</p>

<p>It should be our study to-day to prove to children
that the immediate importance to them is not to think
of dying and going to Heaven, but of living and&mdash;shall
we say?&mdash;going to College, which is a far better
preparation for a life to come than the morbid dwelling
upon the possibility of an early death.</p>

<p>In an article signed “Muriel Harris,” I think, from
a copy of the <i>Tribune</i>, appeared a delightful article on
Sunday Books, from which I quote the following:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">57</a></span></p>
<p>“All very good little children died young in the
story-books, so that unusual goodness must have been
the source of considerable anxiety to affectionate
parents. I came across a little old book the other day
called ‘Examples for Youth.’ On the yellow fly-leaf
was written in childish, carefully sloping hand:
‘Presented to Mary Palmer Junior, by her sister, to
be read on Sundays,’ and was dated 1828. The
accounts are taken from a work on <i>Piety Promoted</i>,
and all of them begin with unusual piety in early youth
and end with the death-bed of the little paragon, and
his or her dying words.”</p>

<p>IX.&mdash;<i>Stories containing a mixture of Fairy Tale and
Science.</i> By this combination you lose what is
essential to each, namely, the fantastic on the one side,
and accuracy on the other. The true Fairy Tale should
be unhampered by any compromise of probability even&mdash;the
scientific representation should be sufficiently
marvellous along its own lines to need no supernatural
aid. Both appeal to the imagination in different ways.</p>

<p>As an exception to this kind of mixture, I should
quote “The Honey Bee, and Other Stories,” translated
from the Danish of Evald by C. G. Moore Smith.
There is a certain robustness in these stories dealing
with the inexorable laws of Nature, though some of
them will appear hard to the child; but they will be
of interest to all teachers.</p>

<p>Perhaps the worst element in choice of stories is that
which insists upon the moral detaching itself and
explaining the story. In “Alice in Wonderland” the
Duchess says, “‘And the moral of <i>that</i> is: Take care
of the sense and the sounds will take care of themselves.’
‘How fond she is of finding morals in
things,’ thought Alice to herself.” (This gives the
point of view of the child.)</p>

<p>The following is a case in point, found in a rare old
print in the British Museum:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">58</a></span></p>
<p>“Jane S. came home with her clothes soiled and
hands badly torn. ‘Where have you been?’ asked
her mother. ‘I fell down the bank near the mill,’
said Jane, ‘and I should have been drowned if Mr. M.
had not seen me and pulled me out.’ 'Why did you
go so near the edge of the brink?‘ 'There was a
pretty flower there that I wanted, and I only meant to
take one step, but I slipped and fell down.’ Moral:
Young people often take but one step in sinful indulgence
(Poor Jane!), but they fall into soul-destroying
sins. There is a sinful pleasure which they wish to
enjoy. They can do it by a single act of sin (the
heinous act of picking a flower!). They do it; but that
act leads to another, and they fall into the Gulf of
Perdition, unless God interposes.”</p>

<p>Now, apart from the folly of this story, we must
condemn it on moral grounds. Could we imagine a
lower standard of a Deity than that presented here to
the child?</p>

<p>To-day the teacher would commend Jane for a
laudable interest in botany, but might add a word of
caution about choosing inclined planes as a hunting-ground
for specimens and a popular, lucid explanation
of the inexorable law of gravity.</p>

<p>Here we have an instance of applying a moral when
we have finished our story, but there are many stories
where nothing is left to chance in this matter, and
where there is no means for the child to use ingenuity
or imagination in making out the meaning for himself.</p>

<p>Henry Morley has condemned the use of this
method as applied to Fairy Stories. He says:
“Moralising in a Fairy Story is like the snoring of
Bottom in Titania's lap.”</p>

<p>But I think this applies to all stories, and most
especially to those by which we do wish to teach
something.</p>

<p>John Burroughs says in his article,<a name="FNanchor_22_22" id="FNanchor_22_22"></a><a href="#Footnote_22_22" class="fnanchor">[22]</a><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">59</a></span> “Thou shalt
not preach”:</p>

<p>“Didactic fiction can never rank high. Thou shalt
not preach or teach; though shalt pourtray and create,
and have ends as universal as nature.... What Art
demands is that the Artist's personal convictions and
notions, his likes and dislikes, do not obtrude themselves
at all; that good and evil stand judged in his
work by the logic of events, as they do in nature, and
not by any special pleading on his part. He does not
hold a brief for either side; he exemplifies the working
of the creative energy.... The great artist works <i>in</i>
and <i>through</i> and <i>from</i> moral ideas; his works are
indirectly a criticism of life. He is moral without
having a moral. The moment a moral obtrudes itself,
that moment he begins to fall from grace as an artist....
The great distinction of Art is that it aims to
see life steadily and to see it whole.... It affords the
one point of view whence the world appears
harmonious and complete.”</p>

<p>It would seem, then, from this passage, that it is of
<i>moral</i> importance to put things dramatically.</p>

<p>In Froebel's “Mother Play” he demonstrates the
educational value of stories, emphasising that their
highest use consists in their ability to enable the child,
through <i>suggestion</i>, to form a pure and noble idea of
what a man may be or do. The sensitiveness of a
child's mind is offended if the moral is forced upon
him, but if he absorbs it unconsciously, he has received
its influence for all time.</p>

<p>To me the idea of pointing out the moral of the
story has always seemed as futile as tying a flower on
to a stalk instead of letting the flower <i>grow out</i> of the
stalk, as Nature intended. In the first case, the flower,
showy and bright for the moment, soon fades away.
In the second instance, it develops slowly, coming to
perfection in fulness of time because of the life within.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">60</a></span>

X.&mdash;Lastly, the element to avoid is <i>that which rouses
emotions which cannot be translated into action</i>.</p>

<p>Mr. Earl Barnes, to whom all teachers owe a debt
of gratitude for the inspiration of his education views,
insists strongly on this point. The sole effect of such
stories is to produce a form of hysteria, fortunately
short-lived, but a waste of force which might be
directed into a better channel.<a name="FNanchor_23_23" id="FNanchor_23_23"></a><a href="#Footnote_23_23" class="fnanchor">[23]</a> Such stories are so
easy to recognise that it would be useless to make a
formal list, but I shall make further allusion to this in
dealing with stories from the lives of the saints.</p>

<p>These, then, are the main elements to avoid in the
selection of material suitable for normal children.
Much might be added in the way of detail, and the
special tendency of the day may make it necessary
to avoid one class of story more than another; but
this care belongs to another generation of teachers and
parents.</p>

<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_18_18" id="Footnote_18_18"></a><a href="#FNanchor_18_18"><span class="label">[18]</span></a> Such works as “Ministering Children,” “The Wide, Wide
World,” “The Fairchild Family,” are instances of the kind of story
I mean, as containing too much analysis of emotion.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_19_19" id="Footnote_19_19"></a><a href="#FNanchor_19_19"><span class="label">[19]</span></a> One child's favourite book bore the exciting title of “Birth,
Life and Death of Crazy Jane.”</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_20_20" id="Footnote_20_20"></a><a href="#FNanchor_20_20"><span class="label">[20]</span></a> This does not imply that the child would not appreciate in the
right context the thrilling and romantic story in connection with
the finding of the Elgin marbles.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_21_21" id="Footnote_21_21"></a><a href="#FNanchor_21_21"><span class="label">[21]</span></a> One is almost inclined to prefer Marjorie Fleming's little
innocent oaths. “But she was more than usual calm. She did not
give a single dam.”</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_22_22" id="Footnote_22_22"></a><a href="#FNanchor_22_22"><span class="label">[22]</span></a> From “Literary Values.”</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_23_23" id="Footnote_23_23"></a><a href="#FNanchor_23_23"><span class="label">[23]</span></a> A story is told of Confucius, that having attended a funeral
he presented his horse to the chief mourner. When asked why he
bestowed this gift, he replied: “I wept with the man, so I feel
I ought to <i>do</i> something for him.”</p></div></div>
<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">61</a></span></p>

<h2>CHAPTER V.</h2>

<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Elements to Seek in Choice of Material.</span></p>

<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">In</span> “The Choice of Books” Frederic Harrison has
said: “The most useful help to reading is to know
what we shall <i>not</i> 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.”<a name="FNanchor_24_24" id="FNanchor_24_24"></a><a href="#Footnote_24_24" class="fnanchor">[24]</a></p>

<p>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 now going to suggest what
would be the best kind of seed to sow in the patch
which I have “reclaimed from the Jungle.”</p>

<p>Again I repeat that I have no wish to be dogmatic,
and that in offering suggestions as to the stories to be
told, I am only catering 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, <i>age</i> has very little to
say: it is a question of the stage of development.</p>

<p>Experience has taught me that for the group of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">62</a></span>
normal children, almost irrespective of age, the first
kind of story suitable will contain an appeal to
conditions to which they are accustomed. The
reason of 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 visualising and of concentration.</p>

<p>In “The Marsh King's Daughter,” H. C. Andersen
says:</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>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 some individual
child.<a name="FNanchor_25_25" id="FNanchor_25_25"></a><a href="#Footnote_25_25" class="fnanchor">[25]</a> The different incidents in the story which
appeal to it (and you must watch it closely, to be sure
the interest is real, and not artificially stimulated by
any suggestion on your part) will mark its mental
development and the gradual awakening of its
imagination. This experiment is a very delicate one,
and will not be infallible, because children are secretive
and the appreciation is often (unconsciously) simulated,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">63</a></span>
or concealed through shyness or want of articulation.
But it is, in spite of this, a deeply interesting and
helpful experiment.</p>

<p>To take a concrete example: let us suppose the story
of 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.</p>

<p>The next incident that appeals is the unfamiliar
behaviour of the toys, but still in familiar surroundings;
that is to say, the <i>unusual</i> activities are carried
on in the safe precincts of the nursery&mdash;in the <i>usual</i>
atmosphere of the child.</p>

<p>I quote from the text:</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>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 little 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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">64</a></span>
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 not <i>expect</i> 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.</p>

<p>This method could be applied to various stories. I
have chosen the <i>Tin Soldier</i> 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.</p>

<p>In Eugene Field's exquisite little poem of “The
Dinkey Bird” we find the objects familiar to the child
in <i>unusual</i> places, so that some imagination is needed
to realise that “big red sugar-plums are clinging to
the cliffs beside that sea”; but the introduction of the
fantastic bird and the soothing sound of the Amfalula
Tree are new and delightful sensations, quite out of
the child's personal experience.</p>

<p>Another such instance is to be found in Mrs. W. K.
Clifford's story of Master Willie. The abnormal
behaviour 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.</p>

<p>We now come to the second element we should seek
in material&mdash;namely, the element of the unusual, which
we have already anticipated in the story of the Tin
Soldier.</p>

<p>This element is necessary in response to the demand<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">65</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>George Goschen says<a name="FNanchor_26_26" id="FNanchor_26_26"></a><a href="#Footnote_26_26" class="fnanchor">[26]</a>:</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>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”:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">66</a></span></p>
<p>“This was the playground of the Æsir, where they
practised trials of skill one with another and held
tournaments and sham fights. These last were always
conducted in the gentlest and most honourable
manner; for the strongest law of the Peacestead was,
that no angry blow should be struck, or spiteful word
spoken upon the sacred field.”</p>

<p>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:</p>

<p>“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 forward the result of her experience
that a good novel, especially a romantic one, read
at twelve or fourteen, is really a beneficial thing.</p>

<p>At present 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.</p>

<p>What an antidote to such representation might be
found in the story of</p>

<ul>
<li>Hector and Andromache,</li>
<li>Siegfreid and Brunhild,</li>
<li>Dido and Æneas,</li>
<li>Orpheus and Eurydice,</li>
<li>St. Francis and St. Clare.</li>
</ul>

<p>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 necessarily only in delineation of noble
qualities in our heroes and heroines, but in beauty and
strength of language and form.</p>

<p>In this latter respect the Bible stories are of such<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">67</a></span>
inestimable value&mdash;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. 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 the States, 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 realise the success of his method.</p>

<p>There is one Bible story which can be told with
scarcely any deviation, 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 dimensions with some building with which the
child is familiar. In London the matter is easy, as the
height will compare, roughly speaking, with that of
Westminster Abbey. The only change in the 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,&mdash;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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">68</a></span>
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, <i>unwind</i>,
until we reach the words of Nebuchadnezzar's
dramatic recantation.</p>

<p>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&mdash;if only on the ear&mdash;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.”</p>

<p>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:</p>

<p class="center">MILKING-TIME.</p>
<div class="center">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">When the cows come home, the milk is coming,</div>
<div class="i0">Honey's made when the bees are humming.</div>
<div class="i0">Duck, Drake on the rushy lake,</div>
<div class="i0">And the deer live safe in the breezy brake,</div>
<div class="i0">And timid, funny, pert little bunny</div>
<div class="i0">Winks his nose, and sits all sunny.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="right">
<i>Christina Rossetti.</i>
</p>

<p>Now, in comparing this poem with some of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">69</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>Again, in Eugene Field's “Hushaby Lady,” the
language of which is most simple, the child is carried
away by the beauty of the sound.</p>

<p>I remember hearing some poetry repeated by the
children in one of the elementary schools in Sheffield
which made me feel that they had realised 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
“Echo Song,” “Sabrina,” “By the rushy fringed
Bank,” “Back, shepherds, back,” from <i>Comus</i>,
“May Morning,” “Ode to Shakespeare,” “Samson
on his blindness,” etc. I even ventured on several
passages from <i>Paradise Lost</i>, and found “Now came
still evening on” a particular favourite with the
children.</p>

<p>It seemed even easier to interest them in Shakespeare,
and they learned quite readily and easily many
passages from “As You Like It,” “Merchant of
Venice,” “Julius Cæsar”; from “Richard II,”
“Henry IV,” and “Henry V.”</p>

<p>The method I should recommend in the introduction<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">70</a></span>
of both poets occasionally into the Story-hour would
be threefold.</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>I encouraged them to criticise each other for the
common good, and sometimes I read a few lines with
over-emphasis and too much gesture, which they were
at liberty to point out, so that they might avoid the
same error.</p>

<p>A very good collection of poems for this purpose
of narrative is to be found in:</p>

<blockquote>

<p>Mrs. P. A. Barnett's series of <i>Song and Story</i>,</p>

<p class="right">
Published by A. and C. Black.
</p></blockquote>

<p class="noin"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">71</a></span>

And for older children:</p>

<blockquote>

<p><i>The Call of the Homeland</i>, Anthology.</p>

<p class="right">
Edited by Dr. Scott and Miss Katharine Wallas,
Published by Blackie and Son.
</p></blockquote>

<p class="noin">Also in a collection published (I believe) in Boston by
Miss Agnes Repplier.</p>

<blockquote>

<p><i>Golden Numbers</i>.</p>

<p class="right">
(K. D. Wiggin and N. A. Smith).
</p></blockquote>

<p>It will be realised from the scanty number of
examples offered in this section that it is only a side
issue, a mere suggestion of an occasional alternative
for the Story-hour, as likely to develop the imagination.</p>

<p>I think it is well to have a good number of stories
illustrating the importance of common sense and
resourcefulness. For this reason I consider that stories
treating of the ultimate success of the youngest son
are very admirable for the purpose, because the
youngest child, who begins by being considered
inferior to the elder ones, triumphs in the end, either
from resourcefulness, or from common sense, or from
some high quality, such as kindness to animals,
courage in overcoming difficulties, etc.<a name="FNanchor_27_27" id="FNanchor_27_27"></a><a href="#Footnote_27_27" class="fnanchor">[27]</a></p>

<p>Thus we have the story of Cinderella. The cynic
might imagine that it was the diminutive size of her
foot that ensured her success: the child does not realise
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, forbearing
with her sisters. We know that she was strictly
obedient to her godmother, and in order to be this she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">72</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>Another such 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 by his own ingenuity and
resourcefulness, and if we regret that his <i>trickery</i> has
such wonderful results, we must remember that the
aim was to win the princess for herself, and that there
was little choice left him. I consider the end of this
story to be 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.<a name="FNanchor_28_28" id="FNanchor_28_28"></a><a href="#Footnote_28_28" class="fnanchor">[28]</a></p>

<p>Another story of this kind, admirable for children
from six years and upwards, is “What the Old Man
does is <span class="err" title="original: alway">always</span> 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.</p>

<p>In the story of “Hereafter&mdash;this”<a name="FNanchor_29_29" id="FNanchor_29_29"></a><a href="#Footnote_29_29" class="fnanchor">[29]</a> 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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">73</a></span>

One of the most important elements to seek in our
choice of stories is that which tends to develop, eventually,
a fine sense of humour in a child. I purposely
use the word “eventually,” because I realise first that
humour has various stages, and that seldom, if ever,
can you expect an appreciation of fine humour 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&mdash;a
stage, moreover, which is normal and healthy; 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 for 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 horse-play and practical jokes
are no longer considered an essential part of a
child's education. We note this in the changed attitude
in the schools, taken by more advanced educationists,
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 about the educational value of a finer humour in
our stories.</p>

<p>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:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">74</a></span> “Without our
savage ancestors we should have had no poetry.
Conceive the human race born into the world in its
present advanced condition, weighing, analysing,
examining everything. Such a race would have been
destitute of poetry and flattened by common sense.
Barbarians did the <i>dreaming</i> of the world.”</p>

<p>But it is a question of much debate among educationists
what should be the period of the child's
life in which these stories are to be presented. I
myself was formerly of 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.</p>

<p>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 criticised, catalogued and (alas!)
rejected as worthless, or retained with flippant toleration.</p>

<p>Now, whilst recognising 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&mdash;it is the one element which
causes little children to <i>wonder</i>, 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 in the school team instead of climbing trees
in search of imaginary adventures.</p>

<p>A wonderful plea for the telling of early superstitions
to children is to be found in an old Indian Allegory
called “The Blazing Mansion.”
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">75</a>
</span> </p>
<blockquote>

<p>“An old man owned a large, rambling mansion&mdash;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.’</p>

<p>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!’</p>

<p>Forth from the blazing ruin the children came in
hot haste. The word ‘plaything’ was almost the only
word they could understand.</p>

<p>Then the Father, rejoiced that his offspring was
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
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">76</a></span>
chariot. The children were astonished when they were
placed inside.”</p>

<p class="right">
(<i>From the “Thabagata.”</i>)
</p></blockquote>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 folk-lore and confusing
stages of development.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 for ever after”
with Bluebeard and each other!</p>

<p>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 as 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 Story Lists.</p>

<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">77</a></span>
is a wise antidote to the prosaic and commercial
tendencies of to-day. Though many of the actions of
the saints may be the result of a morbid strain of self-sacrifice,
at least none of them were 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 find them too often
preserved at the last moment from the punishment
they were brave enough to undergo. For one or other
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.</p>

<p>The danger of telling children stories connected with
sudden conversions is that they are apt to place too
much emphasis on the process, rather than the goal to
be reached. We should always insist on the splendid
deeds performed after a real conversion&mdash;not the details
of the conversion itself; as, for instance, the beautiful
and poetical work done by St. Christopher when he
realised what work he could do most effectively.</p>

<p>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.<a name="FNanchor_30_30" id="FNanchor_30_30"></a><a href="#Footnote_30_30" class="fnanchor">[30]</a></p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">78</a></span></p>

<p>Having protested against the elephantine joke and
the too-frequent use of exaggerated fun, I now endeavour
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.” 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 towards 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 realise 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.</p>

<p>I have not always been able to impress upon the
teachers that this story <i>must</i> be taken lightly. A very
earnest young student came to me once after I had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">79</a></span>
told it, and said in an awestruck voice: “Do you
Correlate?” Having recovered from the effect of
this word, which she carefully explained, I said that
as a rule I preferred to keep the story 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.<a name="FNanchor_31_31" id="FNanchor_31_31"></a><a href="#Footnote_31_31" class="fnanchor">[31]</a> 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 répertoire.</p>

<p>One might occasionally introduce one of Edward
Lear's “Book of Nonsense.” For instance:</p>

<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">There was an Old Man of Cape Horn,</div>
<div class="i0">Who wished he had never been born;</div>
<div class="i0">So he sat in a chair till he died of despair,</div>
<div class="i0">That dolorous Man of Cape Horn.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>Now, except in case of very young children, this
could not possibly be taken seriously. The least
observant normal boy or girl would recognise the
hollowness of the pessimism that prevents a man from
at least an attempt to rise from his chair.</p>

<p>The following I have chosen as repeated with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">80</a></span>
intense appreciation and much dramatic vigour by a
little boy just five years old:</p>

<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">There was an Old Man who said, “Hush!</div>
<div class="i0">I perceive a young bird in this bush!”</div>
<div class="i0">When they said, “Is it small?” he replied, “Not at all!</div>
<div class="i0">It is four times as big as the bush!”<a name="FNanchor_32_32" id="FNanchor_32_32"></a><a href="#Footnote_32_32" class="fnanchor">[32]</a></div>
</div></div></div>

<p>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 in those early years when the mind
is not clogged with knowledge, the sympathetic
imagination enables them to enter into the feelings of
animals. Andersen has an illustration of this point in
his “Ice Maiden”:</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>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 humanised, that is,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">81</a></span>
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.”<a name="FNanchor_33_33" id="FNanchor_33_33"></a><a href="#Footnote_33_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</a></p>

<p>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 Appendix.</p>

<p>With regard to the development of the love of nature
through the telling of the stories, we are confronted
with a great difficult 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 form of a story,
a beautiful description of scenery, you can make no
appeal to the retrospective imagination, and only the
rarely gifted child will be able to make pictures whilst
listening to a style which is beyond his everyday use.
Nevertheless, once in a way, 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
<i>The Divine Adventure</i>, by Fiona Macleod:
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">82</a></span></p>
<blockquote>

<p>“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.”</p></blockquote>

<p>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 children to realise
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 analysing 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.</p>

<p>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 will 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. (See Chapter on Questions.)</p>

<p>We now come to the question as to what proportion
of <i>Dramatic Excitement</i> we should present in the
stories for a normal group of children. Personally, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">83</a></span>
should like, while the child is very young (I mean in
mind, 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 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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;a gift to himself from his Aunt&mdash;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 <i>daft</i> book ony way; there's naebody gets kilt
en't. I like stories about folk getting their heids cut
off, or stabbit through and through, wi' swords an'
spears. An' there's nae wile beasts. I like Stories
about black men gettin' ate up, an' white men killin'
lions and tigers an' bears an'&mdash;&mdash;”</p>

<p>Then, again, we have the passage from George
Eliot's “Mill on the Floss”:
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">84</a></span></p>
<blockquote>

<p>“Oh, dear! I wish they would not fight at your
school, Tom. Didn't it hurt you?”</p>

<p>“Hurt me? No,” said Tom, putting up the hooks
again, taking out a large pocket-knife, and slowly
opening the largest blade, which he looked at meditatively
as he rubbed his finger along it. Then he
added:</p>

<p>“I gave Spooner a black eye&mdash;that's what he got
for wanting to leather me. I wasn't going to go halves
because anybody leathered me.”</p>

<p>“Oh! how brave you are, Tom. I think you are
like Samson. If there came a lion roaring at me, I
think you'd fight him, wouldn't you, Tom?”</p>

<p>“How can a lion come roaring at you, you silly
thing? There's no lions only in the shows.”</p>

<p>“No, but if we were in the lion countries&mdash;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.”</p>

<p>“Well, I should get a gun and shoot him.”</p>

<p>“But if you hadn't got a gun?&mdash;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?”</p>

<p>Tom paused, and at last turned away contemptuously,
saying: “But the lion <i>isn't</i> coming. What's
the use of talking?”</p></blockquote>

<p>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 school-fellow
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.</p>

<p>It is for this element we have to cater, and we
cannot shirk our responsibilities.</p>

<p>William James says: “Living things, moving
things or things that savour of danger or blood, that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">85</a></span>
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 those.”<a name="FNanchor_34_34" id="FNanchor_34_34"></a><a href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</a></p>

<p>Of course the savour of danger and blood is only
<i>one</i> of the things to which we should appeal, but I
give the whole passage to make the point clearer.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>And here I should like to say that, whilst 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 Sidney 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 Roncevalles<a name="FNanchor_35_35" id="FNanchor_35_35"></a><a href="#Footnote_35_35" class="fnanchor">[35]</a>; 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 brave than others,
because I kill men less willingly than they.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">86</a></span></p>

<p>And in the “Njal's Burning” from Andrew Lang's
“Book of Romance” we have the words of the boy
Thord when his grandmother, Bergthora, urges him
to go out of the burning house.</p>

<blockquote>

<p>“You promised me when I was little, grandmother,
that I never should go from you till I wished it of
myself. And I would rather die with you than live
after you.”</p></blockquote>

<p>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 a death by fire for higher
considerations is a point of view worth presenting to
the child.</p>

<p>In spite of all the dramatic excitement roused by
the conduct of our soldiers and sailors,<a name="FNanchor_36_36" id="FNanchor_36_36"></a><a href="#Footnote_36_36" class="fnanchor">[36]</a> should we not
try to offer also in our stories the romance and excitement
of saving as well as <i>taking</i> life?</p>

<p>I would have quite a collection dealing with the
thrilling adventures of the Life-Boat and the Fire
Brigade, of which I hope to present examples in the
final Story List.</p>

<p>Finally, we ought to include a certain number of
stories dealing with Death, especially with children
who are of an age to realise 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, of Siegfried, and of others,
so that children may learn to abhor such deeds; but
also a fair proportion of stories dealing with death that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">87</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>Quite small 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 <i>all</i> got to die
when our work's done.”</p>

<p>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?”</p>

<p>As an antidote to the ordinary attitude towards
death, I commend an episode from a German folk-lore
story called “Unlucky John,” which is included in
the list of stories recommended at the end of this
book.</p>

<p>The following sums up in poetic form some of the
material necessary for the wants of a child:</p>

<p class="center">THE CHILD.</p>
<div class="center">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">The little new soul has come to Earth,</div>
<div class="i2">He has taken his staff for the Pilgrim's way.</div>
<div class="i0">His sandals are girt on his tender feet,</div>
<div class="i2">And he carries his scrip for what gifts he may.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">What will you give to him, Fate Divine?</div>
<div class="i2">What for his scrip on the winding road?</div>
<div class="i0">A crown for his head, or a laurel wreath?</div>
<div class="i2">A sword to wield, or is gold his load?</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">88</a></span>
<div class="i0">What will you give him for weal or woe?</div>
<div class="i2">What for the journey through day and night?</div>
<div class="i0">Give or withhold from him power and fame,</div>
<div class="i2">But give to him love of the earth's delight.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">Let him be lover of wind and sun</div>
<div class="i2">And of falling rain; and the friend of trees;</div>
<div class="i0">With a singing heart for the pride of noon,</div>
<div class="i2">And a tender heart for what twilight sees.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">Let him be lover of you and yours&mdash;</div>
<div class="i2">The Child and Mary; but also Pan,</div>
<div class="i0">And the sylvan gods of the woods and hills,</div>
<div class="i2">And the god that is hid in his fellow-man.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">Love and a song and the joy of earth,</div>
<div class="i2">These be the gifts for his scrip to keep</div>
<div class="i0">Till, the journey ended, he stands at last</div>
<div class="i2">In the gathering dark, at the gate of sleep.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="right">
<i>Ethel Clifford.</i>
</p>

<p>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 “the gate of sleep.”</p>

<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_24_24" id="Footnote_24_24"></a><a href="#FNanchor_24_24"><span class="label">[24]</span></a> Chapter I, page <a href="#Page_3">3</a>.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_25_25" id="Footnote_25_25"></a><a href="#FNanchor_25_25"><span class="label">[25]</span></a> This experiment cannot be made with a group of children, for
obvious reasons.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_26_26" id="Footnote_26_26"></a><a href="#FNanchor_26_26"><span class="label">[26]</span></a> From an address on the “Cultivation of the Imagination.”</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_27_27" id="Footnote_27_27"></a><a href="#FNanchor_27_27"><span class="label">[27]</span></a> “The House in the Wood” (Grimm) is a good instance of
triumph for the youngest child.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_28_28" id="Footnote_28_28"></a><a href="#FNanchor_28_28"><span class="label">[28]</span></a> To be found in Andrew Lang's Collection. See <a href="#Lang_Books">list of Stories</a>.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_29_29" id="Footnote_29_29"></a><a href="#FNanchor_29_29"><span class="label">[29]</span></a> To be found in Jacob's “More English Tales.”</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_30_30" id="Footnote_30_30"></a><a href="#FNanchor_30_30"><span class="label">[30]</span></a> For selection of suitable stories among legends of the Saints,
see <a href="#Page_210">Story Lists</a>.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_31_31" id="Footnote_31_31"></a><a href="#FNanchor_31_31"><span class="label">[31]</span></a> I believe that I am quite in a minority among Educationists
in this matter. Possibly my constantly specialising in the stories
may have formed my opinion.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_32_32" id="Footnote_32_32"></a><a href="#FNanchor_32_32"><span class="label">[32]</span></a> These words have been set most effectively to music by Miss
Margaret Ruthven Lang. (Boston.)</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_33_33" id="Footnote_33_33"></a><a href="#FNanchor_33_33"><span class="label">[33]</span></a> From “Moral Instruction of Children,” page 66. “The Use of
Fairy Tales.”</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_34_34" id="Footnote_34_34"></a><a href="#FNanchor_34_34"><span class="label">[34]</span></a> From “Talks to Teachers,” page 93.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_35_35" id="Footnote_35_35"></a><a href="#FNanchor_35_35"><span class="label">[35]</span></a> An excellent account of this is to be found in “The Song of
Roland,” by Arthur Way and Frederic Spender.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_36_36" id="Footnote_36_36"></a><a href="#FNanchor_36_36"><span class="label">[36]</span></a> This passage was written before the Great War.</p></div></div>
<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">89</a></span></p>

<h2>CHAPTER VI.</h2>

<p class="center"><span class="smcap">How to Obtain and Maintain the Effect of the
Story.</span></p>

<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">We</span> are now coming 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 Effects of these stories upon the child, 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 upon
teachers the extreme importance of giving so much
time to the manner of telling and of bestowing so
much care on the selection of the material, it is right
that they 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&mdash;and
it is to them that I most specially dedicate this
chapter.</p>

<p>I think we are on the threshold of the re-discovery
of an old truth, that the Dramatic Presentation is the
quickest and surest, 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
she claimed the same indestructible element that I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">90</a></span>
recognise 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 a
candour that did her much honour:</p>

<p>“Well, now I come to think of it, it was the story
of Cinderella.”</p>

<p>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 realise that a scientific fact
might also have been easily remembered if it was
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.</p>

<p>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
<i>winged</i>, as the old Greeks called them.”<a name="FNanchor_37_37" id="FNanchor_37_37"></a><a href="#Footnote_37_37" class="fnanchor">[37]</a></p>

<p>The Red Queen (in “Through the Looking-Glass”)
was more psychological than she knew when
she made the memorable statement: “When once
you've <i>said</i> a thing that <i>fixes</i> it, and you must take the
consequences.”</p>

<p>In Curtin's Introduction to “Myths and Folk Tales
of the Russians,” he says:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">91</a></span></p>
<p>“I remember well the feeling roused in my mind
at the mention or sight of the name <i>Lucifer</i> 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
<span class="err" title="original: which which">which, when</span> I had grown somewhat older and
began to study Latin, I came upon the name in Virgil
where it means <i>light-bringer</i>&mdash;the herald of the Sun.”</p>

<p>Plato has said: “That the End of Education should
be the training by suitable habits of the Instincts of
Virtue in the Child.”</p>

<p>About two thousand years later, Sir Philip Sidney,
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.”</p>

<p>And yet it is neither the Greek philosopher nor the
Elizabethan poet that makes the every-day 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:</p>

<p>“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
befell 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 a 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.”</p>

<p>In modern times, the nurse, who is now receiving
such complete training for her duties with the children,
should be ready to imitate the “dreamer” of the
Indian tribe. I rejoice to find that regular instruction<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">92</a></span>
in Story-telling is being given in many of the institutions
where the nurses are trained.</p>

<p>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 be shown what is happening there&mdash;the
dramatic appeal being always the means used to
awaken his imagination. The fact that only <i>one</i> 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 very
sure.</p>

<p>There is something of the same idea in the “Adventures
of Telemachus,” written by Fénélon for his royal
pupil, the young Duke of Burgundy; but whereas
Calthrop trusts to the results of indirect teaching by
means of dramatic stories, Fénélon, 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 some length by Mentor, who, being
Minerva (though in disguise), should occasionally
have displayed that sense of humour which must
always temper true wisdom:</p>

<p>Take, for instance, the heavy reproof conveyed in
the following passage:</p>

<p>“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 on
its own strength, believing everything with the utmost
levity and without any precaution.”</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">93</a></span>
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.”</p>

<p>I remember, as a schoolgirl 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.</p>

<p>Of all the effects which I hope for from the telling of
stories in the schools, personally I 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 concocted 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.</p>

<p>The first, which is of a purely negative character, is
that through means of a dramatic story we can counteract
some of the sights and sounds of the streets which
appeal to the melodramatic instinct in children. I am
sure that all teachers whose work lies in the crowded<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">94</a></span>
cities must have realised the effect produced on
children by what they see and hear on their way to
and from school. If we merely consider the hoardings,
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 open-mouthed before a poster
representing a woman chloroformed by a burglar,
whilst that hero escapes in safety with her 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; 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.</p>

<p>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,</p>

<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">“Fear no more the heat of the sun.”</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="noin">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, before<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">95</a></span>
the Jingo spirit had time to assert itself, 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:</p>

<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">Golden lads and girls all must</div>
<div class="i0">Like chimney-sweepers come to dust.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>It is interesting to note that the same problem that
is exercising us to-day 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 to-day.</p>

<p>“The Philosopher Mentius (born 371 <small>B.C.</small>) 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 neighbourhood 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
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">96</a></span>
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 to 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 neighbourhood.”</p>

<p>Another influence we have to counteract is that of
newspaper headings which catch the eye of children
in the streets and appeal so powerfully to their
imagination.</p>

<p>Shakespeare has said:</p>
<div class="center">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">Tell me where is Fancy bred,</div>
<div class="i0">Or in the heart, or in the head?</div>
<div class="i0">How begot, how nourished?</div>
<div class="i2">Reply, reply.</div>
<div class="i0">It is engendered in the eyes</div>
<div class="i0">With gazing fed: and Fancy dies</div>
<div class="i0">In the cradle where it lies.</div>
<div class="i2">Let us all ring Fancy's knell.</div>
<div class="i2">I'll begin it&mdash;ding, dong, bell.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="right">
“<i>Merchant of Venice.</i>”
</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 (Hon.
Sec. of the National Organisation of Girls' Clubs),
one of the most widely informed people on this subject,
for the two following experiences gathered from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">97</a></span>
streets which bear indirectly on the subject of story-telling:</p>

<p>Mrs. Glover was visiting a sick woman in a very
poor neighbourhood, and found, sitting on the doorstep
of the house, two 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 neighbourhood, 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
those two little children were waiting there in hope,
with their hands full of soil, ready to plant anything
which might by golden chance fall that way, in their
secret garden of oyster-shells.</p>

<p>This seems to me as charming a fairy-tale as any
that our books can supply.</p>

<p>Another time 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">98</a></span>
quietly why he was taking the envelopes. At first he
was very sulky, and said: “I need them better 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
endeavour 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 recognised
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 neighbourhood
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 side of the tunnel, and had their
respective reputations as to speed.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>One of the immediate results of dramatic stories is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">99</a></span>
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 every-day surroundings, we do not step
more boldly into the land of pure romance, which
would form a real contrast to our every-day life, but in
nine cases out of ten the fiction which is sought after
deals with the subjects of our ordinary existence&mdash;namely,
frenzied finance, sordid poverty, political
corruption, fast society, and religious doubts.</p>

<p>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 small
children of the poorer class: one was called “Tom the
Boot-black,” the other, “Dan the News-boy.” My
chief objection to these stories was the fact that neither
of the heroes rejoiced in their work for the work's
sake. Had Tom even invented a new kind of blacking,
or if Dan had started a splendid 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 pockets, and leave it as millionaires, with the
added importance of a Mayoralty, not to speak of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">100</a></span>
Knighthood. It is true that the romantic prototype of
these boys is Dick Whittington, for whom we unconsciously
cherish the affection which we often bestow
on a far-off personage. Perhaps&mdash;who knows?&mdash;it is
the picturesque adjunct of the cat&mdash;lacking to modern
millionaires.<a name="FNanchor_38_38" id="FNanchor_38_38"></a><a href="#Footnote_38_38" class="fnanchor">[38]</a></p>

<p>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 Whitcomb Riley:</p>

<p class="center">THE TREASURE OF THE WISE MAN.<a name="FNanchor_39_39" id="FNanchor_39_39"></a><a href="#Footnote_39_39" class="fnanchor">[39]</a></p>

<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">Oh, the night was dark and the night was late,</div>
<div class="i0">When the robbers came to rob him;</div>
<div class="i0">And they picked the lock of his palace-gate,</div>
<div class="i0">The robbers who came to rob him&mdash;</div>
<div class="i0">They picked the lock of the palace-gate,</div>
<div class="i0">Seized his jewels and gems of State</div>
<div class="i0">His coffers of gold and his priceless plate,&mdash;</div>
<div class="i0">The robbers that came to rob him.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">But loud laughed he in the morning red!&mdash;</div>
<div class="i0">For of what had the robbers robbed him?</div>
<div class="i0">Ho! hidden safe, as he slept in bed,</div>
<div class="i0">When the robbers came to rob him,&mdash;</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">101</a></span>
<div class="i0">They robbed him not of a golden shred</div>
<div class="i0">Of the childish dreams in his wise old head&mdash;</div>
<div class="i0">“And they're welcome to all things else,” he said,</div>
<div class="i0">When the robbers came to rob him.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>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
<i>Nation</i>.</p>

<p>After speaking on the subject of Fairy Stories being
eliminated from the school curriculum, the writer
adds:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">102</a></span></p>
<p>“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.</p>

<p>A Nursery Rhyme is the most sane, the most
unselfish thing in the world. It calls up some delightful
image,&mdash;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 dulness: it brings before the mind the
quintessence of some good thing:</p>

<p>'The little dog laughed to see such sport'&mdash;there
is the soul of good humour, 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&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>In insisting on 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:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">103</a></span></p>
<p>“Meanwhile, capable as I was of reading, I found
my greatest pleasure in the pages of books. The
range of these was limited, for story-books 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 kind, 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 read 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, as I suppose, naturally a 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 invent stories
grew with violence. The simplicity of Truth was not
enough for me. I must needs embroider imagination
upon it, and the folly 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.”</p>

<p>In contrast to the stifling of the imagination, it is
good to recall the story of the great Hermits who,
having listened to the discussion of the Monday sitting
at the Académie des Sciences (Institut de France) as to
the best way to teach the young how to shoot in the
direction of mathematical genius, said: “<i>Cultivez
l'imagination, messieurs. Tout est là. Si vous voulez
des mathématiciens, donnez à vos enfants à lire&mdash;des
Contes de Fées.</i>”</p>

<p>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. There is
a book used in American schools called “Little
Citizens of other Lands,” dealing with the clothes, the
games and occupations of those little citizens. Stories
of this kind are particularly necessary to prevent the
development of insular notions, and are a check on that
robust form of Philistinism, only too prevalent, alas!
among grown-ups, which looks askance at new<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">104</a></span>
suggestions and makes the withering remark: “How
un-English! How queer!”&mdash;the second comment
being, it would seem, a natural corollary to the first.<a name="FNanchor_40_40" id="FNanchor_40_40"></a><a href="#Footnote_40_40" class="fnanchor">[40]</a></p>

<p>I have so constantly to deal with the question of
confusion between Truth and Fiction in the mind of
children that it might be useful to offer here an
example of the way they make the distinction for
themselves.</p>

<p>Mrs. Ewing says on this subject:</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>Mr. P. A. Barnett, in his book on the “Commonsense
of Education,” says, alluding to Fairy Tales:</p>

<p>“Children will <i>act</i> them but not act <i>upon</i> 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.”</p>

<p>The following passage from Stevenson's essay on
<i>Child Play</i><a name="FNanchor_41_41" id="FNanchor_41_41"></a><a href="#Footnote_41_41" class="fnanchor">[41]</a> will furnish an instance of children's
aptitude for creating their own dramatic atmosphere:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">105</a></span></p>
<p>“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 a 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 travelled 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
calves' feet jelly. It was hardly possible not to believe,
and you may be quite sure, so far from trying it, I did
all I could to favour the illusion&mdash;that some part of it
was hollow, and that sooner or later my spoon would
lay open the secret tabernacle of that golden rock.
There, might some Red-Beard await this hour; there
might one find the treasures of the Forty Thieves.
And so I quarried on slowly, with bated breath,
savouring the interest. Believe me, I had little palate
left for the jelly; and though I preferred the taste
when I took cream with it, I used often to go without
because the cream dimmed the transparent fractures.”</p>

<p>In his work on Imagination, Ribot says: “The free
initiative of children is always superior to the imitations
we pretend to make for them.”</p>

<p>The passage from Robert 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”:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">106</a></span></p>
<p>“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 pretence after all. Behind the sham ‘I’ that
takes part in the game, stands the unchanged ‘I’
which regards the sham ‘I’ with quiet superiority.”</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>I should suggest including two or three stories
which would test that power in children, and if they
fail to realise 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.<a name="FNanchor_42_42" id="FNanchor_42_42"></a><a href="#Footnote_42_42" class="fnanchor">[42]</a></p>

<p>So 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 only recognise in themselves when they have
already criticised them in the characters of the story.
I have sometimes been misunderstood on this point,
therefore I should like to make it quite clear. I do
<i>not</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">107</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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” (published by George Allen and Co.).</p>

<p>The poem describes a fight between two ships, the
French ship <i>Téméraire</i> and the English ship <i>Quebec</i>.
The English ship was destroyed by fire. Farmer, the
captain, was killed, and the officers taken prisoners:</p>
<div class="center">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">“They dealt with us as brethren, they mourned for Farmer dead;</div>
<div class="i0">And as the wounded captives passed, each Breton bowed the head.</div>
<div class="i0">Then spoke the French lieutenant, 'Twas the fire that won, not we:</div>
<div class="i0">You never struck your flag to <i>us</i>; you'll go to England free.'<a name="FNanchor_43_43" id="FNanchor_43_43"></a><a href="#Footnote_43_43" class="fnanchor">[43]</a></div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">'Twas the sixth day of October, Seventeen-hundred-seventy-nine,</div>
<div class="i0">A year when nations ventured against us to combine,</div>
<div class="i0"><i>Quebec</i> was burned and Farmer slain, by us remembered not;</div>
<div class="i0">But thanks be to the French book wherein they're not forgot.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">And you, if you've to fight the French, my youngster, bear in mind</div>
<div class="i0">Those seamen of King Louis so chivalrous and kind;</div>
<div class="i0">Think of the Breton gentlemen who took our lads to Brest,</div>
<div class="i0">And treat some rescued Breton as a comrade and a guest.”</div>
</div></div></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">108</a></span>
This poem is specially to be commended because it
is another example of the finer qualities which are
developed in war.<a name="FNanchor_44_44" id="FNanchor_44_44"></a><a href="#Footnote_44_44" class="fnanchor">[44]</a></p>

<p>Now, such a ballad as this, which, being pure
narrative, could easily be introduced into the story-hour,
would do as much to foster “<i>L'entente cordiale</i>”
as any processions or civic demonstrations, or lavish
international exchange of hospitality. It has also a
great practical application now that we are encouraging
visits between English and foreign children. Let us
hope the <i>entente cordiale</i> will not stop at France.
There must be many such instances of magnanimity
and generosity displayed to us by other nations, and it
might be well to collect them and include them among
stories for the school curriculum.</p>

<p>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 leave the
decision of the children free in this matter.<a name="FNanchor_45_45" id="FNanchor_45_45"></a><a href="#Footnote_45_45" class="fnanchor">[45]</a></p>

<p>In a review of Ladd's <i>Psychology</i> in the
“Academy,” we find a passage which refers as much
to the story as to the novel:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">109</a></span></p>
<p>“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
analyse 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&mdash;the result in both
cases is quite beyond the true purpose of Art. Art&mdash;when
all is said and done&mdash;is a suggestion, and it
refuses to be explained. Make it obvious, unfold it
in detail, and you reduce it to a dead letter.”</p>

<p>Again there is a sentence by Schopenhauer applied
to novels which would apply equally well to stories:</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>Now, 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” calls for 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.</p>

<p>A <i>grande dame</i> 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 <i>oh!</i> what a pity the story was
not taken from actual history!”</p>

<p>Now, not only was this comment quite beside the
mark, but the lady in question did not realise 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 <i>ideal</i> justice.</p>

<p>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 in Miltiades,
Phocion, Socrates, Severus, Cicero, Cato and Cæsar?</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">110</a></span></p>

<p>Sir Philip Sidney says in his “Defence of Poesy”:</p>

<p>“Only the Poet declining to be held by the limitations
of the lawyer, the <i>historian</i>, the grammarian,
the rhetorician, the logician, the physician, the metaphysician,
if lifted up with the vigour 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 enclosed in the narrow range
of her gifts but freely ranging within the Zodiac of
his own art&mdash;<i>her</i> world is brazen; the poet only
delivers a golden one.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>I was told by Lady Henry Somerset that when the
first set of slum children came down 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
mediæval 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 realise that, having changed the whole
atmosphere of the filthy games, it is easier to translate<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">111</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>And now we come to the question as to how these
effects are to be maintained. In what has already
been stated about 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, and 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.</p>

<p>Many people think that the dramatisation 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.</p>

<p>If, however, there is to be dramatisation (and I do
not wish to dogmatise on the subject), I think it should
be confined to facts and not fancies, and this is why I
realise the futility of the dramatisation of Fairy Tales.</p>

<p>Horace Scudder says on this subject:</p>

<p>“Nothing has done more to vulgarise the Fairy
than its introduction on the stage. The charm of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">112</a></span>
the Fairy Tale is its divorce from human experience;
the charm of the stage is its realisation 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 <i>leger de main</i>. 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.”<a name="FNanchor_46_46" id="FNanchor_46_46"></a><a href="#Footnote_46_46" class="fnanchor">[46]</a></p>

<p>I am bound to confess that the teachers have a case
when they plead for this re-producing of the story,
and there are three arguments they use whose validity
I admit, but which have nevertheless not converted me,
because the loss, to my mind, would exceed the gain.</p>

<p>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 sympathise
with this point of view, only, 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.</p>

<p>There are surely other lessons (as I have already
said in dealing with the reproduction of the story<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">113</a></span>
quite apart from the dramatisation), 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.</p>

<p>The second argument used by the teachers is the
joy felt by the children in being allowed to dramatise
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, which they can be
led to recognise by their own powers of observation
if the teachers are not in too great a hurry to point it
out themselves.</p>

<p>Here is a short original story (quoted by the French
psychologist, Queyrat, in his “Jeux de l'enfance”)
written by a child of five:</p>

<p>“One day I went to sea in a life-boat&mdash;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.”</p>

<p>Here is a complete and exciting drama, making a
wonderful picture and teeming with adventure. We<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">114</a></span>
could scarcely offer anything to so small a child for
reproduction that would be a greater stimulus to the
imagination.</p>

<p>Here is another, offered by Loti, but the age of the
child is not given:</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>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 marvellous 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.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>The third argument used by the teachers in favour
of the dramatisation of the stories is that it is a means
of discovering how much the child has really learnt
from the story. Now this argument makes absolutely
no appeal to me.</p>

<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">115</a></span>
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 you have tried to
introduce? You 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.</p>

<p>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 to-day or to-morrow 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.</p>

<p>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 learnt. The teaching carried on by means of
stories can never be gauged in the same manner. We
must be content, though we have nothing to place in
our “shop window,” content to know of the possessions
behind, and make up our mind that we can show
the education authorities little or no results from our
teaching, but that the real fruit will be seen by the
next generation; and we can take courage, for, if our
story be “a thing of beauty,” it will never “pass into
nothingness.”</p>

<p>Carlyle has said:<a name="FNanchor_47_47" id="FNanchor_47_47"></a><a href="#Footnote_47_47" class="fnanchor">[47]</a></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">116</a></span></p>
<p>“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.”</p>

<p>If we use this marvellous 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 to us the tribute which Björnson brought to
Hans C. Andersen:</p>
<div class="center">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">Wings you give to my Imagination,</div>
<div class="i2">Me uplifting to the strange and great;</div>
<div class="i0">Gave my heart the poet's revelation,</div>
<div class="i2">Glorifying things of low estate.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">When my child-soul hungered all-unknowing,</div>
<div class="i2">With great truths its needs you satisfied:</div>
<div class="i0">Now, a world-worn man, to you is owing</div>
<div class="i2">That the child in me has never died.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="right">
(<i>Translated from the Danish by
Emilie Poulson.</i>)
</p>

<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_37_37" id="Footnote_37_37"></a><a href="#FNanchor_37_37"><span class="label">[37]</span></a> From “Studies of Childhood,” page 55.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_38_38" id="Footnote_38_38"></a><a href="#FNanchor_38_38"><span class="label">[38]</span></a> I always remember the witty jibe of a chairman at my expense
on this subject, who, when proposing a vote of thanks to me, asked
whether I seriously approved of the idea of providing “wild-cat
schemes” in order to bring romance into the lives of millionaires.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_39_39" id="Footnote_39_39"></a><a href="#FNanchor_39_39"><span class="label">[39]</span></a> From The Lockerbie Book, by James Whitcomb Riley. Copyright
1911. Used by special permission of the publishers, the
Bobbs-Merrill Company.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_40_40" id="Footnote_40_40"></a><a href="#FNanchor_40_40"><span class="label">[40]</span></a> See <a href="#Page_214">Little Cousin Series</a> in American collection of tales at the
end of book.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_41_41" id="Footnote_41_41"></a><a href="#FNanchor_41_41"><span class="label">[41]</span></a> From “Virginibus Puerisque and other Essays.”</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_42_42" id="Footnote_42_42"></a><a href="#FNanchor_42_42"><span class="label">[42]</span></a> See Longbow story, “John and the Pig.”</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_43_43" id="Footnote_43_43"></a><a href="#FNanchor_43_43"><span class="label">[43]</span></a> This is even a higher spirit than that shown in the advice given
in the <i>Agamemnon</i> (speaking of the victor's attitude after the taking
of Troy):
</p>
<div class="center">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">“Yea, let no craving for forbidden gain</div>
<div class="i0">Bid conquerors yield before the darts of greed.”</div>
</div></div></div>
</div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_44_44" id="Footnote_44_44"></a><a href="#FNanchor_44_44"><span class="label">[44]</span></a> The great war in which we have become involved since this
book was written has furnished brilliant examples of these finer
qualities.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_45_45" id="Footnote_45_45"></a><a href="#FNanchor_45_45"><span class="label">[45]</span></a> It is curious to find that the story of “Puss-in-Boots” in its
variants is sometimes presented with a moral, sometimes without.
In the valley of the Ganges it has <i>none</i>. In Cashmere it has one
moral, in Zanzibar another.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_46_46" id="Footnote_46_46"></a><a href="#FNanchor_46_46"><span class="label">[46]</span></a> From “Childhood in Literature and Art.” Study of Hans C.
Andersen, page 201.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_47_47" id="Footnote_47_47"></a><a href="#FNanchor_47_47"><span class="label">[47]</span></a> “Sartor Resartus,” Book III, page 218.</p></div></div>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">117</a></span></p>

<h2>CHAPTER VII.</h2>

<p class="center"><span class="smcap">On Questions Asked by Teachers.</span></p>

<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">The</span> following questions have been put to me so often
by teachers, in my own country and the States, 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.</p>

<p class="hang"><i>Question I.</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?</p>

<p>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 for 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">118</a></span>
theatres where the pieces, charming as they may be,
are of necessity deprived of the essential elements
which constitute a drama&mdash;or they are shrivelled up
to suit the capacity of the child. Therefore it would
seem wiser, whilst the children are quite young, to
keep them to the simple presentation of stories,
because, their imagination being 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.<a name="FNanchor_48_48" id="FNanchor_48_48"></a><a href="#Footnote_48_48" class="fnanchor">[48]</a></p>

<p class="hang"><i>Question II.</i> What is to be done if a child asks you:
Is a story true?</p>

<p>I hope I shall not be considered Utopian in my
ideas if I 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.</p>

<p>In his <i>Imagination Créatrice</i>, Queyrat says:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">119</a></span> “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 civilised
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 endeavours to curb it. It is restrained in its
flight by an antagonistic power which treats it as a
kind of incipient madness.”</p>

<p>It is quite easy to show children that if you keep
things where they belong they are true with regard
to each other, but that if you drag these things out
of the shadowy atmosphere of the “make-believe,”
and force them into the land of actual facts, the whole
thing is out of gear.</p>

<p>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 travelling 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>In his essay on <i>Poetry and Life</i> (Glasgow, 1889),
Professor Bradley says:</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">120</a></span>
of the possibilities of Life which he had not hitherto
realised in the even course of school experience.</p>

<p>“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 commonsense.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Let us take, for instance, the story of Cinderella:
The coach and pumpkins to which we have alluded,
and all the magic part of the story, are false to actual
facts as we meet them in our every-day 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.</p>

<p>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?</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">121</a></span>

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?</p>

<p>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?</p>

<p>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 not only provide 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p class="hang"><i>Question III.</i> What are you to do if a child says he
does not like Fairy Tales?</p>

<p>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 marvellous
element in the story, presents, or whether (and this is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">122</a></span>
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.</p>

<p>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 you bring <i>to</i> a thing (in the way of experience
and knowledge) the more you will draw <i>out</i> of it.</p>

<p>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 that
personage by allowing him to be materialised in the
Christmas shops and bazaars.</p>

<p>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 worshipped
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.</p>

<p>Is not <i>one</i> of the reasons that children reject Fairy
Tales because such very <i>poor</i> 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.</p>

<p class="hang"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">123</a></span>

<i>Question IV.</i> Do I recommend learning a story by
heart, or telling it in one's own words?</p>

<p>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 specialise), 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.</p>

<p>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 would be
easily committed to memory by the narrator and
would appeal most directly to the children. Again, for
older children: in taking a beautiful mediæval story
such as “Our Lady's Tumbler,” the original text
could hardly be presented so as to hold an audience;
but whilst 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&mdash;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.”</p>

<p>On the other hand, there are some very gifted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">124</a></span>
narrators who can only tell the story in their own
words. I consider that both methods are necessary
to the all-round story-teller.</p>

<p class="hang"><i>Question V.</i> How do I set about preparing a story?</p>

<p>Here again the preparation depends a great deal on
the kind of story: whether it has to be committed to
memory or re-arranged 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 you have
really obtained the right atmosphere, and then bringing
the characters actually to life in this atmosphere,
most especially in the case of inanimate objects. This
is where Hans C. 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, in forming 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.”<a name="FNanchor_49_49" id="FNanchor_49_49"></a><a href="#Footnote_49_49" class="fnanchor">[49]</a></p>

<p>Now, my test of being ready with such stories is
whether I have ceased to look upon such objects <i>as</i>
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 realise against what
odds he fights, or when I stop to admire the wonderful
way Andersen carries out his simile of the old tin<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">125</a></span>
spoon&mdash;the stiffness of the musket, and the tears of
tin.</p>

<p>Take the Top and the Ball, and, except for the
delightful way they discuss the respective merits of
<i>cork</i> and <i>mahogany</i> in their ancestors, you would
completely forget that they are not real human beings
with the live passions and frailties common to youth.</p>

<p>As for the Beetle&mdash;who ever thinks of him as a
mere entomological specimen? Is he not the symbol
of the self-satisfied traveller who learns nothing <i>en
route</i> 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.</p>

<p>And this same method applied to the preparation of
any story shows that you can sometimes rise from the
rôle of mere interpreter to that of creator&mdash;that is to
say, the objects live afresh for you in response to the
appeal you make in recognising their possibilities of
vitality.</p>

<p>As a mere practical suggestion, I would advise that,
as soon as you have overcome the difficulties of the
text (if actually learning by heart, there is nothing
but the drudgery of constant repetition), and as you
begin to work the story into true dramatic form,
always say the words aloud, and many times aloud,
before you try 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">126</a></span>
using your own words, you can think out the effects
as you go along&mdash;I mean, during the preparation.
Gestures, pauses, facial expression often help to fix
the choice of words you decide to use, though here
again the public performance will often modify the
result. I should strongly advise that all gestures
should 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
(and practice will <span class="err" title="original: make make">make</span> you 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&mdash;and therefore ineffective&mdash;as emphasis in
tone or language.</p>

<p>Before <i>deciding</i>, however, either on the facial
expression or gesture, we must consider the chief
characters in the story, and study how we can best&mdash;<i>not</i>
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 rôle.</p>

<p>When we have decided what the chief characters
really mean to do, we can let ourselves go in the
impersonation....</p>

<p>I shall now take a story as a concrete example&mdash;namely,
the Buddhist legend of the Lion and the
Hare,<a name="FNanchor_50_50" id="FNanchor_50_50"></a><a href="#Footnote_50_50" class="fnanchor">[50]</a> which I give in the final story list.</p>

<p>We have here the Lion and the Hare as types&mdash;the
other animals are less individual and therefore display<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">127</a></span>
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&mdash;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.</p>

<p>Of course we grown-up people know that the lion
is the Buddha in disguise. Children will not be able
to realise this, nor is it the least necessary that they
should do so; but they will grasp the idea that he is
a very unusual lion, not to be met with in Paul du
Chaillu's adventures, still less in the quasi-domestic
atmosphere of the Zoological Gardens. If our presentation
is life-like and sincere, we shall convey all
we intend to the child. This is part of what I call
the atmosphere of the story, which, as in a photograph,
can only be obtained by long exposure, that is to say,
in case of the preparation we must bestow much
reflection and sympathy.</p>

<p>Because these two animals are the chief characters,
they must stand out in sharp outline: the other
animals must be painted in fainter colours&mdash;they
should be suggested rather than presented in detail.
It might be as well to give a definite gesture to the
Elephant&mdash;say, a characteristic movement with his
trunk&mdash;a scowl to the Tiger, a supercilious and
enigmatic smile to the Camel (suggested by Kipling's
wonderful creation). But if a gesture were given to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">128</a></span>
each of the animals, the effect would become monotonous,
and the minor characters would crowd the
foreground of the picture, impeding the action and
leaving little to the imagination of the audience....
I personally have found it effective to repeat the
gestures of these animals as they are leaving the stage,
less markedly, as it is only a form of reminder.</p>

<p>Now, what is the impression we wish to leave on
the mind of the child, apart from the dramatic joy and
interest we have endeavoured to provide? Surely it
is that he may realise the danger of a panic. One
method of doing this (alas! a favourite one still) is
to say at the end of the story: “Now, children, what
do we learn from this?” Of this method Lord
Morley has said: “It is a commonplace to the wise,
and an everlasting puzzle to the foolish, that direct
inculcation of morals should invariably prove so
powerless an instrument&mdash;so futile a method.”</p>

<p>If this direct method were really effective, we might
as well put the little drama aside, and say plainly:
“It is foolish to be nervous; it is dangerous to make
loose statements. Large-minded people understand
things better than those who are narrow-minded.”</p>

<p>Now, all these abstract statements would be as true
and as tiresome as the multiplication-table. The child
might or might not fix them in his mind, but he would
not act upon them.</p>

<p>But, put all the artistic warmth of which you are
capable into the presentation of the story, and, without
one word of comment from you, the children will feel
the dramatic intensity of that vast concourse of
animals brought together by the feeble utterance of
one irresponsible little hare. Let them feel the dignity
and calm of the Lion, which accounts for his authority;
his tender but firm treatment of the foolish little Hare;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">129</a></span>
and listen to the glorious finale when all the animals
retire convinced of their folly; and you will find that
you have adopted the same method as the Lion (who
must have been an unconscious follower of Froebel),
and that there is nothing to add to the picture.</p>

<p class="hang"><i>Question VI.</i> Is it wise to talk over a story with
children and to encourage them in the habit of
asking questions about it?</p>

<p>At the time, no! The effect produced is to be by
dramatic means, and this would be destroyed by any
attempts at analysis by means of questions.</p>

<p>The medium that has been used in the telling of the
story is (or ought to be) a purely artistic one which
will reach the child through the medium of the
emotions: the appeal to the intellect or the reason is
a different method, which must be used at a different
time. When you are enjoying the fragrance of a
flower or the beauty of its colour, it is not the moment
to be reminded of its botanical classification. Just as
in the botany lesson it would be somewhat irrelevant
to talk of the part that flowers play in the happiness
of life.</p>

<p>From a practical point of view, it is not wise to
encourage questions on the part of the children,
because they are apt to disturb the atmosphere by
bringing in entirely irrelevant matter, so that in
looking back on the telling of the story, the child
often remembers the irrelevant conversation to the
exclusion of the dramatic interest of the story itself.<a name="FNanchor_51_51" id="FNanchor_51_51"></a><a href="#Footnote_51_51" class="fnanchor">[51]</a></p>

<p>I remember once making what I considered at the
time a most effective appeal to some children who had
been listening to the story of the Little Tin Soldier,
and, unable to refrain from the cheap method of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">130</a></span>
questioning, of which I have now recognised the
futility, I asked: “Don't you think it was nice of the
little dancer to rush down into the fire to join the brave
little soldier?” “Well,” said a prosaic little lad of
six: “I thought the draught carried her down.”</p>

<p class="hang"><i>Question VII.</i> Is it wise to call upon children to
repeat the story as soon as it has been told?</p>

<p>My answer here is decidedly in the negative.</p>

<p>Whilst fully appreciating the modern idea of
children expressing themselves, I very much deprecate
this so-called self-expression taking the form of mere
reproduction. I have dealt with this matter in detail
in another portion of my book. This is one of the
occasions when children should be taking in, not
giving out. (Even the most fanatic of moderns must
agree that there are such moments.)</p>

<p>When, after much careful preparation, an expert
has told a story to the best of his ability, to encourage
the children to reproduce this story with their imperfect
vocabulary and with no special gift of speech (I
am always alluding to the normal group of children)
is as futile as if, after the performance of a musical
piece by a great artist, some individual member of
the audience were to be called upon to give his
rendering of the original rendering. The result would
be that the musical joy of the audience would be
completely destroyed and the performer himself would
share in the loss.<a name="FNanchor_52_52" id="FNanchor_52_52"></a><a href="#Footnote_52_52" class="fnanchor">[52]</a></p>

<p>I have always maintained that five minutes of
complete silence after the story would do more to fix
the impression on the mind of the child than any
amount of attempts at reproducing it. The general<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">131</a></span>
statement made in Dr. Montessori's wonderful chapter
on Silence would seem to me of special application to
the moments following on the telling of a story.</p>

<p class="hang"><i>Question VIII.</i> Should children be encouraged to
illustrate the stories which they have heard?</p>

<p>As a dramatic interest to the teachers and the
children, I think it is a very praiseworthy experiment,
if used somewhat sparingly. But I seriously doubt
whether these illustrations in any way indicate the
impression made on the mind of the child. It is the
same question that arises when that child is called
upon (or expresses a wish) to reproduce the story in
his own words: the unfamiliar medium in both
instances makes it almost impossible for the child to
convey his meaning, unless he be an artist in the one
case or have real literary power of expression in
the other.</p>

<p>My own impression, which has been confirmed by
many teachers who have made the experiment, is that
a certain amount of disappointment is mixed up with
the daring joy in the attempt, simply because the
children can get nowhere near the ideal which has
presented itself to the “inner eye.”</p>

<p>I remember a Kindergarten mistress saying that on
one occasion, when she had told to the class a thrilling
story of a knight, one of the children immediately
asked for permission to draw a picture of him on the
blackboard. So spontaneous a request could not, of
course, be refused, and, full of assurance, the would-be
artist began to give his impression of the knight's
appearance. When the picture was finished, the child
stood back for a moment to judge for himself of the
result. He put down the chalk and said sadly:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">132</a></span> “And
I <i>thought</i> he was so handsome.”</p>

<p>Nevertheless, except for the drawback of the other
children seeing a picture which might be inferior to
their own mental vision, I should quite approve of
such experiments as long as they are not taken as
literal data of what the children have really received.
It would, however, be better not to have the picture
drawn on a blackboard but at the child's private desk,
to be seen by the teacher and not, unless the picture
were exceptionally good, to be shown to the other
children.</p>

<p>One of the best effects of such an experiment would
be to show a child how difficult it is to give the
impression he wishes to record, and which would
enable him later on to appreciate the beauty of such
work in the hands of a finished artist.</p>

<p>I can anticipate the jeers with which such remarks
would be received by the Futurist School, but, according
to their own theory, I ought to be allowed to
express the matter <i>as I see it</i>, however faulty the vision
may appear to them.<a name="FNanchor_53_53" id="FNanchor_53_53"></a><a href="#Footnote_53_53" class="fnanchor">[53]</a></p>

<p class="hang"><i>Question IX.</i> In what way can the dramatic method
of story-telling be used in ordinary class teaching?</p>

<p>This is too large a question to answer fully in so
general a survey as this work, but I should like to give
one or two concrete examples as to how the element
of story-telling could be introduced.</p>

<p>I have always thought that the only way in which
we could make either a history or literature lesson<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">133</a></span>
live, so that it should take a real hold on the mind of
the pupil at any age, would be that, instead of offering
lists of events, crowded into the fictitious area of one
reign, one should take a single event, say in one lesson
out of five, and give it in the most splendid language
and in the most dramatic (not to be confused with
“melodramatic”) manner.</p>

<p>To come to a concrete example: Supposing that
you are talking to the class of Greece, either in
connection with its history, its geography or its
literature, could any mere accumulation of facts give
a clearer idea of the life of the people than a dramatically
told story from Homer, Æschylus, Sophocles or
Euripides?</p>

<p>What in the history of Iceland could give a more
graphic idea of the whole character of the life and
customs of the inhabitants than one of the famous
sagas, such as “The Burning of Njal” or “The
Death of Gunnar”?</p>

<p>In teaching the history of Spain, what could make
the pupils understand better the spirit of knight-errantry,
its faults and its qualities, than a recital from
“Don Quixote” or from the tale of “The Cid”?</p>

<p>In a word, the stories must appeal so vividly to the
imagination that they will light up the whole period
of history which we wish them to illustrate, and keep
it in the memory for all time.</p>

<p>But apart from the dramatic presentation of history,
there are great possibilities for introducing the short
story into the portrait of some great personage: a
story which, though it may be insignificant in itself,
throws a sudden sidelight on his character, and reveals
the mind behind the actual deeds; this is what I mean
by using the dramatic method.</p>

<p>To take a concrete example: Supposing, in giving<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">134</a></span>
an account of the life of Napoleon, after enlarging
on his campaigns, his European policy, his indomitable
will, you were suddenly to give an idea of his
many-sidedness by relating how he actually found
time to compile a catechism which was used for some
years in the elementary schools in France!</p>

<p>What sidelights might be thrown in this way on
such characters as Nero, Cæsar, Henry VIII, Luther,
Goethe!</p>

<p>To take one example from these: Instead of making
the whole career of Henry VIII centre round the fact
that he was a much-married man, could we not present
his artistic side and speak of his charming contributions
to music?....</p>

<p>So much for the history lessons. But could not
the dramatic form and interest be introduced into our
geography lessons? Think of the romance of the
Panama Canal, the position of Constantinople as
affecting the history of Europe, the shape of Greece,
England as an Island, the position of Tibet, the
interior of Africa&mdash;to what wonderful story-telling
would these themes lend themselves!</p>

<p class="hang"><i>Question X.</i> Which should predominate in the story&mdash;the
dramatic or the poetic element?</p>

<p>This is a much debated point. From experience,
I have come to the conclusion that, though both
should be found in the whole range of stories, the
dramatic element should prevail from the very nature
of the presentation, and also because it reaches the
larger number of children (at least of normal children).
Almost every child is dramatic, in the sense that he
loves action (not necessarily an action in which he has
to bear a part). It is the exceptional child who is
reached by the poetic side, and just as on the stage<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">135</a></span>
the action must be quicker and more concentrated
than in a poem&mdash;even than a dramatic poem&mdash;so it
must be with the story. Children act out in their
imagination the dramatic or actable part of the story&mdash;the
poetical side, which must be painted in more
delicate colours or presented in less obvious form,
often escapes them. Of course the very reason why
we must include the poetical element is that it is an
unexpressed need of most children. Their need of
the dramatic is more loudly proclaimed and more
easily satisfied.</p>

<p class="hang"><i>Question XI.</i> What is the educational value of
Humour in the stories told to our children?</p>

<p>My answer to this is that Humour means much
more than is usually understood by this term. So
many people seem to think that to have a sense of
humour is merely to be tickled by a funny element
in a story. It surely means something much more
subtle than this. It is Thackeray who says: “If
Humour only meant Laughter ... but the Humourist
professes to awaken and direct your love, your pity,
your kindness, your scorn for untruth and pretention,
your tenderness for the weak, the poor, the oppressed,
the unhappy.” So that, in our stories, the introduction
of humour should not merely depend on the
doubtful amusement that follows on a sense of incongruity.
It should inculcate a sense of proportion
brought about by an effort of imagination: it shows
a child its real position in the Universe, and prevents
an exaggerated idea of his own importance. It
develops the logical faculty, and prevents hasty
conclusions. It shortens the period of joy in horseplay
and practical jokes. It brings about a clearer
perception of all situations, enabling the child to get<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">136</a></span>
the point of view of another person. It is the first
instilling of philosophy into the mind of a child, and
prevents much suffering later on when the blows of
life fall upon him; for a sense of humour teaches us
at an early age not to expect too much; and this
philosophy can be developed without cynicism or
pessimism, without even destroying the <i>joie de vivre</i>....</p>

<p>One cannot, however, sufficiently emphasize the
fact that these far-reaching results can only be brought
about by humour quite distinct from the broader fun
and hilarity which have also their use in an educational
scheme.</p>

<p>From my own experience, I have learned that
development of Humour is with most children
extremely slow. It is quite natural and quite right
that at first pure fun, obvious situations and elementary
jokes should please them, but we can very
gradually appeal to something more subtle, and if I
were asked what story would educate our children
most thoroughly in appreciation of Humour, I should
say that “Alice in Wonderland” was the most
effective.</p>

<p>What better object-lesson could be given in
humorous form of taking somebody else's point of
view than that given to Alice by the Mock Turtle in
speaking of the Whiting?:</p>

<p>“‘You know what they're like?’</p>

<p>‘I believe so,’ said Alice. ‘They have their tails
in their mouths&mdash;and they're all over crumbs.’</p>

<p>‘You're wrong about the crumbs,’ said the Mock
Turtle. 'Crumbs would all wash off in the sea.'”</p>

<p>Or when Alice is speaking to the Mouse of her Cat,
and says: “She is such a dear quiet thing&mdash;and a
capital one for catching mice&mdash;&mdash;” and then suddenly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">137</a></span>
realises the point of view of the Mouse, who was
“trembling down to the end of its tail.”</p>

<p>Then, as an instance of how a lack of humour leads
to illogical conclusions (a condition common to most
children), we have the conversation between Alice and
the Pigeon:</p>

<p><span class="smcap">Alice</span>: “But little girls eat quite as much as
serpents do, you know.”</p>

<p><span class="smcap">Pigeon</span>: “I don't believe it. But if they do, why
then they're a kind of serpent, that's all I can say.”</p>

<p>Then, as an instance of how a sense of humour
would prevent too much self-importance:</p>

<p>“‘I have a right to think,’ said Alice sharply.</p>

<p>‘Just about as much right,’ said the Duchess,
'as pigs have to fly.'”</p>

<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_48_48" id="Footnote_48_48"></a><a href="#FNanchor_48_48"><span class="label">[48]</span></a> I do not deny that there can be charming representations of
this kind. Miss Netta Syrett has given a triplet of plays at
the Court Theatre which were entirely on the plane of the child;
but these performances were somewhat exceptional.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_49_49" id="Footnote_49_49"></a><a href="#FNanchor_49_49"><span class="label">[49]</span></a> From “Study of Hans C. Andersen.”</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_50_50" id="Footnote_50_50"></a><a href="#FNanchor_50_50"><span class="label">[50]</span></a> See “Eastern Stories and Fables,” published by Routledge.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_51_51" id="Footnote_51_51"></a><a href="#FNanchor_51_51"><span class="label">[51]</span></a> See <a href="#Page_6">Chapter I</a>.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_52_52" id="Footnote_52_52"></a><a href="#FNanchor_52_52"><span class="label">[52]</span></a> In this matter I have, in England, the support of Dr. Kimmins,
Chief Inspector of the London County Council, who is strongly
opposed to immediate reproduction of the stories.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_53_53" id="Footnote_53_53"></a><a href="#FNanchor_53_53"><span class="label">[53]</span></a> Needless to say that these remarks only refer to the illustrations
of stories told. Whether children should be encouraged to
self-expression in drawing (quite apart from reproducing in one
medium what has been conveyed to them in another), is too large a
question to deal with in this special work on Story-Telling.</p></div></div>
<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">138</a></span></p>

<h2>CHAPTER VIII.</h2>

<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Stories in Full.</span></p>

<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">The</span> following three stories have for so long formed
a part of my repertory that I have been requested to
include them in my book, and, in order to associate
myself more completely with them, I am presenting
a translation of my own from the original Danish
version.</p>

<h3><span class="smcap">The Nightingale.</span></h3>

<p>You must know that in China the Emperor is a
Chinaman, and all those around him are also Chinamen.
It is many years since all this happened, and
for that very reason it is worth hearing, before it is
forgotten.</p>

<p>There was no palace in the world more beautiful
than the Emperor's; it was very costly, all of fine
porcelain, but it was so delicate and brittle, that it
was very difficult to touch, and you had to be very
careful in doing so. The most wonderful flowers
could be seen in the garden, and silver tinkling bells
were tied on to the most beautiful of these, for fear
people should pass by without noticing them. How
well everything had been thought out in the Emperor's
garden&mdash;which was so big, that even the gardener
himself did not know how big. If you walked on
and on you came to the most beautiful wood, with tall
trees and deep lakes. This wood stretched right down
to the sea, which was blue and deep; great ships could
pass underneath the branches, and in these branches<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">139</a></span>
a nightingale had made its home, and its singing was
so entrancing that the poor fisherman, though he had
so many other things to do, would lie still and listen
when he was out at night drawing in his nets.</p>

<p>“Heavens! how lovely that is!” he said: but then
he was forced to think about his own affairs, and the
nightingale was forgotten; but the next day, when it
sang again, the fisherman said the same thing:
“Heavens! how lovely that is!”</p>

<p>Travellers from all the countries of the world came
to the Emperor's town, and expressed their admiration
for the palace and the garden, but when they heard
the nightingale, they all said in one breath: “That
is the best of all!”</p>

<p>Now, when these travellers came home, they told of
what they had seen. The scholars wrote many books
about the town, the palace and the garden, but
nobody left the nightingale out: it was always spoken
of as the most wonderful of all they had seen, and
those who had the gift of the Poet wrote the most
delightful poems all about the nightingale in the wood
near the deep lake.</p>

<p>The books went round the world, and in course of
time some of them reached the Emperor. He sat in
his golden chair, and read and read, nodding his head
every minute; for it pleased him to read the beautiful
descriptions of the town, the palace and the garden;
and then he found in the book the following words:
“But the Nightingale is the best of all.”</p>

<p>“What is this?” said the Emperor.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">140</a></span> “The
nightingale! I know nothing whatever about it.
To think of there being such a bird in my Kingdom&mdash;nay,
in my very garden&mdash;and I have never heard it!
And one has to learn of such a thing for the first time
from a book!”</p>

<p>Then he summoned his Lord-in-Waiting, who was
such a grand creature that if any one inferior in rank
ventured to speak to him, or ask him about anything,
he merely uttered the sound “P,” which meant
nothing whatever.</p>

<p>“There is said to be a most wonderful bird, called
the Nightingale,” said the Emperor; “they say it is
the best thing in my great Kingdom. Why have I
been told nothing about it?”</p>

<p>“I have never heard it mentioned before,” said the
Lord-in-Waiting. “It has certainly never been
presented at court.”</p>

<p>“It is my good pleasure that it shall appear here
to-night and sing before me!” said the Emperor.
“The whole world knows what is mine, and I myself
do not know it.”</p>

<p>“I have never heard it mentioned before,” said the
Lord-in-Waiting. “I will seek it, and I shall find it.”</p>

<p>But where was it to be found? The Lord-in-Waiting
ran up and down all the stairs, through the
halls and the passages, but not one of all those whom
he met had ever heard a word about the Nightingale.
The Lord-in-Waiting ran back to the Emperor and
told him that it must certainly be a fable invented by
writers of books.</p>

<p>“Your Majesty must not believe all that is written
in books. It is pure invention, besides something
which is called the Black Art.”</p>

<p>“But,” said the Emperor,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">141</a></span> “the book in which I
read this was sent to me by His Majesty the Emperor
of Japan, and therefore this cannot be a falsehood.
I insist on hearing the Nightingale: it must appear
this evening. It has my gracious favour, and if it
fails to appear, the court shall be trampled upon after
the court has supped.”</p>

<p>“Tsing-pe!” said the Lord-in-Waiting, and again
he ran up and down all the stairs, through all the halls
and passages, and half the court ran with him, for
they had no wish to be trampled upon. And many
questions were asked about the wonderful Nightingale
of whom all had heard except those who lived at court.</p>

<p>At last, they met a poor little girl in the kitchen.
She said: “Heavens! The Nightingale! I know
it well! Yes, how it can sing! Every evening I
have permission to take the broken pieces from the
table to my poor sick mother who lives near the
seashore, and on my way back, when I feel tired and
rest a while in the wood, then I hear the Nightingale
sing, and my eyes are filled with tears: it is just as
if my mother kissed me.”</p>

<p>“Little kitchen-girl,” said the Lord-in-Waiting,
“I will get a permanent position for you in the Court
Kitchen and permission to see the Emperor dine, if
you can lead us to the Nightingale; for it has received
orders to appear at Court to-night.”</p>

<p>So they started off all together for the wood where
the bird was wont to sing: half the court went too.
They were going along at a good pace when suddenly
they heard a cow lowing.</p>

<p>“Oh,” said a court-page. “There you have it.
That is a wonderful power for so small a creature!
I have certainly heard it before.”</p>

<p>“No, those are the cows lowing,” said the little
kitchen girl. “We are a long way from the place
yet.”</p>

<p>And then the frogs began to croak in the pond.</p>

<p>“Beautiful,” said the Court Preacher. “Now, I
hear it&mdash;it is just like little church bells.”</p>

<p>“No, those are the frogs,” said the little Kitchen
maid.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">142</a></span> “But now I think that we shall soon hear it.”</p>

<p>And then the Nightingale began to sing.</p>

<p>“There it is,” said the little girl. “Listen, listen&mdash;there
it sits.” And she pointed to a little grey bird
in the branches.</p>

<p>“Is it possible!” said the Lord-in-Waiting. “I
had never supposed it would look like that. How
very plain it looks! It has certainly lost its colour
from seeing so many grand folk around it.”</p>

<p>“Little Nightingale,” called out the little Kitchen
girl, “our gracious Emperor would be so glad if you
would sing for him.”</p>

<p>“With the greatest pleasure,” said the Nightingale.
It sang, and it was a joy to hear it.</p>

<p>“Just like little glass bells,” said the Lord-in-Waiting;
“and just look at the little throat, how
active it is! It is astonishing to think we have never
heard it before! It will have a real <i>success</i> at Court.”</p>

<p>“Shall I sing for the Emperor again?” said the
Nightingale, who thought that the Emperor was there
in person.</p>

<p>“Mine excellent little Nightingale,” said the Lord-in-Waiting,
“I have the great pleasure of bidding
you to a Court-Festival this night, when you will
enchant His Imperial Majesty with your delightful
warbling.”</p>

<p>“My voice sounds better among the green trees,”
said the Nightingale. But it came willingly when it
knew that the Emperor wished it.</p>

<p>There was a great deal of furbishing up at the
Palace. The walls and ceiling, which were of porcelain,
shone with a light of a thousand golden lamps.
The most beautiful flowers of the tinkling kind were
placed in the passages. There was running to and
fro, and a thorough draught. But that is just what
made the bells ring: one could not oneself. In the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">143</a></span>
middle of the large hall where the Emperor sat, a
golden rod had been set up on which the Nightingale
was to perch. The whole Court was present, and the
little Kitchen-maid was allowed to stand behind the
door, for she had now the actual title of a Court
Kitchen Maid. All were there in their smartest
clothes, and they all looked towards the little grey
bird to which the Emperor nodded.</p>

<p>And the Nightingale sang so delightfully that
tears sprang into the Emperor's eyes and rolled down
his cheeks; and then the Nightingale sang even more
beautifully. The song went straight to the heart, and
the Emperor was so delighted that he declared that
the Nightingale should have his golden slipper to
hang round its neck. But the Nightingale declined.
It had already had its reward.</p>

<p>“I have seen tears in the Emperor's eyes. That to
me is the richest tribute. An Emperor's tears have a
wonderful power. God knows my reward is great
enough,” and again its sweet, glorious voice was
heard.</p>

<p>“That is the most delightful coquetting I have
ever known,” said the ladies sitting round, and they
took water into their mouths, in order to gurgle when
anyone spoke to them, and they really thought they
were like the Nightingale. Even the footmen and the
chambermaids sent word that they, too, were satisfied,
and that means a great deal, for these are the people
whom it is most difficult to please. There was no
doubt as to the Nightingale's success. It was sure to
stay at Court, and have its own cage, with liberty to
go out twice in the daytime, and once at night.
Twelve servants went out with it, and each held a
silk ribbon which was tied to the bird's leg, and they
held it very tightly. There was not much pleasure in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">144</a></span>
going out under those conditions. The whole town
was talking of the wonderful bird, and when two
people met, one said: “Nightin-” and the other said
“gale,” and they sighed and understood one another.
Eleven cheese-mongers' children were called after the
bird, though none of them had a note in his voice.
One day a large parcel came for the Emperor. Outside
was written the word: “Nightingale.”</p>

<p>“Here we have a new book about our wonderful
bird,” said the Emperor. But it was not a book; it
was a little work of art which lay in a box&mdash;an
artificial Nightingale, which was supposed to look
like the real one, but it was set in diamonds, rubies
and sapphires. As soon as you wound it up, it could
sing one of the pieces which the real bird sang, and
its tail moved up and down and glittered with silver
and gold. Round its neck was a ribbon on which was
written: “The Emperor of Japan's Nightingale is
miserable compared with the Emperor of China's.”</p>

<p>“That is delightful,” they all said, and on the
messenger who had brought the artificial bird they
bestowed the title of “Imperial Nightingale-Bringer-in-Chief.”</p>

<p>“Let them sing together, and <i>what</i> a duet that will
be!”</p>

<p>And so they had to sing, but the thing would not
work, because the real Nightingale could only sing in
its own way, and the artificial Nightingale could only
play by clock-work.</p>

<p>“That is not its fault,” said the Band Master.
“Time is its strong point, and it has quite my
method.”</p>

<p>Then the artificial Nightingale had to sing alone.
It had just as much success as the real bird, and then
it was so much handsomer to look at: it glittered like<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">145</a></span>
bracelets and breast-pins. It sang the same tune three
and thirty times, and it was still not tired: the people
would willingly have listened to the whole performance
over again from the start. But the Emperor suggested
that the real Nightingale should sing for a
while. But where was it? Nobody had noticed that
it had flown out of the open window back to its green
woods.</p>

<p>“But what is the meaning of all this?” said the
Emperor. All the courtiers upbraided the Nightingale
and said that it was a most ungrateful creature.</p>

<p>“We have the better of the two,” they said, and
the artificial Nightingale had to sing again, and this
was the thirty-fourth time they heard the same tune.
But they did not know it properly even then, because
it was so difficult, and the bandmaster praised the
wonderful bird in the highest terms, and even asserted
that it was superior to the real bird, not only as
regarded the outside, with the many lovely diamonds,
but also the inside as well.</p>

<p>“You see, ladies and gentlemen, and above all
your Imperial Majesty, that with the real Nightingale,
you can never predict what may happen, but with the
artificial bird, everything is settled upon beforehand;
so it remains and it cannot be changed. One can
account for it. One can rip it open and show the
human ingenuity, explaining how the cylinders lie,
how they work, and how one thing is the result of
another.”</p>

<p>“That is just what we think,” they all exclaimed,
and the Bandmaster received permission to exhibit
the bird to the people on the following Sunday. The
Emperor said they were to hear it sing. They
listened, and were as much delighted as if they had
been drunk with tea, which is a thoroughly Chinese<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">146</a></span>
habit, and they all said “Oh!” and stuck their
forefingers in the air, and nodded their heads. But
the poor Fisherman who had heard the real Nightingale,
said: “It sounds quite well, and a little like it,
but there is something missing. I do not know what
it is.”</p>

<p>The real Nightingale was banished from the
Kingdom. The artificial bird had its place on a
silken cushion close to the Emperor's bed. All the
presents it had received, the gold and precious stones,
lay all round it, and it had been honoured with the
title of High Imperial Bedroom Singer&mdash;in the first
rank, on the left side, for even the Emperor considered
that side the grander on which the heart is placed,
and even an Emperor has his heart on the left side.
The Bandmaster wrote twenty-five volumes about the
wonderful artificial bird. The book was very learned
and very long, filled with the most difficult words in
the Chinese language, and everybody said that he had
read it and understood it, for otherwise he would have
been considered stupid, and would have been trampled
upon.</p>

<p>And thus a whole year passed away. The Emperor,
the Court and all the other Chinese knew every little
gurgle in the artificial bird's song, and just for this
reason, they were all the better pleased with it. They
could sing it themselves&mdash;which they did. The boys
in the street sang “zizizi” and “cluck, cluck,” and
even the Emperor sang it. Yes, it was certainly
beautiful. But one evening, while the bird was singing,
and the Emperor lay in bed listening to it, there
was a whirring sound inside the bird, and something
whizzed; all the wheels ran round, and the music
stopped. The Emperor sprang out of bed and sent
for the Court Physician, but what could he do? Then<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">147</a></span>
they sent for the watch-maker, and after much talk
and examination, he patched the bird up, but he said
it must be spared as much as possible, because the
hammers were so worn out and he could not put new
ones in so that the music could be counted on. This
was a great grief. The bird could only be allowed to
sing once a year, and even that was risky, but on these
occasions the Bandmaster would make a little speech,
introducing difficult words, saying the bird was as
good as it ever had been: and that was true.</p>

<p>Five years passed away, and a great sorrow had
come over the land. The people all really cared for
their Emperor: now he was ill and it was said he
could not live. A new Emperor had been chosen, and
the people stood about the streets, and questioned the
Lord-in-Waiting about their Emperor's condition.</p>

<p>“P!” he said, and shook his head.</p>

<p>The Emperor lay pale and cold on his great,
gorgeous bed: the whole Court believed that he was
dead, and they all hastened to pay homage to the new
Emperor. The footmen hurried off to discuss matters,
and the chambermaids gave a great coffee party.
Cloth had been laid down in all the rooms and
passages, so that not a footstep should be heard and it
was all fearfully quiet. But the Emperor was not yet
dead. He lay stiff and pale in the sumptuous bed,
with its long, velvet curtains, and the heavy gold
tassels: just above was an open window, and the moon
shone in upon the Emperor and the artificial bird.
The poor Emperor could hardly breathe: it was as if
something were weighing him down: he opened his
eyes and saw it was Death, sitting on his chest,
wearing his golden crown, holding in one hand the
golden sword, and in the other the splendid banner:
and from the folds of the velvet curtains strange faces<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">148</a></span>
peered forth, some terrible to look on, others mild and
friendly: these were the Emperor's good and bad
deeds, which gazed upon him now that Death sat
upon his heart.</p>

<p>“Do you remember this?” whispered one after
the other. “Do you remember that?” They told
him so much that the sweat poured down his face.</p>

<p>“I never knew that,” said the Emperor. “Play
music! music! Beat the great Chinese drum!” he
called out, “so that I may not hear what they are
saying!”</p>

<p>But they kept on, and Death nodded his head, like
a Chinaman, at everything they said.</p>

<p>“Music, music,” cried the Emperor. “You little
precious bird! Sing to me, ah! sing to me! I have
given you gold and costly treasures. I have hung my
golden slipper about your neck. Sing to me. Sing
to me!”</p>

<p>But the bird stood still: there was no one to wind
him up, and therefore he could not sing. But Death
went on, staring at the Emperor with his great hollow
sockets, and it was terribly still.</p>

<p>Then, suddenly, close to the window, came the sound
of a lovely song. It was the little live Nightingale
which perched on the branches outside. It had heard
of its Emperor's plight, and had therefore flown hither
to bring him comfort and hope, and as he sang, the
faces became paler and the blood coursed more freely
through the Emperor's weak body, and Death himself
listened and said: “Go on, little Nightingale. Go
on.”</p>

<p>“And will you give me the splendid sword, and the
rich banner and the Emperor's crown?”</p>

<p>And Death gave all these treasures for a song. And
still the Nightingale sang on. He sang of the quiet<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">149</a></span>
churchyard, where the white roses grow, where the
Elder flowers bloom, and where the grass is kept moist
by the tears of the survivors, and there came to Death
such a longing to see his garden, that he floated out
of the window, in the form of a white, cold mist.</p>

<p>“Thank you, thank you,” said the Emperor. “You
heavenly little bird, I know you well! I banished you
from the land, and you have charmed away the evil
spirits from my bed, and you have driven Death from
my heart. How shall I reward you?”</p>

<p>“You have rewarded me,” said the Nightingale.
“I received tears from your eyes the first time I sang,
and I never forget that. These are jewels which touch
the heart of the singer. But sleep now, that you may
wake fresh and strong. I will sing to you,” and it
sang, and the Emperor fell into a sweet sleep. The
sun shone in upon him through the window, and he
woke feeling strong and healthy. None of his servants
had come back, because they thought he was
dead, but the Nightingale was still singing.</p>

<p>“You will always stay with me,” said the Emperor.
“You shall only sing when it pleases you, and I will
break the artificial Nightingale into a thousand
pieces.”</p>

<p>“Do not do that,” said the Nightingale.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">150</a></span> “It has
done the best it could. Keep it with you. I cannot
build my nest in a palace, but let me come just as I
please. I will sit on the branch near the window, and
sing to you that you may be joyful and thoughtful too.
I will sing to you of the happy folk, and of those that
suffer; I will sing of the evil and of the good, which
is being hidden from you. The little singing bird
flies hither and thither, to the poor fisherman, to the
peasant's hut, to many who live far from you and the
Court. Your heart is dearer to me than your crown,
and yet the crown has a breath of sanctity too. I will
come; I will sing to you, but one thing you must
promise.”</p>

<p>“All that you ask,” said the Emperor and stood
there in his imperial robes which he had put on
himself, and held the heavy golden sword on his heart.</p>

<p>“I beg you, let no one know that you have a little
bird who tells you everything. It will be far better
thus,” and the Nightingale flew away.</p>

<p>The servants came to look upon their dead Emperor:
they stood there and the Emperor said “Good
morning.”</p>

<p class="right">
(<i>From Hans. C. Andersen, translated from the
Danish by Marie L. Shedlock.</i>)
</p>

<h3><span class="smcap">The Swineherd.</span></h3>

<p>There was once upon a time a needy prince. He
owned a Kingdom&mdash;a very small one, but it was large
enough to support a wife, and he made up his mind
to marry. Now, it was really very bold on his part
to say of the King's daughter: “Will you marry
me?” But he dared to do so, for his name was
known far and wide, and there were hundreds of
princesses who would willingly have said: “Yes,
with thanks.” But, whether she would say so, was
another matter. We shall hear what happened.</p>

<p>On the grave of the Prince's father there grew a
rose-tree&mdash;such a wonderful rose-tree! It only
bloomed once in five years, and then it only bore one
rose&mdash;but what a rose! Its perfume was so sweet that
whoever smelt it forgot all his cares and sorrows. The
Prince had also a Nightingale which could sing as if
all the delicious melodies in the world were contained
in its little throat. The rose and the Nightingale were
both to be given to the Princess and were therefore<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">151</a></span>
placed in two silver cases and sent to her. The
Emperor had them carried before him into the great
hall where the Princess was playing at “visiting”
with her ladies-in-waiting. This was their chief
occupation; and when she saw the great cases with
the presents in them, she clapped her hands with joy.</p>

<p>“If it were only a little pussy-cat,” she cried. But
out came the beautiful rose.</p>

<p>“How elegantly it is made,” said all the ladies of
the Court.</p>

<p>“It is more than elegant,” said the Emperor; “it
is nice.”</p>

<p>“Fie, papa,” she said, “it is not made at all; it is
a natural rose.”</p>

<p>“Fie,” said all the ladies of the court; “it is a
natural rose.”</p>

<p>“Let us see what the other case contains before we
lose our temper,” said the Emperor, and then out
came the little Nightingale and sang so sweetly that
nobody right off could think of any bad thing to say
of it.</p>

<p>“Superbe, charmant,” cried the ladies of the Court,
for they all chattered French, one worse than the
other.</p>

<p>“How the bird reminds me of the late Empress'
musical-box!” said an old Lord-in-Waiting. “Ah
me! The same tone, the same execution&mdash;&mdash;”</p>

<p>“The very same,” said the Emperor, and he cried
like a little child.</p>

<p>“I hope it is not a real bird,” said the Princess.</p>

<p>“Oh yes; it is a real bird,” said those who had
brought it.</p>

<p>“Then let the bird fly away,” she said, and she
would on no account allow the Prince to come in.</p>

<p>But he was not to be discouraged. He smeared his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">152</a></span>
face with black and brown, drew his cap over his
forehead, and knocked at the Palace door. The
Emperor opened it.</p>

<p>“Good day, Emperor,” he said. “Could I not get
some work at the Palace?”</p>

<p>“There are so many who apply for positions here!”
said the Emperor. “Now let me see: I am in want
of a swineherd. I have a good many pigs to keep.”</p>

<p>So the Prince was appointed as Imperial Swineherd.
He had a wretched little room near the pig-sty
and here he was obliged to stay. But the whole day
he sat and worked, and by the evening he had made a
neat little pipkin, and round it was a set of bells, and
as soon as the pot began to boil, the bells fell to
jingling most sweetly and played the old melody:</p>

<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">“Ah, my dear Augustus,</div>
<div class="i0">All is lost, all is lost;”</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noin">but the most wonderful thing was that when you held
your finger in the steam of the pipkin, you could
immediately smell what dinner was cooking on every
hearth in the town&mdash;that was something very different
from a rose.</p>

<p>The Princess was walking out with her ladies-in-Waiting,
and when she heard the melody, she stopped
short, and looked much rejoiced, for she could play
“Ah, my dear Augustus.” That was the only tune
she knew, but she could play it with one finger.
“Why, that is what I can play,” she said. “What
a cultivated swineherd he must be. Go down and ask
him how much his instrument costs.”</p>

<p>So one of the Ladies-in-Waiting was obliged to go
down, but she put on pattens first.</p>

<p>“What do you charge for your instrument?”
asked the Lady-in-Waiting.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">153</a></span>

“I will have ten kisses from the Princess,” said
the Swineherd.</p>

<p>“Good gracious!” said the Lady-in-Waiting.</p>

<p>“I will not take less,” said the Swineherd.</p>

<p>“Well, what did he say?” asked the Princess.</p>

<p>“I really cannot tell you,” said the Lady-in-Waiting.
“It is too dreadful.”</p>

<p>“Then you can whisper it,” said the Princess.</p>

<p>So she whispered it.</p>

<p>“He is very rude,” said the Princess, and she
walked away. But when she had walked a few steps
the bells sounded so sweetly:</p>

<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">“Ah, my dear Augustus,</div>
<div class="i0">All is lost, all is lost.”</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>“Listen,” said the Princess, “ask him whether he
will have his kisses from my Ladies-in-Waiting.”</p>

<p>“No, thank you,” said the Swineherd. “I will
have ten kisses from the Princess, or I will keep my
pipkin.”</p>

<p>“How tiresome it is,” said the Princess; “but you
must stand round me, so that nobody shall see.”</p>

<p>So the Ladies-in-Waiting stood round her, and they
spread out their dresses. The Swineherd got the
kisses, and she got the pipkin.</p>

<p>How delighted she was. All the evening, and the
whole of the next day that pot was made to boil. And
you might have known what everybody was cooking
on every hearth in the town from the Chamberlain's
to the shoemaker's. The court ladies danced and
clapped their hands.</p>

<p>“We know who is to have fruit, soup and pancakes.
We know who is going to have porridge, and cutlets.
How very interesting it is!”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">154</a></span>
“Most, interesting, indeed,” said the first Lady-of-Honour.</p>

<p>“Yes, but hold your tongues, because I am the
Emperor's daughter.”</p>

<p>“Of course we will,” they cried in one breath.</p>

<p>The Swineherd, or rather the Prince, though they
did not know but that he was a real swineherd, did
not let the day pass without doing something, and he
made a rattle which could play all the waltzes and the
polkas and the hop-dances which had been known
since the creation of the world.</p>

<p>“But this is superb,” said the Princess, who was
just passing: “I have never heard more beautiful
composition. Go and ask him the cost of the instrument.
But I will give no more kisses.”</p>

<p>“He insists on a hundred kisses from the Princess,”
said the Ladies-in-Waiting who had been down to ask.</p>

<p>“I think he must be quite mad,” said the Princess,
and she walked away. But when she had taken a few
steps, she stopped short, and said: “One must
encourage the fine arts, and I am the Emperor's
daughter. Tell him he may have ten kisses, as before,
and the rest he can take from my Ladies-in-Waiting.”</p>

<p>“Yes, but we object to that,” said the Ladies-in-Waiting.</p>

<p>“That is nonsense,” said the Princess. “If I can
kiss him, surely you can do the same. Go down at
once. Don't I pay you board and wages?”</p>

<p>So the Ladies-in-Waiting were obliged to go down
to the Swineherd again.</p>

<p>“A hundred kisses from the Princess, or each keeps
his own.”</p>

<p>“Stand round me,” she said. And all the Ladies-in-Waiting
stood round her, and the Swineherd began
to kiss her.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">155</a></span>

“What can all that crowd be down by the pigsty?”
said the Emperor, stepping out on to the
balcony. He rubbed his eyes and put on his spectacles.
“It is the court-ladies up to some of their tricks.
I must go down and look after them.” He pulled up
his slippers (for they were shoes which he had trodden
down at the heel).</p>

<p>Heavens! How he hurried! As soon as he came
into the garden he walked very softly, and the Ladies-in-Waiting
had so much to do counting the kisses, so
that everything should be done fairly, and that the
Swineherd should neither get too many nor too few,
that they never noticed the Emperor at all. He stood
on tiptoe.</p>

<p>“What is this all about?” he said, when he saw
the kissing that was going on, and he hit them on the
head with his slipper, just as the Swineherd was
getting the eighty-sixth kiss. “Heraus,” said the
Emperor, for he was angry, and both the Princess and
the Swineherd were turned out of his Kingdom.</p>

<p>The Princess wept, the Swineherd scolded, and the
rain streamed down.</p>

<p>“Ah! wretched creature that I am,” said the
Princess. “If I had only taken the handsome Prince!
Ah me, how unhappy I am!”</p>

<p>Then the Swineherd went behind a tree, washed the
black and brown off his face, threw off his ragged
clothes, and stood forth in his royal apparel, looking
so handsome that she was obliged to curtsey.</p>

<p>“I have learned to despise you,” he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">156</a></span> “You
would not have an honourable Prince. You could
not appreciate a rose or a Nightingale, but to get a toy,
you kissed the Swineherd. Now you have your
reward.”</p>

<p>So he went into his Kingdom, shut the door and
bolted it, and she had to stand outside singing:</p>
<div class="center">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">“Ah, you dear Augustus,</div>
<div class="i0">All, all is lost.”</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="right">
(<i>From the Danish of Hans C. Andersen, translated
by Marie L. Shedlock.</i>)
</p>

<h3><span class="smcap">The Princess and the Pea.</span></h3>

<p>There was once a Prince who wished to marry a
Princess, but she must be a real Princess. He
travelled all over the world to find such a one; but
there was always something the matter. There were
plenty of Princesses, but whether they were real or
not, he could not be quite certain. There was always
something that was not quite right. So he came
home again, feeling very sad, for he was so anxious
to have a real Princess.</p>

<p>One evening a terrible storm came on: it lightened,
and thundered and the rain came down in torrents.
It was quite terrible. Then there came a knocking at
the town-gate, and the old King went down to open
it. There, outside, stood a Princess. But gracious!
the rain and bad weather had made her look dreadful.
The water was running out of her hair on to her
clothes, into the tips of her shoes and out at the heels,
and yet she said she was a real Princess.</p>

<p>“We shall soon find out about that,” thought the
old Queen. But she said never a word. She went
into the bedroom, took off all the bed-clothes and put
a pea on the bedstead. Then she took twenty
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">157</a></span>
mattresses and laid them on the pea and twenty eider-down
quilts upon the mattresses. And the Princess
was to sleep there at night.</p>

<p>In the morning they came to her and asked her how
she had slept.</p>

<p>“Oh! dreadfully,” said the Princess. “I scarcely
closed my eyes the whole night long. Heaven knows
what could have been in the bed. I have lain upon
something hard, so that my whole body is black and
blue. It is quite dreadful.”</p>

<p>So they could see now that she was a real Princess,
because she had felt the pea through twenty mattresses
and twenty eider-down quilts. Nobody but a real
Princess could be so sensitive.</p>

<p>So the Prince married her, for now he knew that he
had found a real Princess, and the pea was sent to an
Art Museum, where it can still be seen, if nobody has
taken it away.</p>

<p>Now, mark you: This is a true story.</p>

<p class="right">
(<i>Translated from the Danish of Hans C. Andersen
by Marie L. Shedlock.</i>)
</p>

<p class="p2">I give the following story, quoted by Professor Ker
in his Romanes Lecture, 1906, as an encouragement to
those who develop the art of story-telling.</p>

<h3><span class="smcap">The Story of Sturla.</span></h3>

<p>Then Sturla got ready to sail away with the king,
and his name was put on the list. He went on board
before many men had come; he had a sleeping bag
and a travelling chest, and took his place on the
fore-deck. A little later the king came on to the quay,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">158</a></span>
and a company of men with him. Sturla rose and
bowed, and bade the king ‘hail,’ but the king
answered nothing, and went aft along the ship to the
quarter-deck. They sailed that day to go south along
the coast. But in the evening when men unpacked
their provisions Sturla sat still, and no one invited
him to mess. Then a servant of the king's came and
asked Sturla if he had any meat and drink. Sturla
said ‘No.’ Then the king's servant went to the king
and spoke with him, out of hearing: and then went
forward to Sturla and said: “You shall go to mess
with Thorir Mouth and Erlend Maw.” They took
him into their mess, but rather stiffly. When men
were turning in to sleep, a sailor of the king's asked
who should tell them stories. There was little answer.
Then he said: “Sturla the Icelander, will you tell
stories?” “As you will,” said Sturla. So he told
them the story of Huld, better and fuller than any one
there had ever heard it told before. Then many men
pushed forward to the fore-deck, wanting to hear as
clearly as might be, and there was a great crowd. The
queen asked: “What is that crowd on deck there?”
A man answered: “The men are listening to the
story that the Icelander tells.” “What story is that?”
said she. He answers: “It is about a great troll-wife,
and it is a good story and well told.” The king
bade her pay no heed to that, and go to sleep. She
says: “I think this Icelander must be a good fellow,
and less to blame than he is reported.” The king
was silent.</p>

<p>So the night passed, and the next morning there
was no wind for them, and the king's ship lay in the
same place. Later in the day, when men sat at their
drink, the king sent dishes from his table to Sturla.
Sturla's messmates were pleased with this:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">159</a></span> “You
bring better luck than we thought, if this sort of thing
goes on.” After dinner the queen sent for Sturla and
asked him to come to her and bring the troll-wife story
along with him. So Sturla went aft to the quarter-deck,
and greeted the king and queen. The king
answered little, the queen well and cheerfully. She
asked him to tell the same story he had told overnight.
He did so, for a great part of the day. When he had
finished, the queen thanked him, and many others
besides, and made him out in their minds to be a
learned man and sensible. But the king said nothing;
only he smiled a little. Sturla thought he saw that
the king's whole frame of mind was brighter than the
day before. So he said to the king that he had made
a poem about him, and another about his father: “I
would gladly get a hearing for them.” The queen
said: “Let him recite his poem; I am told that he is
the best of poets, and his poem will be excellent.”
The king bade him say on, if he would, and repeat
the poem he professed to have made about him.
Sturla chanted it to the end. The queen said: “To
my mind that is a good poem.” The king said to
her: “Can you follow the poem clearly?” “I
would be fain to have you think so, Sir,” said the
queen. The king said: “I have learned that Sturla
is good at verses.” Sturla took his leave of the king
and queen and went to his place. There was no
sailing for the king all that day. In the evening
before he went to bed he sent for Sturla. And when
he came he greeted the king and said: “What will
you have me to do, Sir?” The king called for a
silver goblet full of wine, and drank some and gave
it to Sturla and said: “A health to a friend in wine!”
(<i>Vin skal til vinar drekka.</i>) Sturla said: “God be
praised for it!” “Even so,” says the king,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">160</a></span> “and
now I wish you to say the poem you have made about
my father.” Sturla repeated it: and when it was
finished men praised it much, and most of all the
queen. The king said: “To my thinking, you are
a better reciter than the Pope.”</p>

<p class="right">
<i>Sturlunga Saga</i>, vol. ii, pp. 269 <i>sqq.</i>
</p>

<h3><span class="smcap">A Saga.</span></h3>

<p>In the grey beginnings of the world, or ever the
flower of justice had rooted in the heart, there lived
among the daughters of men two children, sisters, of
one house.</p>

<p>In childhood did they leap and climb and swim
with the men children of their race, and were nurtured
on the same stories of gods and heroes.</p>

<p>In maidenhood they could do all that a maiden
might and more&mdash;delve could they no less than spin,
hunt no less than weave, brew pottage and helm ships,
wake the harp and tell the stars, face all danger and
laugh at all pain.</p>

<p>Joyous in toil-time and rest-time were they as the
days and years of their youth came and went. Death
had spared their house, and unhappiness knew they
none. Yet often as at falling day they sat before
sleep round the hearth of red fire, listening with the
household to the brave songs of gods and heroes,
there would surely creep into their hearts a shadow&mdash;the
thought that whatever the years of their lives, and
whatever the generous deeds, there would for them, as
women, be no escape at the last from the dire mists
of Hela, the fogland beyond the grave for all such as
die not in battle; no escape for them from Hela, and
no place for ever for them or for their kind among
the glory-crowned, sword-shriven heroes of echoing
Valhalla.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">161</a></span>

That shadow had first fallen in their lusty childhood,
had slowly gathered darkness through the
overflowing days of maidenhood, and now, in the
strong tide of full womanhood, often lay upon their
future as the moon in Odin's wrath lies upon the sun.</p>

<p>But stout were they to face danger and laugh at
pain, and for all the shadow upon their hope they
lived brave and songful days&mdash;the one a homekeeper
and in her turn a mother of men; the other unhusbanded,
but gentle to ignorance and sickness and
sorrow through the width and length of the land.</p>

<p>And thus, facing life fearlessly and ever with a
smile, those two women lived even unto extreme old
age, unto the one's children's children's children,
labouring truly unto the end and keeping strong
hearts against the dread day of Hela, and the fate-locked
gates of Valhalla.</p>

<p>But at the end a wonder.</p>

<p>As these sisters looked their last upon the sun, the
one in the ancestral homestead under the eyes of love,
the other in a distant land among strange faces,
behold the wind of Thor, and out of the deep of
heaven the white horses of Odin, All-Father, bearing
Valkyrie, shining messengers of Valhalla. And those
two world-worn women, faithful in all their lives, were
caught up in death in divine arms and borne far from
the fogs of Hela to golden thrones among the battle
heroes, upon which the Nornir, sitting at the loom of
life, had from all eternity graven their names.</p>

<p>And from that hour have the gates of Valhalla
been thrown wide to all faithful endeavour whether of
man or of women.</p>

<p class="right">
<span class="smcap">John Russell</span>,<br />
Headmaster of the King Alfred School.
</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">162</a></span></p>

<h3><span class="smcap">The Legend of St. Christopher.</span></h3>

<p>Christopher was of the lineage of the Canaaneans
and he was of a right great stature, and had a terrible
and fearful cheer and countenance. And he was
twelve cubits of length. And, as it is read in some
histories, when he served and dwelled with the king
of Canaaneans, it came in his mind that he would
seek the greatest prince that was in the world and him
he would serve and obey.</p>

<p>And so far he went that he came to a right great
king, of whom the renown generally was that he was
the greatest of the world. And when the king saw
him he received him into his service and made him
to dwell in his court.</p>

<p>Upon a time a minstrel sang before him a song in
which he named oft the devil. And the king which
was a Christian man, when he heard him name the
devil, made anon the sign of the cross in his visage.
And when Christopher saw that, he had great marvel
what sign it was and wherefore the king made it.
And he demanded it of him. And because the king
would not say, he said, “If thou tell me not, I shall
no longer dwell with thee.” And then the king told
to him saying, “Alway when I hear the devil named,
I fear that he should have power over me, and I
garnish me with this sign that he grieve not nor annoy
me.” Then Christopher said to him, “Thou doubtest
the devil that he hurt thee not? Then is the devil
more mighty and greater than thou art. I am then
deceived of my hope and purpose; for I supposed that
I had found the most mighty and the most greatest
lord of the world. But I commend thee to God, for I
will go seek him to be my lord and I his servant.”</p>

<p>And then he departed from this king and hasted
him to seek the devil. And as he went by a great<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">163</a></span>
desert he saw a great company of knights. Of which
a knight cruel and horrible came to him and demanded
whither he went. And Christopher answered to him
and said, “I go to seek the devil for to be my master.”
And he said, “I am he that thou seekest.” And then
Christopher was glad and bound himself to be his
servant perpetual, and took him for his master and
lord.</p>

<p>And as they went together by a common way, they
found there a cross erect and standing. And anon
as the devil saw the cross, he was afeard and fled, and
left the right way and brought Christopher about by
a sharp desert, and after, when they were past the
cross, he brought him to the highway that they had
left. And when Christopher saw that, he marvelled
and demanded whereof he doubted that he had left
high and fair way and had gone so far about by so
hard desert. And the devil would not tell to him in
no wise. Then Christopher said to him, “If thou
wilt not tell me I shall anon depart from thee and
shall serve thee no more.” Therefore the devil was
constrained to tell him, and said, “There was a man
called Christ which was hanged on the cross, and
when I see his sign, I am sore afeard and flee from it
wheresomever I find it.” To whom Christopher said,
“Then he is greater and more mightier than thou,
when thou art afraid of his sign. And I see well that
I have laboured in vain since I have not founden the
greatest lord of all the earth. And I will serve thee
no longer. Go thy way then: for I will go seek Jesus
Christ.”</p>

<p>And when he had long sought and demanded where
he should find Christ, at the last he came into a great
desert to an hermit that dwelled there. And this
hermit preached to him of Jesus Christ and informed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">164</a></span>
him in the faith diligently. And he said to him,
“This king whom thou desirest to serve, requireth
this service that thou must oft fast.” And Christopher
said to him, “Require of me some other thing and I
shall do it. For that which thou requirest I may not
do.” And the hermit said, “Thou must then wake
and make many prayers.” And Christopher said to
him, “I wot not what it is. I may do no such thing.”
And then the hermit said unto him, “Knowest thou
such a river in which many be perished and lost?”
To whom Christopher said, “I know it well.” Then
said the hermit, “Because thou art noble and high of
stature and strong in thy members, thou shalt be
resident by that river and shalt bear over all them that
shall pass there. Which shall be a thing right
convenable to Our Lord Jesus Christ, whom thou
desirest to serve, and I hope He shall shew Himself
to thee.” Then said Christopher, “Certes, this service
may I well do, and I promise to Him for to do it.”</p>

<p>Then went Christopher to this river, and made
there his habitation for him. And he bare a great
pole in his hand instead of a staff, by which he
sustained him in the water; and bare over all manner
of people without ceasing. And there he abode, thus
doing many days.</p>

<p>And on a time, as he slept in his lodge, he heard
the voice of a child which called him and said,
“Christopher, come out and bear me over.” Then
he awoke and went out; but he found no man. And
when he was again in his house, he heard the same
voice, and he ran out and found nobody. The third
time he was called, and came thither, and found a
child beside the rivage of the river: which prayed
him goodly to bear him over the water. And then
Christopher lift up the child on his shoulders and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">165</a></span>
took his staff and entered into the river for to pass.
And the water of the river arose and swelled more and
more. And the child was heavy as lead. And always
as he went further the water increased and grew more,
and the child more and more waxed heavy: in so
much that Christopher had great anguish and feared
to be drowned. And when he was escaped with great
pain and passed the water, and set the child aground,
he said to the child, “Child, thou hast put me in
great peril. Thou weighest almost as I had had all
the world upon me. I might bear no greater burden.”
And the child answered, “Christopher, marvel thou
no thing. For thou hast not only borne all the world
upon thee; but thou hast borne Him that created and
made all the world upon thy shoulders. I am Jesus
Christ, the King to whom thou servest in this work.
And that thou mayest know that I say to thee truth,
set thy staff in the earth by the house, and thou shalt
see to-morrow that it shall bear flowers and fruit.”
And anon he vanished from his eyes.</p>

<p>And then Christopher set his staff in the earth and
when he arose on the morrow, he found his staff like
a palm-tree bearing flowers, leaves and dates.</p>

<h3><span class="smcap">Arthur in the Cave.</span></h3>

<p>Once upon a time a Welshman was walking on
London Bridge, staring at the traffic and wondering
why there were so many kites hovering about. He
had come to London, after many adventures with
thieves and highwaymen, which need not be related
here, in charge of a herd of black Welsh cattle. He
had sold them with much profit, and with jingling
gold in his pocket he was going about to see the
sights of the city.</p>

<p>He was carrying a hazel staff in his hand, for you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">166</a></span>
must know that a good staff is as necessary to a drover
as teeth are to his dogs. He stood still to gaze at
some wares in a shop (for at that time London Bridge
was shops from beginning to end), when he noticed
that a man was looking at his stick with a long fixed
look. The man after a while came to him and asked
him where he came from.</p>

<p>“I come from my own country,” said the Welshman,
rather surlily, for he could not see what business
the man had to ask such a question.</p>

<p>“Do not take it amiss,” said the stranger: “if you
will only answer my questions, and take my advice, it
will be greater benefit to you than you imagine. Do
you remember where you cut that stick?”</p>

<p>The Welshman was still suspicious, and said:
“What does it matter where I cut it?”</p>

<p>“It matters,” said the questioner, “because there
is a treasure hidden near the spot where you cut that
stick. If you can remember the place and conduct
me to it, I will put you in possession of great riches.”</p>

<p>The Welshman now understood he had to deal with
a sorcerer, and he was greatly perplexed as to what
to do. On the one hand, he was tempted by the
prospect of wealth; on the other hand, he knew that
the sorcerer must have derived his knowledge from
devils, and he feared to have anything to do with the
powers of darkness. The cunning man strove hard
to persuade him, and at length made him promise to
shew the place where he cut his hazel staff.</p>

<p>The Welshman and the magician journeyed together
to Wales. They went to Craig y Dinas, the Rock of
the Fortress, at the head of the Neath valley, near
Pont Nedd Fechan, and the Welshman, pointing to
the stock or root of an old hazel, said:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">167</a></span> “This is where
I cut my stick.”</p>

<p>“Let us dig,” said the sorcerer. They digged until
they came to a broad, flat stone. Prising this up,
they found some steps leading downwards. They
went down the steps and along a narrow passage until
they came to a door. “Are you brave?” asked the
sorcerer, “will you come in with me?”</p>

<p>“I will,” said the Welshman, his curiosity getting
the better of his fear.</p>

<p>They opened the door, and a great cave opened out
before them. There was a faint red light in the cave,
and they could see everything. The first thing they
came to was a bell.</p>

<p>“Do not touch that bell,” said the sorcerer, “or it
will be all over with us both.”</p>

<p>As they went further in, the Welshman saw that
the place was not empty. There were soldiers lying
down asleep, thousands of them, as far as ever the
eye could see. Each one was clad in bright armour,
the steel helmet of each was on his head, the shining
shield of each was on his arm, the sword of each was
near his hand, each had his spear stuck in the ground
near him, and each and all were asleep.</p>

<p>In the midst of the cave was a great round table at
which sat warriors whose noble features and richly-dight
armour proclaimed that they were not as the
roll of common men.</p>

<p>Each of these, too, had his head bent down in sleep.
On a golden throne on the further side of the round
table was a king of gigantic stature and august
presence. In his hand, held below the hilt, was a
mighty sword with scabbard and haft of gold studded
with gleaming gems; on his head was a crown set
with precious stones which flashed and glinted like
so many points of fire. Sleep had set its seal on his
eyelids also.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">168</a></span>

“Are they asleep?” asked the Welshman, hardly
believing his own eyes. “Yes, each and all of
them,” answered the sorcerer. “But, if you touch
yonder bell, they will all awake.”</p>

<p>“How long have they been asleep?”</p>

<p>“For over a thousand years.”</p>

<p>“Who are they?”</p>

<p>“Arthur's warriors, waiting for the time to come
when they shall destroy all the enemy of the Cymry
and repossess the strand of Britain, establishing their
own king once more at Caer Lleon.”</p>

<p>“Who are these sitting at the round table?”</p>

<p>“These are Arthur's knights&mdash;Owain, the son of
Urien; Cai, the son of Cynyr; Gnalchmai, the son of
Gwyar; Peredir, the son of Efrawe; Geraint, the son
of Erbin; Trystan, the son of March; Bedwyr, the
son of Bedrawd; Ciernay, the son of Celyddon;
Edeyrn, the son of Nudd; Cymri, the son of Clydno.”</p>

<p>“And on the golden throne?” broke in the Welshman.</p>

<p>“Is Arthur himself, with his sword Excalibur in
his hand,” replied the sorcerer.</p>

<p>Impatient by this time at the Welshman's questions,
the sorcerer hastened to a great heap of yellow gold
on the floor of the cave. He took up as much as he
could carry, and bade his companion do the same.
“It is time for us to go,” he then said, and he led
the way towards the door by which they had entered.</p>

<p>But the Welshman was fascinated by the sight of
the countless soldiers in their glittering arms&mdash;all
asleep.</p>

<p>“How I should like to see them all awaking!” he
said to himself. “I will touch the bell&mdash;I <i>must</i> see
them all arising from their sleep.”</p>

<p>When they came to the bell, he struck it until it
rang through the whole place. As soon as it rang,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">169</a></span>
lo! the thousands of warriors leapt to their feet and
the ground beneath them shook with the sound of the
steel arms. And a great voice came from their midst:
“Who rang the bell? Has the day come?”</p>

<p>The sorcerer was so much frightened that he shook
like an aspen leaf. He shouted in answer: “No, the
day has not come. Sleep on.”</p>

<p>The mighty host was all in motion, and the Welshman's
eyes were dazzled as he looked at the bright
steel arms which illumined the cave as with the light
of myriad flames of fire.</p>

<p>“Arthur,” said the voice again, “awake; the bell
has rung, the day is breaking. Awake, Arthur the
Great.”</p>

<p>“No,” shouted the sorcerer, “it is still night.
Sleep on, Arthur the Great.”</p>

<p>A sound came from the throne. Arthur was standing,
and the jewels in his crown shone like bright stars
above the countless throng. His voice was strong
and sweet like the sound of many waters, and he said:
“My warriors, the day has not come when the
Black Eagle and the Golden Eagle shall go to war.
It is only a seeker after gold who has rung the bell.
Sleep on, my warriors; the morn of Wales has not
yet dawned.”</p>

<p>A peaceful sound like the distant sigh of the sea
came over the cave, and in a trice the soldiers were all
asleep again. The sorcerer hurried the Welshman
out of the cave, moved the stone back to its place and
vanished.</p>

<p>Many a time did the Welshman try to find his way
into the cave again, but though he dug over every
inch of the hill, he has never again found the entrance
to Arthur's Cave.</p>

<p class="right">
From “The Welsh Fairy Book,” by W. Jenkyn
Thomas. Fisher Unwin.
</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">170</a></span></p>

<h3><span class="smcap">Hafiz the Stone-cutter.</span>
</h3>
<p>There was once a stone-cutter whose name was
Hafiz, and all day long he chipped, chipped, chipped
at his block. And often he grew very weary of his
task and he would say to himself impatiently, “Why
should I go on chip-chip-chipping at my block? Why
should I not have pleasure and amusement as other
folk have?”</p>

<p>One day, when the sun was very hot and when he
felt specially weary, he suddenly heard the sound of
many feet, and, looking up from his work, he saw a
great procession coming his way. It was the King,
mounted on a splendid charger, all his soldiers to the
right, in their shining armour, and the servants to the
left, dressed in gorgeous clothing, ready to do his
behests.</p>

<p>And Hafiz said: “How splendid to be a King! If
only I could be a King, if only for ten minutes, so
that I might know what it feels like!” And then,
even as he spoke, he seemed to be dreaming, and in
his dream he sang this little song:</p>

<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">Ah me! Ah me!</div>
<div class="i0">If Hafiz only the King could be!</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>And then a voice from the air around seemed to
answer him and to say:</p>

<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">Be thou the King.<a name="FNanchor_54_54" id="FNanchor_54_54"></a><a href="#Footnote_54_54" class="fnanchor">[54]</a></div>
</div></div></div>

<p>And Hafiz became the King, and he it was that sat
on the splendid charger, and they were his soldiers
to the right and his servants to the left. And Hafiz
said: “I am King, and there is no one stronger in
the whole world than I.”</p>

<p>But soon, in spite of the golden canopy over his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">171</a></span>
head, Hafiz began to feel the terrible heat of the rays
of the sun, and soon he noticed that the soldiers and
servants were weary, that his horse drooped, and that
he, Hafiz, was overcome, and he said angrily:
“What! Is there something stronger in the world
than a King?” And, almost without knowing it,
he again sang his song&mdash;more boldly than the first
time:</p>

<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">Ah me! Ah me!</div>
<div class="i0">If Hafiz only the Sun could be!</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>And the Voice answered:</p>

<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">Be thou the Sun.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>And Hafiz became the Sun, and shone down upon
the Earth, but, because he did not know how to shine
very wisely, he shone very fiercely, so that the crops
dried up, and folk grew sick and died. And then
there arose from the East a little cloud which slipped
between Hafiz and the Earth, so that he could no
longer shine down upon it, and he said: “Is there
something stronger in the world than the Sun?”</p>

<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">Ah me! Ah me!</div>
<div class="i0">If Hafiz only the Cloud could be!</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>And the Voice said:</p>

<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">Be thou the cloud.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>And Hafiz became the Cloud, and rained down
water upon the Earth, but, because he did not know
how to do so wisely, there fell so much rain that all
the little rivulets became great rivers, and all the great
rivers overflowed their banks, and carried everything
before them in swift torrent&mdash;all except one great rock
which stood unmoved. And Hafiz said: “Is there
something stronger than the Cloud?”</p>

<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">Ah me! Ah me!</div>
<div class="i0">If Hafiz only the Rock could be!</div>
</div></div></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">172</a></span>
And the Voice said:</p>

<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">Be thou the Rock.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>And Hafiz became the Rock, and the Cloud disappeared
and the waters went down.</p>

<p>And Hafiz the Rock saw coming towards him a
man&mdash;but he could not see his face. As the man
approached he suddenly raised a hammer and struck
Hafiz, so that he felt it through all his stony body.
And Hafiz said: “Is there something stronger in the
world than the Rock?”</p>

<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">Ah me! Ah me!</div>
<div class="i0">If Hafiz only that man might be!</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>And the Voice said:</p>

<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">Be thou&mdash;Thyself.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>And Hafiz seized the hammer and said:</p>

<p>“The Sun was stronger than the King, the Cloud
was stronger than the Sun, the Rock was stronger
than the Cloud, but I, Hafiz, was stronger than all.”</p>

<p class="right">
<i>Adapted and arranged for narration by M. C. S.</i>
</p>

<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_54_54" id="Footnote_54_54"></a><a href="#FNanchor_54_54"><span class="label">[54]</span></a> The melody to be crooned at first and to grow louder at each
incident.</p></div></div>

<h3><span class="smcap">To Your Good Health.</span></h3>

<p class="center">(<i>From the Russian.</i>)</p>

<p>Long long ago there lived a King who was such a
mighty monarch that whenever he sneezed everyone
in the whole country had to say, “To your good
health!” Everyone said it except the Shepherd with
the bright blue eyes, and he would not say it.</p>

<p>The King heard of this and was very angry, and
sent for the Shepherd to appear before him.</p>

<p>The Shepherd came and stood before the throne,
where the King sat looking very grand and powerful.
But, however grand or powerful he might be, the
Shepherd did not feel a bit afraid of him.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">173</a></span>

“Say at once, 'To my good health!'” cried the
King.</p>

<p>“To my good health,” replied the Shepherd.</p>

<p>“To mine&mdash;to <i>mine</i>, you rascal, you vagabond!”
stormed the King.</p>

<p>“To mine, to mine, Your Majesty,” was the answer.</p>

<p>“But to <i>mine</i>&mdash;to my own!” roared the King, and
beat on his breast in a rage.</p>

<p>“Well, yes; to mine, of course, to my own,” cried
the Shepherd, and gently tapped his breast.</p>

<p>The King was beside himself with fury and did
not know what to do, when the Lord Chamberlain
interfered:</p>

<p>“Say at once&mdash;say at this very moment, ‘To your
health, Your Majesty,’ for if you don't say it you
will lose your life,” he whispered.</p>

<p>“No, I won't say it till I get the Princess for my
wife,” was the Shepherd's answer.</p>

<p>Now the Princess was sitting on a little throne beside
the King her father, and she looked as sweet and
lovely as a little golden dove. When she heard what
the Shepherd said, she could not help laughing, for
there is no denying the fact that this young shepherd
with the blue eyes pleased her very much; indeed, he
pleased her better than any king's son she had yet
seen.</p>

<p>But the King was not as pleasant as his daughter,
and he gave orders to throw the Shepherd into the
white bear's pit.</p>

<p>The guards led him away and thrust him into the
pit with the white bear, who had had nothing to eat
for two days and was very hungry. The door of the
pit was hardly closed when the bear rushed at the
Shepherd; but when it saw his eyes it was so frightened
that it was ready to eat itself. It shrank away into a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">174</a></span>
corner and gazed at him from there, and in spite of
being so famished, did not dare to touch him, but
sucked its own paws from sheer hunger. The
Shepherd felt that if he once removed his eyes off
the beast he was a dead man, and in order to keep
himself awake he made songs and sang them, and so
the night went by.</p>

<p>Next morning the Lord Chamberlain came to see
the Shepherd's bones, and was amazed to find him
alive and well. He led him to the King, who fell
into a furious passion, and said:</p>

<p>“Well, you have learned what it is to be very near
death, and now will you say, 'To my very good
health'?”</p>

<p>But the Shepherd answered:</p>

<p>“I am not afraid of ten deaths! I will only say it
if I may have the Princess for my wife.”</p>

<p>“Then go to your death,” cried the King, and
ordered him to be thrown into the den with the wild
boars.</p>

<p>The wild boars had not been fed for a week, and
when the Shepherd was thrust into their den they
rushed at him to tear him to pieces. But the Shepherd
took a little flute out of the sleeve of his jacket, and
began to play a merry tune, on which the wild boars
first of all shrank shyly away, and then got up on
their hind legs and danced gaily. The Shepherd
would have given anything to be able to laugh, they
looked so funny; but he dared not stop playing, for
he knew well enough that the moment he stopped
they would fall upon him and tear him to pieces.
His eyes were of no use to him here, for he could not
have stared ten wild boars in the face at once; so he
kept on playing, and the wild boars danced very
slowly, as if in a minuet; then by degrees he played<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">175</a></span>
faster and faster, till they could hardly twist and turn
quickly enough, and ended by all falling over each
other in a heap, quite exhausted and out of breath.</p>

<p>Then the Shepherd ventured to laugh at last; and
he laughed so long and so loud that when the Lord
Chamberlain came early in the morning, expecting to
find only his bones, the tears were still running down
his cheeks from laughter.</p>

<p>As soon as the King was dressed the Shepherd was
again brought before him; but he was more angry
than ever to think the wild boars had not torn the
man to bits, and he said:</p>

<p>“Well, you have learned what it feels to be near
ten deaths, <i>now</i> say 'To my good health!'”</p>

<p>But the Shepherd broke in with:</p>

<p>“I do not fear a hundred deaths; and I will only
say it if I may have the Princess for my wife.”</p>

<p>“Then go to a hundred deaths!” roared the King,
and ordered the Shepherd to be thrown down the deep
vault of scythes.</p>

<p>The guards dragged him away to a dark dungeon,
in the middle of which was a deep well with sharp
scythes all round it. At the bottom of the well was
a little light by which one could see, if anyone was
thrown in, whether he had fallen to the bottom.</p>

<p>When the Shepherd was dragged to the dungeon
he begged the guards to leave him alone a little while
that he might look down into the pit of scythes;
perhaps he might after all make up his mind to say,
“To your good health” to the King.</p>

<p>So the guards left him alone, and he stuck up his
long stick near the wall, hung his cloak round the
stick and put his hat on the top. He also hung his
knapsack up beside the cloak, so that it might seem
to have some body within it. When this was done,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">176</a></span>
he called out to the guards and said that he had
considered the matter, but after all he could not make
up his mind to say what the King wished.</p>

<p>The guards came in, threw the hat and cloak,
knapsack and stick all down in the well together,
watched to see how they put out the light at the
bottom, and came away, thinking that now there was
really an end of the Shepherd. But he had hidden in
a dark corner, and was now laughing to himself all
the time.</p>

<p>Quite early next morning came the Lord Chamberlain
with a lamp, and he nearly fell backwards with
surprise when he saw the Shepherd alive and well.
He brought him to the King, whose fury was greater
than ever, but who cried:</p>

<p>“Well, now you have been near a hundred deaths;
will you say, 'To your good health'?”</p>

<p>But the Shepherd only gave the same answer:</p>

<p>“I won't say it till the Princess is my wife.”</p>

<p>“Perhaps after all you may do it for less,” said the
King, who saw that there was no chance of making
away with the Shepherd; and he ordered the state
coach to be got ready; then he made the Shepherd
get in with him and sit beside him, and ordered the
coachman to drive to the silver wood.</p>

<p>When they reached it, he said:</p>

<p>“Do you see this silver wood? Well, if you will
say, ‘To your good health,’ I will give it to you.”</p>

<p>The Shepherd turned hot and cold by turns, but he
still persisted:</p>

<p>“I will not say it till the Princess is my wife.”</p>

<p>The King was much vexed; he drove further on
till they came to a splendid castle, all of gold, and
then he said:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">177</a></span></p>
<p>“Do you see this golden castle? Well, I will give
you that too, the silver wood and the golden castle,
if only you will say that one thing to me: 'To your
good health.'”</p>

<p>The Shepherd gaped and wondered, and was quite
dazzled, but he still said:</p>

<p>“No, I will not say it till I have the Princess for my
wife.”</p>

<p>This time the King was overwhelmed with grief,
and gave orders to drive on to the diamond pond, and
there he tried once more:</p>

<p>“You shall have them all&mdash;all, if you will but say,
'To your good health.'”</p>

<p>The Shepherd had to shut his staring eyes tight not
to be dazzled with the brilliant pond, but still he said:</p>

<p>“No, no; I will not say it till I have the Princess
for my wife.”</p>

<p>Then the King saw that all his efforts were useless,
and that he might as well give in; so he said:</p>

<p>“Well, well, it is all the same to me&mdash;I will give
you my daughter to wife; but then you really and
truly must say to me, 'To your good health.'”</p>

<p>“Of course I'll say it; why should I not say it?
It stands to reason that I shall say it then.”</p>

<p>At this the King was more delighted than anyone
could have believed. He made it known to all
through the country that there were going to be great
rejoicings, as the Princess was going to be married.
And everyone rejoiced to think that the Princess who
had refused so many royal suitors, should have ended
by falling in love with the staring-eyed Shepherd.</p>

<p>There was such a wedding as had never been seen.
Everyone ate and drank and danced. Even the sick
were feasted, and quite tiny new-born children had
presents given them. But the greatest merry-making
was in the King's palace; there the best bands played<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">178</a></span>
and the best food was cooked. A crowd of people sat
down to table, and all was fun and merry-making.</p>

<p>And when the groomsman, according to custom,
brought in the great boar's head on a big dish and
placed it before the King, so that he might carve it
and give everyone a share, the savoury smell was so
strong that the King began to sneeze with all his
might.</p>

<p>“To your very good health!” cried the Shepherd
before anyone else, and the King was so delighted
that he did not regret having given him his daughter.</p>

<p>In time, when the old King died, the Shepherd
succeeded him. He made a very good king, and
never expected his people to wish him well against
their wills: but, all the same, everyone did wish him
well, because they loved him.</p>

<h3><span class="smcap">The Proud Cock.</span></h3>

<p class="noin">There was once a cock who grew so dreadfully proud
that he would have nothing to say to anybody. He
left his house, it being far beneath his dignity to have
any trammel of that sort in his life, and as for his
former acquaintances, he cut them all.</p>

<p>One day, whilst walking about, he came to a few
little sparks of fire which were nearly dead.</p>

<p>They cried out to him: “Please fan us with your
wings, and we shall come to the full vigour of life
again.”</p>

<p>But he did not deign to answer, and as he was going
away, one of the sparks said: “Ah well! we shall die,
but our big brother the Fire will pay you out for this
one day.”</p>

<p>On another day he was airing himself in a meadow,
showing himself off in a very superb set of clothes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">179</a></span>
A voice calling from somewhere said: “Please be so
good as to drop us into the water again.”</p>

<p>He looked about and saw a few drops of water:
they had got separated from their friends in the river,
and were pining away with grief. “Oh! please be
so good as to drop us into the water again,” they
said; but, without any answer, he drank up the drops.
He was too proud and a great deal too big to talk
to a poor little puddle of water; but the drops said:
“Our big brother the Water will one day take you
in hand, you proud and senseless creature.”</p>

<p>Some days afterwards, during a great storm of rain,
thunder and lightning, the cock took shelter in a little
empty cottage, and shut to the door; and he thought:
“I am clever; I am in comfort. What fools people
are to stop out in a storm like this! What's that?”
thought he. “I never heard a sound like that before.”</p>

<p>In a little while it grew much louder, and when a
few minutes had passed, it was a perfect howl.
“Oh!” thought he, “this will never do. I must
stop it somehow. But what is it I have to stop?”</p>

<p>He soon found it was the wind, shouting through
the keyhole, so he plugged up the keyhole with a bit
of clay, and then the wind was able to rest. He was
very tired with whistling so long through the keyhole,
and he said: “Now, if ever I have at any time a
chance of doing a good turn to that princely domestic
fowl, I will do it.”</p>

<p>Weeks afterwards, the cock looked in at a house
door: he seldom went there, because the miser to
whom the house belonged almost starved himself, and
so, of course, there was nothing over for anybody else.</p>

<p>To his amazement the cock saw the miser bending
over a pot on the fire. At last the old fellow turned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">180</a></span>
round to get a spoon with which to stir his pot, and
then the cock, walking up, looked in and saw that the
miser was making oyster-soup, for he had found some
oyster-shells in an ash-pit, and to give the mixture a
colour he had put in a few halfpence in the pot.</p>

<p>The miser chanced to turn quickly round, whilst
the cock was peering into the saucepan, and, chuckling
to himself, he said: “I shall have some chicken broth
after all.”</p>

<p>He tripped up the cock into the pot and shut the
lid on. The bird, feeling warm, said: “Water,
water, don't boil!” But the water only said: “You
drank up my young brothers once: don't ask a favour
of <i>me</i>.”</p>

<p>Then he called out to the Fire: “Oh! kind Fire,
don't boil the water.” But the Fire replied: “You
once let my young sisters die: you cannot expect any
mercy from me.” So he flared up and boiled the
water all the faster.</p>

<p>At last, when the cock got unpleasantly warm, he
thought of the wind, and called out: “Oh, Wind,
come to my help!” and the Wind said: “Why,
there is that noble domestic bird in trouble. I will
help him.” So he came down the chimney, blew out
the fire, blew the lid off the pot, and blew the cock far
away into the air, and at last settled him on a steeple,
where the cock has remained ever since. And people
say that the halfpence which were in the pot when it
was boiling have given him the queer brown colour
he still wears.</p>

<p class="right">
<i>From the Spanish.</i>
</p>

<h3><span class="smcap">Snegourka.</span></h3>

<p>There lived once, in Russia, a peasant and his wife
who would have been as happy as the day is long, if
only God had given them a little child.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">181</a></span>

One day, as they were watching the children
playing in the snow, the man said to the woman:</p>

<p>“Wife, shall we go out and help the children to
make a snowball?”</p>

<p>But the wife answered, smiling:</p>

<p>“Nay, husband, but since God has given us no
little child, let us go and fashion one from the snow.”</p>

<p>And she put on her long blue cloak, and he put on
his long brown coat, and they went out onto the crisp
snow, and began to fashion the little child.</p>

<p>First they made the feet and the legs and the little
body, and then they took a ball of snow for the head.
And at that moment a stranger in a long cloak, with
his hat well drawn over his face, passed that way, and
said: “Heaven help your undertaking!”</p>

<p>And the peasants crossed themselves and said: “It
is well to ask help from Heaven in all we do.”</p>

<p>Then they went on fashioning the little child. And
they made two holes for the eyes and formed the nose
and the mouth. And then&mdash;wonder of wonders&mdash;the
little child came alive, and breath came into its nostrils
and parted lips.</p>

<p>And the man was afeared, and said to his wife:
“What have we done?”</p>

<p>And the wife said: “This is the little girl child
God has sent us.” And she gathered it into her arms,
and the loose snow fell away from the little creature.
Her hair became golden and her eyes were as blue
as forget-me-nots&mdash;but there was no colour in her
cheeks, because there was no blood in her veins.</p>

<p>In a few days she was like a child of three or four,
and in a few weeks she seemed to be the age of nine
or ten, and ran about gaily and prattled with the other
children, who loved her so dearly, though she was so
different from them.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">182</a></span>

Only, happy as she was, and dearly as her parents
loved her, there was one terror in her life, and that
was the sun. And during the day she would run and
hide herself in cool, damp places away from the
sunshine, and this the other children could not understand.</p>

<p>As the Spring advanced and the days grew longer
and warmer, little Snegourka (for this was the name
by which she was known) grew paler and thinner, and
her mother would often ask her: “What ails you,
my darling?” and Snegourka would say: “Nothing
Mother, but I wish the sun were not so bright.”</p>

<p>One day, on St. John's Day, the children of the
village came to fetch her for a day in the woods, and
they gathered flowers for her and did all they could
to make her happy, but it was only when the great red
sun went down that Snegourka drew a deep breath of
relief and spread her little hands out to the cool
evening air. And the boys, glad at her gladness,
said: “Let us do something for Snegourka. Let us
light a bonfire.” And Snegourka, not knowing what
a bonfire was, she clapped her hands and was as merry
and eager as they. And she helped them gather the
sticks, and then they all stood round the pile and the
boys set fire to the wood.</p>

<p>Snegourka stood watching the flames and listening
to the crackle of the wood; and then suddenly they
heard a tiny sound&mdash;and looking at the place where
Snegourka had been standing, they saw nothing but
a little snowdrift fast melting. And they called and
called, “Snegourka! Snegourka!” thinking she had
run into the forest. But there was no answer.
Snegourka had disappeared from this life as mysteriously
as she had come into it.</p>

<p class="right">
<i>From the Russian, adapted for narration by M.T.S.</i>
</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">183</a></span></p>

<h3><span class="smcap">The Water Nixie.</span></h3>

<p>The river was so clear because it was the home of
a very beautiful Water Nixie who lived in it, and who
sometimes could emerge from her home and sit in
woman's form upon the bank. She had a dark green
smock upon her, the colour of the water-weed that
waves as the water wills it, deep, deep down. And in
her long wet hair were the white flowers of the water-violet,
and she held a reed mace in her hand. Her
face was very sad, because she had lived a long life,
and known so many adventures, ever since she was a
baby, which was nearly a hundred years ago. For
creatures of the streams and trees live a long, long
time, and when they die they lose themselves in
Nature. That means that they are forever clouds, or
trees, or rivers, and never have the form of men and
women again.</p>

<p>All water creatures would live, if they might choose
it, in the sea, where they are born. It is in the sea
they float hand-in-hand upon the crested billows, and
sink deep in the great troughs of the strong waves,
that are green as jade. They follow the foam and lose
themselves in the wide ocean:</p>

<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">Where great whales come sailing by,</div>
<div class="i0">Sail and sail with unshut eye;</div>
<div class="i0">And they store in the Sea King's palace</div>
<div class="i0">The golden phosphor of the sea.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>But this Water Nixie had lost her happiness
through not being good. She had forgotten many
things that had been told her, and she had done
many things that grieved others. She had stolen
somebody else's property&mdash;quite a large bundle of
happiness&mdash;which belonged elsewhere and not to her.
Happiness is generally made to fit the person who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">184</a></span>
owns it, just as do your shoes, or clothes; so that
when you take some one else's it's very little good to
you, for it fits badly, and you can never forget it isn't
yours.</p>

<p>So what with one thing and another, this Water
Nixie had to be punished, and the Queen of the Sea
had banished her from the waves. The punishment
that can most affect merfolk is to restrict their
freedom. And this is how the Queen of the Sea
punished the Nixie of our tale.</p>

<p>“You shall live for a long time in little places,
where you will weary of yourself. You will learn to
know yourself so well that everything you want will
seem too good for you, and you will cease to claim it.
And so, in time, you shall get free.”</p>

<p>Then the Nixie had to rise up and go away, and be
shut into the fastness of a very small space, according
to the words of the Queen. And this small space
was&mdash;a tear.</p>

<p>At first she could hardly express her misery, and by
thinking so continuously of the wideness and savour
of the sea, she brought a dash of the brine with her,
that makes the saltness of our tears. She became
many times smaller than her own stature; even then,
by standing upright and spreading wide her arms,
she touched with her finger-tips the walls of her tiny
crystal home. How she longed that this tear might
be wept, and the walls of her prison shattered. But
the owner of this tear was of a very proud nature, and
she was so sad that tears seemed to her in no wise
to express her grief.</p>

<p>She was a Princess who lived in a country that was
not her home. What were tears to her? If she could
have stood on the top of the very highest hill and with
both hands caught the great winds of heaven, strong<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">185</a></span>
as they, and striven with them, perhaps she might
have felt as if she expressed all she knew. Or, if she
could have torn down the stars from the heavens, or
cast her mantle over the sun. But tears! Would
they have helped to tell her sorrow? You cry if you
soil your copy-book, don't you? or pinch your hand?
So you may imagine the Nixie's home was a safe one,
and she turned round and round in the captivity of
that tear.</p>

<p>For twenty years she dwelt in that strong heart,
till she grew to be accustomed to her cell. At last, in
this wise came her release.</p>

<p>An old gipsy came one morning to the Castle and
begged to see the Princess. She must see her, she
cried. And the Princess came down the steps to meet
her, and the gipsy gave her a small roll of paper in
her hand. And the roll of paper smelt like honey as
she took it, and it adhered to her palm as she opened
it. There was little sign of writing on the paper, but
in the midst of the page was a picture, small as the
picture reflected in the iris of an eye. The picture
shewed a hill, with one tree on the sky-line, and a long
road wound round the hill.</p>

<p>And suddenly in the Princess' memory a voice
spoke to her. Many sounds she heard, gathered up
into one great silence, like the quiet there is in forest
spaces, when it is Summer and the green is deep:</p>

<p>Then the Princess gave the gipsy two golden pieces,
and went up to her chamber, and long that night she
sat, looking out upon the sky.</p>

<p>She had no need to look upon the honeyed scroll,
though she held it closely. Clearly before her did
she see that small picture: the hill, and the tree, and
the winding road, imaged as if mirrored in the iris of
an eye. And in her memory she was upon that road,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">186</a></span>
and the hill rose beside her, and the little tree was
outlined every twig of it against the sky.</p>

<p>And as she saw all this, an overwhelming love of
the place arose in her, a love of that certain bit of
country that was so sharp and strong, that it stung
and swayed her, as she leaned on the window-sill.</p>

<p>And because the love of a country is one of the
deepest loves you may feel, the band of her control
was loosened, and the tears came welling to her eyes.
Up they brimmed and over, in salty rush and follow,
dimming her eyes, magnifying everything, speared for
a moment on her eyelashes, then shimmering to their
fall. And at last came the tear that held the disobedient
Nixie.</p>

<p>Splish! it fell. And she was free.</p>

<p>If you could have seen how pretty she looked
standing there, about the height of a grass-blade,
wringing out her long wet hair. Every bit of moisture
she wrung out of it, she was so glad to be quit of that
tear. Then she raised her two arms above her in one
delicious stretch, and if you had been the size of a
mustard-seed perhaps you might have heard her
laughing. Then she grew a little, and grew and grew,
till she was about the height of a bluebell, and as
slender to see.</p>

<p>She stood looking at the splash on the window-sill
that had been her prison so long, and then, with three
steps of her bare feet, she reached the jessamine that
was growing by the window, and by this she swung
herself to the ground.</p>

<p>Away she sped over the dew-drenched meadows till
she came to the running brook, and with all her
longing in her outstretched hands, she kneeled down
by the crooked willows among all the comfrey and the
loosestrife, and the yellow irises and the reeds.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">187</a></span></p>

<p>Then she slid into the wide, cool stream.</p>

<p class="right">
<span class="smcap">Pamela Tennant</span> (Lady Glenconner).<br />

<i>From “The Children and the Pictures”</i>
</p>

<h3><span class="smcap">The Blue Rose.</span></h3>

<p>There lived once upon a time in China a wise
Emperor who had one daughter. His daughter was
remarkable for her perfect beauty. Her feet were the
smallest in the world; her eyes were long and slanting
and bright as brown onyxes, and when you heard her
laugh it was like listening to a tinkling stream or to
the chimes of a silver bell. Moreover, the Emperor's
daughter was as wise as she was beautiful, and she
chanted the verse of the great poets better than anyone
in the land. The Emperor was old in years; his son
was married and had begotten a son; he was, therefore,
quite happy with regard to the succession to the
throne, but he wished before he died to see his
daughter wedded to someone who should be worthy
of her.</p>

<p>Many suitors presented themselves to the palace as
soon as it became known that the Emperor desired a
son-in-law, but when they reached the palace they were
met by the Lord Chamberlain, who told them that the
Emperor had decided that only the man who found
and brought back the blue rose should marry his
daughter. The suitors were much puzzled by this
order. What was the blue rose and where was it to
be found? In all a hundred and fifty suitors had
presented themselves, and out of these fifty at once put
away from them all thought of winning the hand of
the Emperor's daughter, since they considered the
condition imposed to be absurd.</p>

<p>The other hundred set about trying to find the blue
rose. One of them, whose name was Ti-Fun-Ti, was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">188</a></span>
a merchant, and immensely rich: he at once went to
the largest shop in the town and said to the shopkeeper,
“I want a blue rose, the best you have.”</p>

<p>The shopkeeper with many apologies, explained
that he did not stock blue roses. He had red roses in
profusion, white, pink, and yellow roses, but no blue
roses. There had hitherto been no demand for the
article.</p>

<p>“Well,” said Ti-Fun-Ti, “you must get one for
me. I do not mind how much money it costs, but I
must have a blue rose.”</p>

<p>The shopkeeper said he would do his best, but he
feared it would be an expensive article and difficult to
procure. Another of the suitors, whose name I have
forgotten, was a warrior, and extremely brave; he
mounted his horse, and taking with him a hundred
archers and a thousand horsemen, he marched into the
territory of the King of the Five Rivers, whom he
knew to be the richest king in the world and the
possessor of the rarest treasures, and demanded of
him the blue rose, threatening him with a terrible doom
should he be reluctant to give it up.</p>

<p>The King of the Five Rivers, who disliked soldiers,
and had a horror of noise, physical violence, and every
kind of fuss (his bodyguard was armed solely with
fans and sunshades), rose from the cushions on which
he was lying when the demand was made, and,
tinkling a small bell, said to the servant who straightway
appeared, “Fetch me the blue rose.”</p>

<p>The servant retired and returned presently bearing
on a silken cushion a large sapphire which was carved
so as to imitate a full-blown rose with all its petals.</p>

<p>“This,” said the King of the Five Rivers, “is the
blue rose. You are welcome to it.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">189</a></span>
The warrior took it, and after making brief, soldier-like
thanks, he went straight back to the Emperor's
palace, saying that he had lost no time in finding the
blue rose. He was ushered into the presence of the
Emperor, who as soon as he heard the warrior's story
and saw the blue rose which had been brought sent
for his daughter and said to her: “This intrepid
warrior has brought you what he claims to be the blue
rose. Has he accomplished the quest?”</p>

<p>The Princess took the precious object in her hands,
and after examining it for a moment, said: “This is
not a rose at all. It is a sapphire; I have no need
of precious stones.” And she returned the stone to
the warrior with many elegantly expressed thanks.
And the warrior went away in discomfiture.</p>

<p>The merchant, hearing of the warrior's failure, was
all the more anxious to win the prize. He sought the
shopkeeper and said to him: “Have you got me the
blue rose? I trust you have; because, if not, I shall
most assuredly be the means of your death. My
brother-in-law is chief magistrate, and I am allied by
marriage to all the chief officials in the kingdom.”</p>

<p>The shopkeeper turned pale and said: “Sir, give
me three days and I will procure you the rose without
fail.” The merchant granted him the three days and
went away. Now the shopkeeper was at his wit's end
as to what to do, for he knew well there was no such
thing as a blue rose. For two days he did nothing
but moan and wring his hands, and on the third day
he went to his wife and said: “Wife, we are ruined.”</p>

<p>But his wife, who was a sensible woman, said:
“Nonsense. If there is no such thing as a blue rose
we must make one. Go to the chemist and ask him
for a strong dye which will change a white rose into
a blue one.”</p>

<p>So the shopkeeper went to the chemist and asked<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">190</a></span>
him for a dye, and the chemist gave him a bottle of
red liquid, telling him to pick a white rose and to dip
its stalk into the liquid and the rose would turn blue.
The shopkeeper did as he was told; the rose turned
into a beautiful blue and the shopkeeper took it to the
merchant, who at once went with it to the palace
saying that he had found the blue rose.</p>

<p>He was ushered into the presence of the Emperor,
who as soon as he saw the blue rose sent for his
daughter and said to her: “This wealthy merchant
has brought you what he claims to be the blue rose.
Has he accomplished the quest?”</p>

<p>The Princess took the flower in her hands and after
examining it for a moment said: “This is a white
rose; its stalk has been dipped in a poisonous dye and
it has turned blue. Were a butterfly to settle upon it
it would die of the potent fume. Take it back. I
have no need of a dyed rose.” And she returned it
to the merchant with many elegantly expressed thanks.</p>

<p>The other ninety-eight suitors all sought in various
ways for the blue rose. Some of them travelled all
over the world seeking it; some of them sought the
aid of wizards and astrologers, and one did not
hesitate to invoke the help of the dwarfs that live
underground; but all of them, whether they travelled
in far countries or took counsel with wizards and
demons or sat pondering in lonely places, failed to
find the blue rose.</p>

<p>At last they all abandoned the quest except the
Lord Chief Justice, who was the most skilful lawyer
and statesman in the country. After thinking over
the matter for several months he sent for the most
famous artist in the country and said to him:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">191</a></span> “Make
me a china cup. Let it be milk-white in colour and
perfect in shape, and paint on it a rose, a blue rose.”</p>

<p>The artist made obeisance and withdrew, and worked
for two months at the Lord Chief Justice's cup. In
two months' time it was finished, and the world has
never seen such a beautiful cup, so perfect in symmetry,
so delicate in texture, and the rose on it, the
blue rose, was a living flower, picked in fairyland and
floating on the rare milky surface of the porcelain.
When the Lord Chief Justice saw it he gasped with
surprise and pleasure, for he was a great lover of
porcelain, and never in his life had he seen such a
piece. He said to himself, “Without doubt the blue
rose is here on this cup and nowhere else.”</p>

<p>So, after handsomely rewarding the artist, he went
to the Emperor's palace and said that he had brought
the blue rose. He was ushered into the Emperor's
presence, who as he saw the cup sent for his daughter
and said to her: “This eminent lawyer has brought
you what he claims to be the blue rose. Has he
accomplished the quest?”</p>

<p>The Princess took the bowl in her hands, and after
examining it for a moment said: “This bowl is the
most beautiful piece of china I have ever seen. If you
are kind enough to let me keep it I will put it aside
until I receive the blue rose. For so beautiful is it
that no other flower is worthy to be put in it except
the blue rose.”</p>

<p>The Lord Chief Justice thanked the Princess for
accepting the bowl with many elegantly turned
phrases, and he went away in discomfiture.</p>

<p>After this there was no one in the whole country
who ventured on the quest of the blue rose. It
happened that not long after the Lord Chief Justice's
attempt a strolling minstrel visited the kingdom of
the Emperor. One evening he was playing his one-stringed
instrument outside a dark wall. It was a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">192</a></span>
summer's evening, and the sun had sunk in a glory
of dusty gold, and in the violet twilight one or two
stars were twinkling like spear-heads. There was an
incessant noise made by the croaking of frogs and
the chatter of grasshoppers. The minstrel was
singing a short song over and over again to a
monotonous tune. The sense of it was something
like this:</p>

<div class="center"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">I watched beside the willow trees</div>
<div class="i2">The river, as the evening fell,</div>
<div class="i0">The twilight came and brought no breeze,</div>
<div class="i2">Nor dew, nor water for the well.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="i0">When from the tangled banks of grass</div>
<div class="i2">A bird across the water flew,</div>
<div class="i0">And in the river's hard grey glass</div>
<div class="i2">I saw a flash of azure blue.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>As he sang he heard a rustle on the wall, and
looking up he saw a slight figure white against the
twilight, beckoning to him. He walked along the
wall until he came to a gate, and there someone was
waiting for him, and he was gently led into the
shadow of a dark cedar tree. In the dim twilight he
saw two bright eyes looking at him, and he understood
their message. In the twilight a thousand
meaningless nothings were whispered in the light of
the stars, and the hours fled swiftly. When the East
began to grow light, the Princess (for it was she) said
it was time to go.</p>

<p>“But,” said the minstrel, “to-morrow I shall come
to the palace and ask for your hand.”</p>

<p>“Alas!” said the Princess,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">193</a></span> “I would that were
possible, but my father has made a foolish condition
that only he may wed me who finds the blue rose.”</p>

<p>“That is simple,” said the minstrel. “I will find
it.” And they said good-night to each other.</p>

<p>The next morning the minstrel went to the palace,
and on his way he picked a common white rose from
a wayside garden. He was ushered into the Emperor's
presence, who sent for his daughter and said to her:
“This penniless minstrel has brought you what he
claims to be the blue rose. Has he accomplished the
quest?”</p>

<p>The Princess took the rose in her hands and said:
“Yes, this is without doubt the blue rose.”</p>

<p>But the Lord Chief Justice and all who were present
respectfully pointed out that the rose was a common
white rose and not a blue one, and the objection was
with many forms and phrases conveyed to the
Princess.</p>

<p>“I think the rose is blue,” said the Princess.
“Perhaps you are all colour blind.”</p>

<p>The Emperor, with whom the decision rested,
decided that if the Princess thought the rose was blue
it was blue, for it was well known that her perception
was more acute than that of any one else in the
kingdom.</p>

<p>So the minstrel married the Princess, and they
settled on the sea coast in a little seen house with a
garden full of white roses, and they lived happily for
ever afterwards. And the Emperor, knowing that his
daughter had made a good match, died in peace.</p>

<p class="right">
<span class="smcap">Maurice Baring.</span>
</p>

<h3><span class="smcap">The Two Frogs.</span></h3>

<p>Once upon a time in the country of Japan there
lived two frogs, one of whom made his home in a
ditch near the town of Osaka, on the sea coast, while<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">194</a></span>
the other dwelt in a clear little stream which ran
through the city of Kioto. At such a great distance
apart; they had never even heard of each other; but,
funnily enough, the idea came into both their heads
at once that they should like to see a little of the
world, and the frog who lived at Kioto wanted to
visit Osaka, and the frog who lived at Osaka wished
to go to Kioto, where the great Mikado had his palace.</p>

<p>So one fine morning, in the spring, they both set
out along the road that led from Kioto to Osaka, one
from one end and the other from the other.</p>

<p>The journey was more tiring than they expected,
for they did not know much about travelling, and
half-way between the two towns there rose a mountain
which had to be climbed. It took them a long time
and a great many hops to reach the top, but there they
were at last, and what was the surprise of each to see
another frog before him! They looked at each other
for a moment without speaking, and then fell into
conversation, and explained the cause of their meeting
so far from their homes. It was delightful to find
that they both felt the same wish&mdash;to learn a little
more of their native country&mdash;and as there was no sort
of hurry they stretched themselves out in a cool, damp
place, and agreed that they would have a good rest
before they parted to go their ways.</p>

<p>“What a pity we are not bigger,” said the Osaka
frog, “and then we could see both towns from here
and tell if it is worth our while going on.”</p>

<p>“Oh, that is easily managed,” returned the Kioto
frog. “We have only got to stand up on our hind
legs, and hold on to each other, and then we can each
look at the town he is travelling to.”</p>

<p>This idea pleased the Osaka frog so much that he
at once jumped up and put his front paws on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">195</a></span>
shoulder of his friend, who had risen also. There
they both stood, stretching themselves as high as
they could, and holding each other tightly, so that
they might not fall down. The Kioto frog turned
his nose towards Osaka, and the Osaka frog turned
his nose towards Kioto; but the foolish things forgot
that when they stood up their great eyes lay in the
backs of their heads, and that though their noses
might point to the places to which they wanted to go,
their eyes beheld the places from which they had
come.</p>

<p>“Dear me!” cried the Osaka frog, “Kioto is
exactly like Osaka. It is certainly not worth such a
long journey. I shall go home.”</p>

<p>“If I had had any idea that Osaka was only a copy
of Kioto I should never have travelled all this way,”
exclaimed the frog from Kioto, and as he spoke, he
took his hands from his friend's shoulders and they
both fell down on the grass.</p>

<p>Then they took a polite farewell of each other, and
set off for home again, and to the end of their lives
they believed that Osaka and Kioto, which are as
different to look at as two towns can be, were as like
as two peas.</p>

<h3><span class="smcap">The Wise Old Shepherd.</span></h3>

<p>Once upon a time, a Snake went out of his hole to
take an airing. He crawled about, greatly enjoying
the scenery and the fresh whiff of the breeze, until,
seeing an open door, he went in. Now this door was
the door of the palace of the King, and inside was
the King himself, with all his courtiers.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">196</a></span>
Imagine their horror at seeing a huge Snake crawling
in at the door. They all ran away except the
King, who felt that his rank forbade him to be a
coward, and the King's son. The King called out for
somebody to come and kill the Snake; but this
horrified them still more, because in that country the
people believed it to be wicked to kill any living
thing, even snakes and scorpions and wasps. So the
courtiers did nothing, but the young Prince obeyed
his father, and killed the Snake with his stick.</p>

<p>After a while the Snake's wife became anxious and
set out in search of her husband. She too saw the
open door of the palace, and in she went. O horror!
there on the floor lay the body of her husband, all
covered with blood and quite dead. No one saw the
Snake's Wife crawl in; she inquired of a white ant
what had happened, and when she found that the
young Prince had killed her husband, she made a
vow that, as he had made her a widow, so she would
make his wife a widow.</p>

<p>That night, when all the world was asleep, the
Snake crept into the Prince's bedroom, and coiled
round his neck. The Prince slept on, and when he
awoke in the morning, he was surprised to find his
neck encircled with the coils of a snake. He was
afraid to stir, so there he remained, until the Prince's
mother became anxious and went to see what was the
matter. When she entered his room, and saw him in
this plight, she gave a loud shriek, and ran off to tell
the King.</p>

<p>“Call the archers,” said the King.</p>

<p>The archers came, and the King told them to go to
the Prince's room, and shoot the Snake that was coiled
about his neck. They were so clever, that they could
easily do this without hurting the Prince at all.</p>

<p>In came the archers in a row, fitted the arrows to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">197</a></span>
the bows, the bows were raised and ready to shoot,
when, on a sudden, from the Snake there issued a
voice which spoke as follows:</p>

<p>“O archers, wait, wait and hear me before you
shoot. It is not fair to carry out the sentence before
you have heard the case. Is not this a good law: an
eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth? Is it not so,
O King?”</p>

<p>“Yes,” replied the King, “that is our law.”</p>

<p>“Then,” said the Snake, “I plead the law. Your
son has made me a widow, so it is fair and right that
I should make his wife a widow.”</p>

<p>“That sounds right enough,” said the King, “but
right and law are not always the same thing. We
had better ask somebody who knows.”</p>

<p>They asked all the judges, but none of them could
tell the law of the matter. They shook their heads,
and said they would look up all their law-books, and
see whether anything of the sort had ever happened
before, and if so, how it had been decided. That is
the way judges used to decide cases in that country,
though I daresay it sounds to you a very funny way.
It looked as if they had not much sense in their own
heads, and perhaps that was true. The upshot of it
all was that not a judge would give an opinion; so
the King sent messengers all over the countryside, to
see if they could find somebody who knew something.</p>

<p>One of these messengers found a party of five
shepherds, who were sitting upon a hill and trying to
decide a quarrel of their own. They gave their
opinions so freely, and in language so very strong,
that the King's messenger said to himself, “Here are
the men for us. Here are five men, each with an
opinion of his own, and all different.” Post-haste he
scurried back to the King, and told him that he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">198</a></span>
found at last some one ready to judge the knotty point.</p>

<p>So the King and the Queen, and the Prince and
Princess, and all the courtiers, got on horseback, and
away they galloped to the hill whereupon the five
shepherds were sitting, and the Snake too went with
them, coiled round the neck of the Prince.</p>

<p>When they got to the shepherds' hill, the shepherds
were dreadfully frightened. At first they thought
that the strangers were a gang of robbers, and when
they saw it was the King their next thought was that
one of their misdeeds had been found out; and each
of them began thinking what was the last thing he
had done, and wondering, was it that?</p>

<p>But the King and the courtiers got off their horses,
and said good day in the most civil way. So the
shepherds felt their minds set at ease again. Then
the King said:</p>

<p>“Worthy shepherds, we have a question to put to
you, which not all the judges in all the courts of my
city have been able to solve. Here is my son, and
here, as you see, is a snake coiled round his neck.
Now, the husband of this Snake came creeping into
my palace hall, and my son the Prince killed him;
so this Snake, who is the wife of the other, says that,
as my son has made her a widow, so she has a right
to widow my son's wife. What do you think about
it?”</p>

<p>The first shepherd said: “I think she is quite
right, my Lord the King. If anyone made my wife
a widow, I would pretty soon do the same to him.”</p>

<p>This was brave language, and the other shepherds
shook their heads and looked fierce. But the King
was puzzled, and could not quite understand it. You
see, in the first place, if the man's wife were a widow,
the man would be dead; and then it is hard to see that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">199</a></span>
he could do anything. So, to make sure, the King
asked the second shepherd whether that was his
opinion too.</p>

<p>“Yes,” said the second shepherd; “now the Prince
has killed the Snake, the Snake has a right to kill the
Prince if he can.” But that was not of much use
either, as the Snake was as dead as a door-nail. So
the King passed on to the third.</p>

<p>“I agree with my mates,” said the third shepherd.
“Because, you see, a Prince is a Prince, but then a
Snake is a Snake.” That was quite true, they all
admitted, but it did not seem to help the matter much.
Then the King asked the fourth shepherd to say what
he thought.</p>

<p>The fourth shepherd said: “An eye for an eye, and
a tooth for a tooth; so I think a widow should be a
widow, if so be she don't marry again.”</p>

<p>By this time the poor King was so puzzled that he
hardly knew whether he stood on his head or his heels.
But there was still the fifth shepherd left; the oldest
and wisest of them all; and the fifth shepherd said:</p>

<p>“King, I should like to ask two questions.”</p>

<p>“Ask twenty, if you like,” said the King. He did
not promise to answer them, so he could afford to be
generous.</p>

<p>“First, I ask the Princess how many sons she has?”</p>

<p>“Four,” said the Princess.</p>

<p>“And how many sons has Mistress Snake here?”</p>

<p>“Seven,” said the Snake.</p>

<p>“Then,” said the old shepherd, “it will be quite
fair for Mistress Snake to kill his Highness the Prince
when her Highness the Princess has had three sons
more.”</p>

<p>“I never thought of that,” said the Snake.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">200</a></span> “Good-bye,
King, and all you good people. Send a message
when the Princess has had three more sons, and you
may count upon me&mdash;I will not fail you.”</p>

<p>So saying, she uncoiled from the Prince's neck and
slid away among the grass.</p>

<p>The King and the Prince and everybody shook
hands with the wise old shepherd, and went home
again. And the Princess never had any more sons
at all. She and the Prince lived happily for many
years; and if they are not dead they are living still.</p>

<p class="right">
<i>From “The Talking Thrush.”</i>
</p>

<h3><span class="smcap">The True Spirit of a Festival Day.</span></h3>

<p>And it came to pass that the Buddha was born a
Hare and lived in a wood; on one side was the foot
of a mountain, on another a river, on the third side
a border village.</p>

<p>And with him lived three friends: a Monkey, a
Jackal and an Otter; each of these creatures got food
on his own hunting ground. In the evening they
met together, and the Hare taught his companions
many wise things: that the moral laws should be
observed, that alms should be given to the poor, and
that holy days should be kept.</p>

<p>One day the Buddha said: “To-morrow is a fast
day. Feed any beggars that come to you by giving
food from your own table.” They all consented.</p>

<p>The next day the Otter went down to the bank of
the Ganges to seek his prey. Now a fisherman had
landed seven red fish and had buried them in the sand
on the river's bank while he went down the stream
catching more fish. The Otter scented the buried
fish, dug up the sand till he came upon them, and he
called aloud: “Does any one own these fish?” And<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">201</a></span>
not seeing the owner, he laid the fish in the jungle
where he dwelt, intending to eat them at a fitting time.
Then he lay down, thinking how virtuous he was.</p>

<p>The Jackal also went off in search of food, and
found in the hut of a field watcher a lizard, two spits,
and a pot of milk-curd.</p>

<p>And, after thrice crying aloud, “To whom do these
belong?” and not finding an owner, he put on his
neck the rope for lifting the pot, and grasping the
spits and lizard with his teeth, he laid them in his own
lair, thinking, “In due season I will devour them,”
and then he lay down, thinking how virtuous he had
been.</p>

<p>The Monkey entered the clump of trees, and gathering
a bunch of mangoes, laid them up in his part of
the jungle, meaning to eat them in due season. He
then lay down and thought how virtuous he had been.</p>

<p>But the Hare (who was the Buddha-to-be) in due
time came out, thinking to lie (in contemplation) on
the Kuca grass. “It is impossible for me to offer
grass to any beggars who may chance to come by,
and I have no oil or rice or fish. If any beggar come
to me, I will give him (of) my own flesh to eat.”</p>

<p>Now when Sakka, the King of the Gods, heard this
thing, he determined to put the Royal Hare to the
test. So he came in disguise of a Brahmin to the
Otter and said: “Wise Sir, if I could get something
to eat, I would perform all my priestly duties.”</p>

<p>The Otter said: “I will give you food. Seven red
fish have I safely brought to land from the sacred river
of the Ganges. Eat thy fill, O Brahmin, and stay in
this wood.”</p>

<p>And the Brahmin said: “Let it be until to-morrow,
and I will see to it then.”</p>

<p>Then he went to the Jackal, who confessed that he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">202</a></span>
had stolen the food, but he begged the Brahmin to
accept it and remain in the wood; but the Brahmin
said: “Let it be until the morrow, and then I will
see to it.”</p>

<p>And he came to the Monkey, who offered him the
mangoes, and the Brahmin answered in the same way.</p>

<p>Then the Brahmin went to the wise Hare, and the
Hare said: “Behold, I will give you of my flesh to
eat. But you must not take life on this holy day.
When you have piled up the logs I will sacrifice
myself by falling into the midst of the flames, and
when my body is roasted you shall eat my flesh and
perform all your priestly duties.”</p>

<p>Now when Sakka heard these words he caused a
heap of burning coals to appear, and the Wisdom
Being, rising from the grass, came to the place, but
before casting himself into the flames he shook
himself, lest perchance there should be any insects in
his coat who might suffer death. Then, offering his
body as a free gift, he sprang up, and like a royal
swan, lighting on a bed of lotus in an ecstasy of joy,
he fell on the heap of live coals. But the flame failed
even to heat the pores or the hair on the body of the
Wisdom Being, and it was as if he had entered a
region of frost. Then he addressed the Brahmin in
these words: “Brahmin, the fire that you have
kindled is icy cold; it fails to heat the pores or the
hair on my body. What is the meaning of this?”</p>

<p>“O most wise Hare! I am Sakka, and have come
to put your virtue to the test.”</p>

<p>And the Buddha in a sweet voice said: “No god
or man could find in me an unwillingness to die.”</p>

<p>Then Sakka said: “O wise Hare, be thy virtue
known to all the ages to come.”</p>

<p>And seizing the mountain he squeezed out the juice<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">203</a></span>
and daubed on the moon the signs of the young hare.</p>

<p>Then he placed him back on the grass that he
might continue his Sabbath meditation, and returned
to Heaven.</p>

<p>And the four creatures lived together and kept the
moral law.</p>

<h3><span class="smcap">Filial Piety.</span></h3>

<p>Now it came to pass that the Buddha was re-born
in the shape of a Parrot, and he greatly excelled all
other parrots in his strength and beauty. And when
he was full grown his father, who had long been the
leader of the flock in their flights to other climes, said
to him: “My son, behold my strength is spent! Do
thou lead the flock, for I am no longer able.” And
the Buddha said: “Behold, thou shalt rest. I will
lead the birds.” And the parrots rejoiced in the
strength of their new leader, and willingly did they
follow him. Now from that day on, the Buddha
undertook to feed his parents, and would not consent
that they should do any more work. Each day he led
his flock to the Himalaya Hills, and when he had
eaten his fill of the clumps of rice that grew there, he
filled his beak with food for the dear parents who
were waiting his return.</p>

<p>Now there was a man appointed to watch the rice-fields,
and he did his best to drive the parrots away,
but there seemed to be some secret power in the leader
of this flock which the Keeper could not overcome.</p>

<p>He noticed that the Parrots ate their fill and then
flew away, but that the Parrot-King not only satisfied
his hunger, but carried away rice in his beak.</p>

<p>Now he feared there would be no rice left, and he
went to his master the Brahmin to tell him what had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">204</a></span>
happened; and even as the master listened there came
to him the thought that the Parrot-King was something
higher than he seemed, and he loved him even
before he saw him. But he said nothing of this, and
only warned the Keeper that he should set a snare
and catch the dangerous bird. So the man did as he
was bidden: he made a small cage and set the snare,
and sat down in his hut waiting for the birds to come.
And soon he saw the Parrot-King amidst his flock,
who, because he had no greed, sought no richer spot,
but flew down to the same place in which he had fed
the day before.</p>

<p>Now, no sooner had he touched the ground that he
felt his feet caught in the noose. Then fear crept into
his bird-heart, but a stronger feeling was there to
crush it down, for he thought: “If I cry out the Cry
of the Captured, my Kinsfolk will be terrified, and
they will fly away foodless. But if I lie still, then
their hunger will be satisfied, and they may safely
come to my aid.” Thus was the Parrot both brave
and prudent.</p>

<p>But alas! he did not know that his Kinsfolk had
nought of his brave spirit. When <i>they</i> had eaten
their fill, though they heard the thrice-uttered cry of
the captured, they flew away, nor heeded the sad
plight of their leader.</p>

<p>Then was the heart of the Parrot-King sore within
him, and he said: “All these my kith and kin, and
not one to look back on me. Alas! what sin have
I done?”</p>

<p>The Watchman now heard the cry of the Parrot-King,
and the sound of the other Parrots flying
through the air. “What is that?” he cried, and
leaving his hut he came to the place where he had
laid the snare. There he found the captive Parrot;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">205</a></span>
he tied his feet together and brought him to the
Brahmin, his master. Now, when the Brahmin saw
the Parrot-King, he felt his strong power, and his
heart was full of love to him, but he hid his feelings,
and said in a voice of anger: “Is thy greed greater
than that of all other birds? They eat their fill, but
thou takest away each day more food than thou canst
eat. Doest thou this out of hatred for me, or dost
thou store up the food in some granary for selfish
greed?”</p>

<p>And the Great Being made answer in a sweet
human voice: “I hate thee not, O Brahmin. Nor
do I store the rice in a granary for selfish greed. But
this thing I do. Each day I pay a debt which is
due&mdash;each day I grant a loan, and each day I store
up a treasure.”</p>

<p>Now the Brahmin could not understand the words
of the Buddha (because true wisdom had not entered
his heart), and he said: “I pray thee, O Wondrous
Bird, to make these words clear unto me.”</p>

<p>And then the Parrot-King made answer: “I carry
food to my ancient parents who can no longer seek
that food for themselves: thus I pay my daily debt.
I carry food to my callow chicks whose wings are yet
ungrown. When I am old they will care for me&mdash;this
my loan to them. And for other birds, weak and
helpless of wing, who need the aid of the strong, for
them I lay up a store; to these I give in charity.”</p>

<p>Then was the Brahmin much moved, and showed
the love that was in his heart. “Eat thy fill, O
Righteous Bird, and let thy Kinsfolk eat too, for thy
sake.” And he wished to bestow a thousand acres
of land upon him, but the Great Being would only
take a tiny portion round which were set boundary
stones.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">206</a></span>

And the Parrot returned with a head of rice, and
said: “Arise, dear Parents, that I may take you to a
place of plenty.” And he told them the story of his
deliverance.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p class="noin"><span class="smcap">My</span> thanks are due to:</p>

<p>Mrs. Josephine Dodge Darkam Bacon, for permission
to use an extract from “The Madness of Philip,”
and to her publishers, Charles Scrivener.</p>

<p>To Messrs. Houghton Mifflin, for permission to use
extract from “Thou Shalt Not Preach,” by Mr. John
Burroughs.</p>

<p>To Messrs. Macmillan &amp; Co., for permission to use
“Milking Time” of Miss Rossetti.</p>

<p>To Messrs. William Sharp, for permission to use
passage from “The Divine Adventure,” by “Fiona
MacLeod.”</p>

<p>To Miss Ethel Clifford, for permission to use the
poem of “The Child.”</p>

<p>To Mr. James Whitcomb Riley and the Robbs
Merrill Co., for permission to use “The Treasure of
the Wise Man.”</p>

<p>To Rev. R. L. Gales, for permission to use the
article on “Nursery Rhymes” from the <i>Nation</i>.</p>

<p>To Mr. Edmund Gosse, for permission to use
extracts from “Father and Son.”</p>

<p>To Messrs. Chatto and Windus, for permission to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">207</a></span>
use “Essay on Child's Play” (from <i>Virginibus
Puerisque</i>) and other papers.</p>

<p>To Mr. George Allen &amp; Co., for permission to use
“Ballad for a Boy,” by W. Cory, from “Ionica.”</p>

<p>To Professor Bradley, for permission to quote from
his essay on “Poetry and Life.”</p>

<p>To Mr. P. A. Barnett, for permission to quote from
“The Commonsense of Education.”</p>

<p>To Professor Ker, for permission to quote from
“Sturla the Historian.”</p>

<p>To Mr. John Russell, for permission to print in
full, “A Saga.”</p>

<p>To Messrs. Longmans Green &amp; Co., for permission
to use “The Two Frogs,” from the Violet Fairy
Book, and “To Your Good Health,” from the
Crimson Fairy Book.</p>

<p>To Mr. Heinemann and Lady Glenconner, for permission
to reprint “The Water Nixie,” by Pamela
Tennant, from “The Children and the Pictures.”</p>

<p>To Mr. Maurice Baring and the Editor of <i>The
Morning Post</i>, for permission to reprint “The Blue
Rose” from <i>The Morning Post</i>.</p>

<p>To Dr. Walter Rouse and Mr. J. M. Dent, for
permission to reprint from “The Talking Thrush”
the story of “The Wise Old Shepherd.”</p>

<p>To Mr. James Stephens, for permission to reprint<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">208</a></span>
“The Man and the Boy.”</p>

<p>To Mr. Harold Barnes, for permission to use version
of “The Proud Cock.”</p>

<p>To Mrs. Arnold Glover, for permission to print
two of her stories.</p>

<p>To Miss Emilie Poulson, for permission to use her
translation of Björnsen's poem.</p>

<p>To George Routledge &amp; Son, for permission to use
stories from “Eastern Stories and Fables.”</p>

<p>To Mrs. W. K. Clifford, for permission to quote
from “Very Short Stories.”</p>

<p>To Mr. W. Jenkyn Thomas and Mr. Fisher Unwin,
for permission to use “Arthur in the Cave” from the
Welsh Fairy Book.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>The following stories are not a representative list:
this I have endeavoured to give with the story-list
preceding. These stories are mostly taken from my
own <i>répertoire</i>, and have so constantly been asked
for by teachers that I am glad of an opportunity of
presenting them in full.</p>

<ul>
<li>Episode from “Sturla the Historian,” to illustrate
the value of the art of story-telling.</li>

<li>Saga, by John Russell.</li>

<li>St. Christopher, in the version taken from the
“<i>Legenda Aurea</i>.”</li>

<li>“Arthur in the Cave,” from the “Welsh Fairy
Book.”</li>

<li>“Hafiz the Stone-cutter” (adapted from the Oriental).</li>

<li><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">209</a></span>

“To Your Good Health,” from The Crimson Fairy
Book.</li>

<li>“The Proud Cock,” from the Spanish.</li>

<li>“Snegourka,” from the Russian.</li>

<li>“The Water Nixie,” by Pamela Tennant.</li>

<li>“The Blue Rose,” by Maurice Baring.</li>

<li>“The Wise old Shepherd,” from “The Talking
Thrush.”</li></ul>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>I had intended, in this section, to offer an appendix
of titles of stories and books which would cover all
the ground of possible narrative in schools; but I
have found, since taking up the question, so many
lists containing standard books and stories, that I
have decided that this original plan would be a work
of supererogation, since it would be almost impossible
to prepare such a list without the certainty of over-lapping.
What is really needed is a supplementary
list to those already published&mdash;a specialized list
which has been gathered together by private research
and personal experience. I have for many years
spent considerable time in the British Museum, and
some of the principal Libraries in the United States,
and I now offer the fruit of that labour in the miscellaneous
collection contained in this chapter. Before
giving my own selection, I should like to say that for
general lists one can use with great profit the
following:</p>

<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">210</a></span></p>

<h2>LIST OF BOOKS</h2>
<h3><span class="smcap">Sources of Norse Stories for Story-tellers.</span></h3>

<ul class="hang">
<li>Cycles of Stories from the Norse. Part I: Historical Tales.
Part II: Norse Myths. Part III: Völsunga Saga.
Part IV: Frithiof Saga.</li>

<li>Snorro Sturluson. Stories of the Kings of Norway; done
into English by William Morris. Page 83-117.</li>

<li>Snorro Sturluson. A History of the Norse Kings; done
into English by Samuel Laing. Pages 11-35.</li>

<li>Snorro Sturluson. Younger Edda. Pages 72, 73, 114-127,
128-130, 131-139, 160-164, 184-187,
189-192.</li>

<li>Morris. Story of Sigurd the Volsung.</li>

<li>Völsunga Saga. By Eirikr and William Morris.</li>
</ul>
<p>Other sources from modern books can be found in
Mabie, Wilmot Buxton, Keans Tappah, Cartwright
Pole, Johonnut Anderson. Some of these are suitable
for children themselves, and contain excellent reading
matter.</p>

<p><span class="smcap">Note.</span>&mdash;I most gratefully acknowledge these sources
supplied by the courtesy of Pittsburg Carnegie
Library.</p>

<ul class="hang">
<li>List of stories in compilation by Anna C. Tyler (Supervisor
of Story-telling in New York).</li>

<li>Heroism. A reading list for boys and girls.</li></ul>

<p>Both these lists are published by the New York
Library, and I have had permission to quote both, by
the courtesy of the Library.</p>

<p>In that admirable work, “Story-Telling in School
and Home,” by Evelyn Newcomb Partridge and
George Everett Partridge, published by William
Heinemann, besides a valuable analysis of the Art of
Story-Telling, there is an excellent list of books and
stories.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">211</a></span></p>

<h3><span class="smcap">List of Books containing Stories or Reading
Matter for Children.</span></h3>

<p>The following list is not of my own making. I
have taken it on the recommendation of Marion E.
Potter, Bertha Tannehill and Emma L. Teich, who
have compiled the list from twenty-three other lists.
I again have made a shorter list of the titles, and
acknowledge most gratefully the kind permission of
the H. W. Wilson Company (Minneapolis) to quote
from their book. The original work, which contains
3,000 titles, is well known in the United States under
the title of “Children's Catalogue.” It is a book
which ought to be in every School and Training College
Library, and I hope my fragmentary selection may
make it better known in my own country. I regret
that I am unable to give publishers or reference marks
for this American list.</p>

<ul class="hang">

<li>About Old Story-tellers. Mitchell, D. G.</li>
<li>Boys' Iliad. Perry.</li>
<li>Jack among the Indians, and Other Stories. G. B. Grinnell.</li>
<li>Adventure Stories. Hale, E.</li>
<li>Young Alaskans. Hough, E.</li>
<li>Aztec Treasure House. Janvier.</li>
<li>Last Three Soldiers. Skelton, W.</li>
<li>Under the Lilacs. Alcott, Louisa.</li>
<li>Moral Pirates. Livingstone, A. W.</li>
<li>Classics Old and New. Alderman, E. A.</li>
<li>Boy of a Thousand Years Ago. Comstock, H. R.</li>
<li>All About Japan. Brane, B. M.</li>
<li>All About the Russians. Lockes, E. C.</li>
<li>Children of the Palm Lands. Allen, A. E.</li>
<li>Italian Child Life. Ambrose, Marietta.</li>
<li>American Hero Stories. Tappan, E. M.</li>
<li>Chinese Boy and Girl, Headland, Y. T.</li>
<li>Viking Tales of the North. Anderson, R. B.</li>
<li>Animal Stories Re-told from St. Nicholas. Carter, M. H.</li>
<li>Short Stories of Shy Neighbours. Kelly, M. H.</li>
<li>Hundred Anecdotes of Animals. Billingham, P. T.</li>
<li>Books of Saints and Friendly Beasts. Brown, A. F.</li>

<li>Stories of Animal Life. Holden, C. F.</li>
<li><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">212</a></span>
Story of a Donkey (Abridged). Segur, S.</li>
<li>Children of the Cold. Schnatka, F.</li>
<li>Stories from Plato and other Classic Writers. Burt, M. E.</li>
<li>Tenting on the Plains. Custer, E.</li>
<li>To the Front. King, C.</li>
<li>Stories of Persian Heroes. Firdansi.</li>
<li>Nelson and his Captains. Fitchett, William H.</li>
<li>Danish Fairy and Folk Tales. Bay, J. C.</li>
<li>Evening Tales. Ortoli, F.</li>
<li>Legends of King Arthur and his Court. Greene, F. N.</li>
<li>Story of King Arthur. Pyle, H.</li>
<li>New World Fairy Book. Kenedy, H. A.</li>
<li>Myths of the Red Children. Wilson, G. L.</li>
<li>Old Indian Legends. Zitkala, Sa.</li>
<li>Folk Tales from the Russian. Blumenthal, V. K.</li>
<li>Wagner Opera Stories. Barker, Grace.</li>
<li>Lolanu, the Little Cliff-dweller. Bayliss (Mrs. Clara Kern).</li>
<li>Big People and Little People of Other Lands. Shaw, E. R.</li>
<li>Children's Stories of the Great Scientists. Wright, H. C.</li>
<li>Fairy Tales. Lansing, M. F.</li>
<li>Light Princess, and Other Stories. Macdonald, George.</li>
<li>Classic Stories for the Little Ones. Mace, J., and McClurey, L. B.</li>
<li>Old World Wonder Stories. O'Shea, M. V.</li>
<li>Japanese Fairy Tales Re-told. Williston, T. P.</li>
<li>Famous Indian Chiefs I Have Known. Hovard, O. O.</li>
<li>Fanciful Tales. Stockton, F. R.</li>
<li>Boys' Book of Famous Rulers, from Agamemnon to Napoleon. Farmer, Mrs.
Lydia Hoyt.</li>
<li>Favourite Greek Myths, Hyde, T. S.</li>
<li>Children's Life in the Western Mountains. Foote, Mary (Hallock).</li>
<li>Gods and Heroes. Francillon, Robert Edward.</li>
<li>Sa-Zada Tales. Fraser, William Alexander.</li>
<li>Story of Gretta the Strong. French, Allen.</li>
<li>Lance of Kanana (Story of Arabia). French, Henry Willard.</li>
<li>Home Life in all Lands. Morris, C.</li>
<li>Held Fast for England. Henty.</li>
<li>Plutarch's Lives. Ginn, Edwin.</li>
<li>King's Story Book. Gomme, Lawrence.</li>
<li>Little Journeys to Balkans, European Turkey and Greece. George, M. M.</li>
<li>Herodotus. White, J. S.</li>
<li>Classic Myths in English Literature. Gayley, C. M.</li>
<li>Favourite Greek Myths. Hyde, L. S.</li>
<li>Stories from the East. Church, A. T.</li>
<li>Herodotus. Church, A. T.</li>
<li><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">213</a></span>
Men of Iron. Pyle, H.</li>
<li>Boys' Heroes. Hale, Edward Everett.</li>
<li>Strange Stories from History. Eggleston.</li>
<li>Stories of Other Lands. Johannot, J.</li>
<li>Book of Nature Myths. Holbrook, Florence.</li>
<li>Stories of Great Artists. Home, Olive Brown, and Lois, K.</li>
<li>Russian Grandmother's Wonder Tales. Houghton, Mrs. Louise (Seymour).</li>
<li>Stories of Famous Children. Hunter, Mary van Brunt.</li>
<li>Stories of Indian Chieftains. Husted, Mary Hall.</li>
<li>Stories of Indian Children. Husted, Mary Hall.</li>
<li>Golden Porch: A Book of Greek Fairy Tales. Hutchinson, W. M. L.</li>
<li>Indian Boyhood. Eastman, C. H.</li>
<li>Indian History for Young Folk. Drake, F. S.</li>
<li>Indian Stories Re-told from St Nicholas. Drake, F. S.</li>
<li>One Thousand Poems for Children. Ingpen, Roger.</li>
<li>My Lady Pokahontas. Cooke, J. E.</li>
<li>In the Sargasso Sea. Janvier, T. A.</li>
<li>Childhood of Ji-Shib. Jenks, Albert Ernest.</li>
<li>Stories from Chaucer told to the Children. Kelman, Janet Harvey.</li>
<li>Stories from the Crusades. Kelman, Janet Harvey.</li>
<li>New World Fairy Book. Kenedy, Howard Angus.</li>
<li>Stories of Ancient People. Arnold E. T.</li>
<li>Stories of Art and Artists. Clement, C.</li>
<li>Mabinogion (Legends of Wales). Knightley.</li>
<li>Heroes of Chivalry. Maitland, L.</li>
<li>Cadet Days: Story of West Point. King, Charles.</li>
<li>Household Stories for Little Readers. Klingensmith, Annie.</li>
<li>Boy Travellers in the Russian Empire. Knox, Thomas Wallace.</li>
<li>Boy Travellers on the Congo. Knox, Thomas Wallace.</li>
<li>Fairy Book. Laboulaye, Eduard Réné Lefebre.</li>
<li>Fairy Tales of All Nations. Translated by M. I. Booth. Laboulaye,
Eduard Réné Lefebre.</li>
<li>Middle Five (Life of Five Indian Boys at School). La Flesche, Francis.</li>
<li>Wonderful Adventures of Nils. Lagerlöf, Selma.</li>
<li>Land of Pluck. Dodge, M. M.</li>
<li>Land of the Long Night. Du Chaillu, P. B.</li>
<li>Schoolboy Days in France. Laurie, André.</li>
<li>Schoolboy Days in Japan. Laurie, André.</li>
<li>Schoolboy Days in Russia. Laurie, André.</li>
<li>When I was a Boy in China. Lee, Yan Phon.</li>
<li>Fifty Famous Stories Re-told. Baldwin.</li>
<li>Stories from Famous Ballads. Lippincott.</li>

<li>Wreck of the Golden Fleece. Leighton, Robert.</li>
<li><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">214</a></span>
Children's Letters, Written to Children by Famous Men and Women.
Colson, E., and Chittenden, A. G.</li>
<li>A Story of Abraham Lincoln. Hamilton, M.</li>
</ul>

<h3><span class="smcap">Little Cousin Series.</span></h3>

<ul class="hang">
<li>Our Little Swedish Cousin. Coburn, C. M.</li>
<li>Our Little Chinese Cousin. Headland, I. T.</li>
<li>Our Little Arabian Cousin. Mansfield, B. M.</li>
<li>Our Little Dutch Cousin. Mansfield, B. M.</li>
<li>Our Little Egyptian Cousin. Mansfield, B. M.</li>
<li>Our Little English Cousin. Mansfield, B. M.</li>
<li>Our Little French Cousin. Mansfield, B. M.</li>
<li>Our Little Hindu Cousin. Mansfield, B. M.</li>
<li>Our Little Scotch Cousin. Mansfield, B. M.</li>
<li>Our Little Alaskan Cousin. Nixon, Roulet M. F.</li>
<li>Our Little Australian Cousin. Nixon, Roulet M. F.</li>
<li>Our Little Brazilian Cousin. Nixon, Roulet M. F.</li>
<li>Our Little Grecian Cousin. Nixon, Roulet M. F.</li>
<li>Our Little Spanish Cousin. Nixon, Roulet, M. F.</li>
<li>Our Little Korean Cousin. Pike, H. L.</li>
<li>Our Little Panama Cousin. Pike, H. L.</li>
<li>Our Little African Cousin. Wade, M. H.</li>
<li>Our Little Armenian Cousin. Wade, M. H.</li>
<li>Our Little Brown Cousin. Wade, M. H.</li>
<li>Our Little Cuban Cousin. Wade, M. H.</li>
<li>Our Little Eskimo Cousin. Wade, M. H.</li>
<li>Our Little Hawaiian Cousin. Wade, M. H.</li>
<li>Our Little Indian Cousin. Wade, M. H.</li>
<li>Our Little Irish Cousin. Wade, M. H.</li>
<li>Our Little Italian Cousin. Wade, M. H.</li>
<li>Our Little Japanese Cousin. Wade, M. H.</li>
<li>Our Little Jewish Cousin. Wade, M. H.</li>
<li>Our Little Norwegian Cousin. Wade, M. H.</li>
<li>Our Little Philippine Cousin. Wade, M. H.</li>
<li>Our Little Porto Rican Cousin. Wade, M. H.</li>
<li>Our Little Siamese Cousin. Wade, M. H.</li>
<li>Our Little Turkish Cousin. Wade, M. H.</li>
<li>Our Little Canadian Cousin. Macdonald, E. Roberts.</li>

</ul>
<ul class="hang">
<li>Little Folk in Brittany. Haines, A. C.</li>
<li>Little Folks of Many Lands. Chance, L. M.</li>
<li>Little Lives of Great Men. Hathaway, E. V.</li>
<li>Little Men. Alcott, L. M.</li>
<li>Little Royalties. McDougall, I.</li>
<li>Little Stories of France. Dutton, M. B.</li>
<li>Little Stories of Germany. Dutton, M. B.</li>
<li>Lives of Girls who Became Famous. Bolton, S. K.</li>
<li>Beasts of the Field. Long, William Joseph.</li>
<li><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">215</a></span>
Wood-Folk at School. Long, William Joseph.</li>
<li>Long Ago in Greece. Carpenter, E. J.</li>
<li>Peasant and Prince. Martineau, H.</li>
<li>Boy Courier of Napoleon. Sprague, W. C.</li>
<li>Wonder Stories from the Mabinogion. Brooks, E.</li>
<li>Old Farm Fairies.<a name="FNanchor_55_55" id="FNanchor_55_55"></a><a href="#Footnote_55_55" class="fnanchor">[55]</a> McConk, Henry Christopher.
</li>
<li>Tenants of an Old Farm.<a name="FNanchor_55a_55a" id="FNanchor_55a_55a"></a><a href="#Footnote_55_55" class="fnanchor">[55]</a> McConk, Henry Christopher.
</li>
<li>At the Back of the North Wind. MacDonald, George.</li>
<li>Princess and the Goblin. MacDonald, George.</li>
<li>Cave Boy of the Age of Stone. McIntyre, Margaret A.</li>
<li>Magna Carta Stories. Gilman, A.</li>
<li>Early Cave Men. Dopp, K. E.</li>
<li>Later Cave Men. Dopp, K. E.</li>
<li>Stories of Roland. Marshall, H. E.</li>
<li>Crofton Boys. Martineau, Harriet.</li>
<li>Peats on the Fiord. Martineau, Harriet.</li>
<li>Peasant and Prince. Martineau, Harriet.</li>
<li>Child Stories from the Masters. Menafee, Maud.</li>
<li>Miss Muffet's Christmas Party. Crotchers, S. M.</li>
<li>Historical Tales: Greek. Morris, Charles.</li>
<li>Historical Tales: Russian. Morris, Charles.</li>
<li>Bed-Time Stories. Moulton, Louise Chandler.</li>
<li>New Bed-Time Stories. Moulton, Louise Chandler.</li>
<li>Modern Reader's Bible (Children Series). Moulton, F. R. G.</li>
<li>My Air-Ships. Santos-Dumont.</li>
<li>Old Norse Stories. Bradish, S. P.</li>
<li>Through Russian Snows. Henty, G.</li>
<li>Nine Worlds: Stories from Norse Mythology. Lichfield, M. E.</li>
<li>Fairy Tales, Narratives and Poems. Norton, George Eliot.</li>
<li>Modern Vikings. Boyeson, H. H.</li>
<li>Boyhood in Norway. Boyeson, H. H.</li>
<li>Old Greek Stories Told Anew. Peabody, J. B.</li>
<li>Arabian Nights Re-told. Peary, Mrs. Josephine (Diebitsh).</li>
<li>Heroic Ballads. Montgomery, D. H.</li>
<li>English Ballads. Perkins, Mrs. Lucy Fitch.</li>
<li>Boys' Iliad. Perry, Walter Copland.</li>
<li>Boys' Odyssey. Perry, Walter Copland.</li>
<li>Tale of Peter Rabbit. Potter, B.</li>
<li>Tale of Squirrel Nutkin. Potter, B.</li>
<li>Stories of Old France. Pitman, Leila Webster.</li>
<li>Boys' and Girls' Plutarch. White, J. S.</li>
<li>Greek Lives from Plutarch. Byles, C. E.</li>
<li>My Lady Pokahontas. Cooke, J. E.</li>
<li>Poems for Children. Rossetti, C. G.</li>
<li>Children's Book. Scudder, H. E.</li>
<li>Scottish Chiefs. Porter, Jane.</li>
<li>
Legends of the Red Children. Pratt, Mara Louise.</li>
<li><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">216</a></span>
Little Nature Studies for Little Folk. Burroughs, John.</li>
<li>Giant Sun and His Family. Proctor, Mary.</li>
<li>Stories of Starland. Proctor, Mary.</li>
<li>Revolutionary Stories Re-told from St. Nicholas. Pyle, Howard.</li>
<li>Old Tales from Rome. Zimmern, A.</li>
<li>Stories of the Saints. Chenoweth, C. V. D.</li>
<li>Sandman: His Farm Stories. Hopkins, W. T.</li>
<li>Sandman: His Sea Stories. Hopkins, W. T.</li>
<li>Sandman: His Ship Stories. Hopkins, W. T.</li>
<li>Schooldays in France. Laurie, A.</li>
<li>Schooldays in Italy. Laurie, A.</li>
<li>Schooldays in Japan. Laurie, A.</li>
<li>Schooldays in Russia. Laurie, A.</li>
<li>William of Orange (Life Stories for Young People). Schupp, Otto Kar.</li>
<li>Sea Yarns for Boys. Henderson, W. T.</li>
<li>Story of Lord Roberts. Sellar, Edmund Francis.</li>
<li>Story of Nelson. Sellar, Edmund Francis.</li>
<li>Tent Life in Siberia. Kenman, G.</li>
<li>Stories from English History. Skae, Hilda I.</li>
<li>Boys who Became Famous Men (Giotto, Bach, Byron, Gainsborough, Handel,
Coleridge, Canova, Chopin). Skinner, Harriet Pearl.</li>

<li>Eskimo Stories. Smith, Mary Emily Estella.</li>
<li>Some Curious Flyers, Creepers and Swimmers. Johannot, J.</li>
<li>Bush Boys. Reid, M.</li>
<li>New Mexico David, and Other Stories. Lummis, C. F.</li>
<li>Child's History of Spain. Bonner, J.</li>
<li>Historical Tales: Spanish. Morris, C.</li>
<li>Story of the Cid. Wilson, C. D.</li>
<li>Life of Lincoln for Boys. Sparhawk, Frances Campbell.</li>
<li>Pieces for Every Occasion. Le Rou, C. B.</li>
<li>Stories from Dante. Chester, N.</li>
<li>Stories from Old English Poetry. Richardson, A. S.</li>
<li>Stories from Plato and Other Classic Writers. Burt, M. E.</li>
<li>Stories in Stone from the Roman Forum. Lovell, I.</li>
<li>Stories of Brave Days. Carter, M. H.</li>
<li>Stories of Early England. Buxton, E. M. Wilmot.</li>
<li>Stories of Heroic Deeds. Johannot, J.</li>
<li>Stories of Indian Chieftains. Husted, M. H.</li>
<li>Stories of Insect Life. Weed, C. M., and Mustfeldt, M. E.</li>
<li>Stories of the Gorilla Country. Du Chaillu, P. B.</li>
<li>Stories of the Sea told by Sailors. Hale, E. E.</li>
<li>Stories of War. Hale, E. E.</li>
<li>Story of Lewis Caroll. Bowman, I.</li>
<li>Story of Sir Launcelot and his Companions. Pyle, H.</li>
<li>Queer Little People. Stowe, Harriet Beecher.</li>
<li>In Clive's Command. Strang, Herbert.</li>

<li><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">217</a></span>
George Washington Jones (Christmas of a Little Coloured Boy). Stuart,
Ruth McEnery. </li>
<li>Story of Babette. Stuart, Ruth McEnery.</li>
<li>Old Ballads in Prose. Tappan, Eva.</li>
<li>Lion and Tiger Stories. Carter, M. H.</li>
<li>True Tales of Birds and Beasts. Jordan, D. S.</li>
<li>Typical Tales of Fancy, Romance and History from Shakespeare's Plays.
Raymond, E.</li>
<li>Young People's Story of Art. Whitcomb, Ida Prentice.</li>
<li>Young People's Story of Music. Whitcomb, Ida Prentice.</li>
<li>Tales of Laughter. Wiggin, K. Douglas.</li>
</ul>

<p>The following miscellaneous list of books and
stories is my own. I do not mean that none of them
have appeared in other lists, but the greater number
have been sifted from larger lists which I have made
during the last ten years, more or less.</p>

<p>For English readers I have given the press-marks
in the British Museum, which will be an economy of
time to busy students and teachers. I have supplied,
in every case where it has been possible, the source of
the story and the name of the publisher for American
readers, but my experience as a reader in the libraries
of the States brings me to the conclusion that all the
books of educational value will either be found in the
main libraries or procured on application even in the
small towns.</p>

<p>In many cases the stories would have to be shortened
and re-arranged. The difficulty of finding the sources
and obtaining permission has deterred me from offering
for the present these stories in full.</p>

<p>This being a supplementary list to more general
ones, there will naturally be absent a large number of
standard books which I take for granted are known.
Nevertheless, I have included the titles of some well-known
works which ought not to be left out of any list.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">218</a></span></p>

<h3><span class="smcap">Titles of Books containing Translations and
Adaptations of Classical Stories.</span></h3>

<ul class="hang">

<li>The Children of the Dawn. Old Tales of Greece. E.
Fennemore Buckley. 12403 f. 41. Wells, Gardner,
Darton &amp; Co.</li>

<li>Kingsley's Heroes. 012208. e. 22/26. Blackie and Son.
(See List of Stories.)</li>

<li>Wonder Stories from Herodotus. (Excellent as a preparation
for the real old stories.) N. Barrington d'Almeida.
9026.66. S. Harper Brothers.</li></ul>

<h3><span class="smcap">Titles of Books containing Classical Stories
from History Re-told.</span></h3>

<ul class="hang">

<li>Plutarch's Lives for Boys and Girls. Re-told by W. H.
Weston. 10606. d. 4. T. C. and E. C. Jack.</li>

<li>Tales from Plutarch. By Jameson Rawbotham. 10606. bb.
3. Fisher Unwin.</li></ul>

<h3><span class="smcap">Sources of Indian Stories and Myths.</span></h3>

<p>For an understanding of the inner meaning of these
stories, and as a preparation for telling them, I should
recommend as a useful book of reference:</p>

<ul class="hang">

<li>Indian Myths and Legends. By Mackenzie. 04503. f. 26.
Gresham Publishing House.</li></ul>

<p>The following titles are of books containing stories
for narration:</p>

<ul class="hang">
<li>Jacob's Indian Tales. 12411. h. 9. David Nutt.</li>
<li>Old Deccan Days. Mary Frere. 12411. e.e. 14. John Murray.</li>
<li>The Talking Thrush. W. H. D. Rouse. 12411. e.e.e. 17. J. M. Dent.</li>
<li>Wide Awake Stories. 12411. b.b.b. 2. Steel and Temple.</li>
<li>Indian Nights' Entertainment. Synnerton. 14162. f. 16. Eliot Stock.</li>

<li>Myths of the Hindus and Buddhists. By Sister Nevedita and Amanda

Coomara. K.T.C. Swamy. A. I. George Harrap Company. (This volume is
mainly for reference.)</li>
<li><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">219</a></span>
Buddhist Birth Stories. T. W. Rhys Davids. 14098. d. 23. Trubner Co.</li>
<li>Stories of the Buddha Birth. Cowell, Rouse, Neil, Francis. 14098. dd.
8. University Press, Cambridge.</li>
</ul>

<p>As selections of this extensive work:</p>

<ul class="hang">
<li>Eastern Stories and Fables. M. I. Shedlock. George Routledge.</li>
<li>The Jatakas, Tales of India. Re-told by Ellen C. Babbitt. 012809. d. 8.
The Century Co.</li>
<li>Folk-Tales of Kashmir. Knowles. 2318. g. 18. Trübner
&amp; Co.</li>
<li>The Jungle-Book. Rudyard Kipling. 012807. ff. 47. Macmillan.</li>
<li>The Second Jungle-Book. Rudyard Kipling. 012807. k. 57. Macmillan.</li>
<li>Tibetian Tales. F. A. Shieffner. 2318. g. 7. Trübner &amp; Co.</li>
</ul>

<h3><span class="smcap">Legends, Myths and Fairy-Tales.</span></h3>

<ul class="hang">
<li>Classic Myths and Legends. A. H. Hope Moncrieff. 12403. ee. 6. The
Gresham Publishing House.</li>

<li>Myths and Folk-Tales of the Russians. Curtin. 2346. e. 6. Sampson Low.</li>

<li>North-West Slav Legends and Fairy Stories. Erben. (Translated by W. W.
Strickland.) 12430. i. 44.</li>

<li>Russian Fairy-Tales. Nisbet Pain. 12431. ee. 18. Lawrence and Bullen.</li>

<li>Sixty Folk-Tales from Slavonic Sources. Wratislau. 12431. dd. 29.
Elliot Stock.</li>

<li>Slavonic Fairy-Tales. F. Naake. 2348. b. 4. Henry S. King.</li>

<li>Slav Tales. Chodsho. (Translated by Emily J. Harding.) 12411. eee. 2.
George Allen.</li>

<li>Chinese Stories. Pitman. 12410. dd. 25. George Harrap &amp; Co.</li>

<li>Chinese Fairy Tales. Professor Giles. 012201. de. 8. Govans
International Library.</li>

<li>Chinese Nights' Entertainment. Adèle Fielde. 12411. h. 4. G. P. Putnam.</li>

<li>Maori Tales. K. M. Clark. 12411. h. 15. Macmillan &amp; Co.</li>

<li>Papuan Fairy Tales. Annie Ker. 12410. eee. 25. Macmillan &amp; Co.</li>
<li><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">220</a></span>
Cornwall's Wonderland. Mabel Quiller Couch. 12431. r. 13. J. M. Dent.</li>

<li>Perrault's Fairy Tales. 012200. e. 8. “The Temple Classics.” J. M. Dent.</li>

<li>Gesta Romanorum. 12411. e. 15. Swan Sonnenschein.
</li>
<li>Myths and Legends of Japan. F. H. Davis. 1241. de. 8. G. Harrap &amp; Co.
</li>
<li>Old World Japan. Frank Rinder. 12411. eee. 3. George Allen.
</li>
<li>Legendary Lore of All Nations. Swinton and Cathcart. 1241. f. 13.
Ivison, Taylor &amp; Co.
</li>
<li>Popular Tales from the Norse. Sir George Webbe Dasent. 12207. pp.
George Routledge and Son.
</li>
<li>Fairy Tales from Finland. Zopelius. 12431. df. 2. J. M. Dent.
</li>
<li>Fairy Gold. A Book of Old English Fairy Tales, chosen by Ernest Rhys.
12411. dd. 22. J. M. Dent.
</li>
<li>Contes Populaires du Vallon. Aug. Gittée. 12430. h. 44. (Written in
very simple style and easy of translation.) Wanderpooten Gand.
</li>
<li>Tales of Old Lusitania. Coelho. 12431. e. 34. Swan Sonnenschein.
</li>
<li>Tales from the Land of Nuts and Grapes. Charles Sellers. 12431. c. 38.
Simpkin, Marshall &amp; Co.
</li>
<li>The English Fairy Book. Ernest Rhys. 12410. dd. 29. Fisher Unwin.
</li>
<li>Zuni Folk Tales. F. H. Cushing. 12411. g. 30. Putnam.
</li>
<li>Manx Fairy Tales. Sophia Morrison. 12410. df. 10. David Nutt.
</li>
<li>Legend of the Iroquois. W. V. Canfield. 12410. ff. 23. A Wessels
Company.
</li>
<li>The Indian's Book. Natalie Curtis. 2346. i. 2. Harper Brothers.
</li>
<li>Hansa Folk Lore. Rattray. 12431. tt. 2. Clarendon Press.
</li>
<li>Japanese Folk Stories and Fairy Tales. Mary F. Nixon-Roulet. 12450. ec.
18. Swan Sonnenschein.
</li>
<li>Kaffir Folk Tales. G. M. Theal. 2348. e. 15. Swan Sonnenschein.
</li>
<li>Old Hungarian Tales. Baroness Orczy and Montagu Barstow. 12411. f. 33.
Dean and Son.
</li>
<li>Evening with the Old Story-tellers. G.B. 1155. e. I (1). James Burns.
</li>
<li>Myths and Legends of Flowers. C. Skinner. 07029. h. 50. Lippincott.
</li>
<li>The Book of Legends Told Over Again. Horace Scudder. 12430. e. 32. Gay
and Bird.
</li>
<li>Indian Folk Tales (American Indian). Mary F. Nixon-Roulet. 12411. cc.
14. D. Appleton Company.</li>

</ul>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">221</a></span></p>

<h3><span class="smcap">Romance.</span></h3>

<ul class="hang">

<li>Epic and Romance. Professor W. P. Ker. 2310. c. 20. Macmillan.
(As preparation for the selection of Romance
Stories.)</li>

<li>Old Celtic Romances. P. W. Joyce. 12430. cc. 34. David
Nutt.</li>

<li>Heroes of Asgard. Keary. 012273. de. 6. Macmillan &amp; Co.</li>

<li>Early British Heroes. Hartley. 12411. d. 5. J. M. Dent
&amp; Co.</li>

<li>A Child's Book of Saints. W. Canton. 12206. r. 11. J. M.
Dent.</li>

<li>A Child's Book of Warriors. W. Canton. 04413. g. 49.
J. M. Dent.</li>

<li>History of Ballads. Professor W. P. Ker. From “Proceedings
of British Academy.” 11852. Vol. 6 (9).</li>

<li>History of English Balladry. Egbert Briant. 011853. aaa.
16. Richard G. Badger, Gorham Press.</li>

<li>Book of Ballads for Boys and Girls. Selected by Smith and
Soutar. 11622. bbb. 3. 7. The Clarendon Press.</li>

<li>A Book of Ballad Stories. Mary Macleod. 12431. p. 3.
Wells, Gardner &amp; Co.</li>

<li>Captive Royal Children. G. T. Whitham. 10806. eee. 2.
Wells, Gardner, Darton &amp; Co.</li>

<li>Tales and Talks from History. 9007. h. 24. Blackie &amp; Son.</li>

<li>Stories from Froissart. Henry Newbolt. 9510. cc. 9. Wells,
Gardner, Darton &amp; Co.</li>

<li>Pilgrim Tales from Chaucer. F. J. Harvey Darton. 12410.
eee. 14. Wells, Gardner &amp; Darton.</li>

<li>Wonder Book of Romances. F. J. Harvey Darton. 12410.
eee. 18. Wells, Gardner &amp; Darton.</li>

<li>Red Romance Book. Andrew Lang. 12411. bbb. 10. Longmans,
Green &amp; Co.</li>

<li>The Garden of Romance. Edited by Ernest Rhys. 12411.
h. 17. Kegan Paul.</li>

<li>The Kiltartan Wonderbook. Lady Gregory. 12450. g. 32.
Maunsel &amp; Co.</li>

<li>The Story of Drake. L. Elton. 10601. p. (From “The
Children's Heroes” Series.)</li>

<li>Tales from Arabian Nights. 012201. ff. 7/1. Blackie &amp;
Sons.</li>

<li>King Peter. Dion Calthrop, 012632. ccc. 37. Duckworth
&amp; Co.</li>

<li>Tales of the Heroic Ages: Siegfried, Beowulf, Frithjof,
Roland. Zenaide Ragozin. 12411. eee. G. P. Putnam.</li></ul>

<h3><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">222</a></span>

<span class="smcap">Titles of Miscellaneous Books containing
Material for Narration.</span></h3>

<ul class="hang">

<li>Strange Adventures in Dicky Birdland. Kearton. 12809.
ff. 45. Cassell &amp; Co.</li>

<li>Then and Now Stories: Life in England Then and Now;
Children Then and Now; Story-Tellers Then and Now.
W.P. 2221. Macmillan &amp; Co.</li>

<li>A Book of Bad Children. Trego Webb. 012808. ee. Methuen
&amp; Co.</li>

<li>Land of Play. Ada Wallas. 12813. r. 8. (The story of a
Doll-Historian, much appreciated by children.)
Edward Arnold.</li>

<li>Tell It Again Stories (For very young children). Elizabeth
Thompson Dillingham and Adèle Pomers Emerson.
012808. cc. 15. Ginn and Co.</li>

<li>The Basket Woman. Mrs. Mary Austin. Houghton Mifflin
Co.</li>

<li>The Queen Bee, and Other Stories. Evald. (Translated
by C. C. Moore Smith.) P.P. 6064 c. Nelson and Sons.</li>

<li>The Children and the Pictures. Pamela Tennant. 12804. tt.
10. William Heinemann.</li>

<li>Stories from the History of Ceylon for Children. Marie
Musaus Higgins. Capper &amp; Sons.</li>

<li>Nonsense for Somebody by A. Nobody. 12809. n. 82.
Wells, Gardner &amp; Co.</li>

<li>Graphic Stories for Boys and Girls. Selected from 3, 4, 5, 6
of the Graphic Readers. 012866. f. Collins.</li>

<li>Child Lore. 1451. a. 54. Nimmo.</li>

<li>Windlestraw (Legends in Rhyme of Plants and Animals).
Pamela Glenconner. 011651. e. 76. Chiswick Press.</li>

<li>Deccan Nursery Tales. Kinaid. Macmillan.</li>

<li>The Indian's Story Book. Richard Wilson. Macmillan.</li>

<li>Told in Gallant Deeds. A Child's History of the War.
Mrs. Belloc Lowndes. Nisbet.</li></ul>

<p>I much regret that I have been unable to find a good
collection of stories from history for Narrative
purposes. I have made a careful and lengthy search,
but apart from the few I have quoted the stories are
all written from the <i>reading</i> point of view, rather than
the <i>telling</i>. There is a large scope for such a book,
but the dramatic presentation is the first and chief
essential of such a work. These stories could be used
as supplementary to the readings of the great<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">223</a></span>
historians. It would be much easier to interest boys
and girls in the more leisurely account of the historian
when they have once been caught in the fire of
enthusiasm on the dramatic side.</p>

<p>The following is a list of single stories chosen for
the dramatic qualities which make them suitable for
narration. For the Press-marks and the publishers
it will be necessary to refer back to the list containing
the book-titles.</p>

<h3><span class="smcap">Classical Stories Re-told.</span></h3>

<ul class="hang">
<li>The Story of Theseus (To be told in six parts for a series).</li>
<li class="isub1">How Theseus Lifted the Stone.</li>
<li class="isub1">How Theseus Slew the Corynetes.</li>
<li class="isub1">How Theseus Slew Sinis.</li>
<li class="isub1">How Theseus Slew Kerkyon and Procrustes.</li>
<li class="isub1">How Theseus Slew Medea and was acknowledged as the Son of Ægeus.</li>
<li class="isub1">How Theseus Slew the Minotaur.</li>
<li class="isub2">(From Kingsley's Heroes. 012208. e. 22/26. Blackie &amp; Son.)</li>
<li>The Story of Crœsus.</li>
<li>The Conspiracy of the Magi.</li>
<li>Arion and the Dolphin.</li>
<li class="isub1">(From Wonder Tales from Herodotus. These are
intended for reading, but could be shortened for
effective narration.)</li>

<li>Coriolanus.</li>
<li>Julius Cæsar.</li>
<li>Aristides.</li>
<li>Alexander.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Plutarch's Lives for Boys and Girls. These
stories must be shortened and adapted for narration.)
</li>
<li>The God of the Spears: The Story of Romulus.</li>
<li>His Father's Crown: The story of Alcibiades. </li>
<li class="isub1">(From Tales from Plutarch. F. J. Rowbotham. Both
these stories to be shortened and told in sections.)</li>
</ul>

<h3><span class="smcap">Indian Stories.</span></h3>

<ul class="hang">
<li>The Wise Old Shepherd.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From The Talking Thrush. Rouse.)</li>

<li>The Religious Camel.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From the same source.)</li>
<li><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">224</a></span>
Less Inequality than Men Deem.</li>
<li>The Brahman, the Tiger and the Six Judges.</li>
<li>Tit for Tat.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Old Deccan Days. Mary Frere.)</li>
<li>Pride Goeth Before a Fall. </li>
<li>Harisarman. </li>

<li class="isub1">(From Jacob's Indian Fairy Tales.)</li>

<li>The Bear's Bad Bargain.</li>
<li>Little Anklebone.</li>
<li>Peasie and Beansie.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Wide Awake Stories. Flora Annie Steel.)</li>

<li>The Weaver and the Water Melon.</li>
<li>The Tiger and the Hare.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Indian Nights' Entertainment. Synnerton.)</li>

<li>The Virtuous Animals.</li>
<li class="isub1">(This story should be abridged and somewhat altered
for narration.)</li>

<li>The Ass as Singer.</li>
<li>The Wolf and the Sheep.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Tibetian Tales. F. A. Schieffur.)</li>
<li>A Story about Robbers.</li>
<li class="isub1">(From Out of the Far East. Page. 131. Lafcadio
Hearn. 10058. de. g. Houghton and Mifflin.)</li>
<li>Dripping.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Indian Fairy Tales. Mark Thornhill. 12431.
bbb. 38. Hatchard.)</li>

<li>The Buddha as Tree-Spirit.</li>
<li>The Buddha as Parrot.</li>
<li>The Buddha as King.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Eastern Stories and Fables. George Routledge.)</li>
<li>Raksas and Bakshas.</li>
<li>The Bread of Discontent.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Legendary Lore of All Nations. Cathcart and
Swinton.)</li>

<li>A Germ-Destroyer.</li>
<li>Namgay Doola (A good story for boys, to be given in shortened form).</li>

<li class="isub1">(From The Kipling Reader. 1227. t. 7. Macmillan.)</li>

<li>A Stupid Boy.</li>
<li>The Clever Jackal (One of the few stories wherein the Jackal shows
skill combined with gratitude).</li>

<li>Why the Fish Laughed.

(From Folk Tales of Kashmir. Knowles.)</li>
</ul>

<h3><span class="smcap">Common Sense and Resourcefulness and Humour.</span></h3>

<ul class="hang">
<li>The Thief and the Cocoanut Tree.</li>

<li>The Woman and the Lizard.</li>
<li><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">225</a></span>
Sada Sada.</li>
<li>The Shopkeeper and the Robber.</li>
<li>The Reciter.</li>
<li>Rich Man's Potsherd.</li>
<li>Singer and the Donkey.</li>
<li>Child and Milk.</li>
<li>Rich Man Giving a Feast.</li>
<li>King Solomon and the Mosquitoes.</li>
<li>The King who Promised to Look After Tennel Ranan's Family.</li>
<li>Vikadakavi.</li>
<li>Horse and Complainant.</li>
<li>The Woman and the Stolen Fruit.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From An Indian Tale or Two. Swinton. 14171. A. 20.
Reprinted from Blackheath Local Guide.)</li>
</ul>

<h3><span class="smcap">Titles of Books containing Stories from History.</span></h3>

<ul class="hang">
<li>British Sailor Heroes. </li>
<li>British Soldier Heroes. </li>

<li class="isub1">(From the Hero Reader. W.P. 53 ⅓. William Heinemann.)</li>

<li>The Story of Alfred the Great. A. E. McKillan.</li>
<li>Alexander the Great. Ada Russell: W.P. 66/5.</li>
<li>The Story of Jean d'Arc. Wilmot Buxton. W.P. 66/1.</li>
<li>Marie Antoinette. Alice Birkhead. W.P. 66/2.</li>

<li class="isub1">(All these are published by George Harrap.)</li>
</ul>

<h3><span class="smcap">Stories from the Lives of Saints.</span></h3>

<ul class="hang">
<li>The Children's Library of the Saints. Edited by Rev. W. Guy Pearse.
Printed by Richard Jackson.</li>

<li class="isub1">(This is an illustrated penny edition.)</li>

<li>From the Legenda Aurea. 012200. de.</li>
<li class="isub1">The Story of St. Brandon (The Episode of the Birds). Vol 7, page 52.</li>
<li class="isub1">The Story of St. Francis. Vol. 6, page 125.</li>
<li class="isub1">The Story of Santa Clara and the Roses.</li>
<li class="isub1">Saint Elisabeth of Hungary. Vol. 6, page 213.</li>
<li class="isub1">St. Martin and the Cloak. Vol. 6, page 142.</li>
<li>The Legend of St. Marjory.</li>

<li class="isub1">(<i>Tales Facetiæ.</i> 12350. b. 39.)</li>

<li>Melangell's Lambs.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From The Welsh Fairy Book. W. Jenkyn Thomas.
Fisher Unwin.)</li>
<li><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">226</a></span>
Our Lady's Tumbler. (Twelfth Century Legend told by Philip Wicksteed.
012356. e. 59.)</li>

<li class="isub1">(J. M. Dent. This story could be shortened and adapted
without sacrificing too much of the beauty of the style.)</li>

<li>The Song of the Minster.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From William Canton's Book of Saints. K.T.C. a/4.
J. M. Dent. This should be shortened and somewhat
simplified for narration, especially in the
technical ecclesiastical terms.)</li>

<li>The Story of St. Kenelm the Little King.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Old English History for Children.)</li>

<li>The Story of King Alfred and St. Cuthbert.</li>
<li>The Story of Ædburg, the Daughter of Edward.</li>
<li>The Story of King Harold's Sickness and Recovery.</li>
</ul>

<p>I commend all those who tell these stories to read
the comments made on them by E. A. Freeman
himself.</p>

<ul class="hang">

<li>(From Old English History for Children. 012206. ppp.
7. J. M. Dent. Everyman Series.)</li></ul>

<h3><span class="smcap">Stories Dealing with the Success of the
Youngest Child.</span></h3>

<p class="hang">(This is sometimes due to a kind action shown to
some humble person or to an animal.)</p>

<ul class="hang">
<li>The Three Sons.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From The Kiltartan Wonderbook. By Lady Gregory.)</li>

<li>The Flying Ship.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Russian Fairy Tales. Nisbet Pain.)</li>

<li>How Jesper Herded the Hares.</li>
<li class="isub1">(From The Violet Fairy Book. 12411. ccc. 6.)</li>

<li>Youth, Life and Death.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Myths and Folk Tales of Russians and Slavs.
By Curtin.)</li>

<li>Jack the Dullard. Hans Christian Andersen.</li>

<li class="isub1">(See list of <a href="#C_Andersen">Andersen Stories</a>.)</li>

<li>The Enchanted Whistle.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From The Golden Fairy Book. 12411. c. 36.)</li>

<li>The King's Three Sons.</li>

<li>Hunchback and Brothers.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Legends of the French Provinces. 1241. c. 2.)</li>

<li>The Little Humpbacked Horse. (This story is more suitable
for reading than telling.)</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Russian Wonder Tales. By Post Wheeler.
12410. dd. 30. Adam and Charles Black.)</li>
<li><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">227</a></span>
The Queen Bee. By Grimm. (See full list.)</li>

<li>The Wonderful Bird.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Roumanian Fairy Tales. Adapted by J. M.
Percival. 12431. dd. 23. Henry Holt.)</li>
</ul>

<h3><span class="smcap">Legends, Myths, Fairy Tales and Miscellaneous
Stories.</span></h3>

<ul class="hang">
<li>How the Herring became King.</li>
<li>Joe Moore's Story.</li>
<li>The Mermaid of Gob Ny Ooyl.</li>
<li>King Magnus Barefoot.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Manx Tales. By Sophia Morrison.)
</li>
<li>The Greedy Man.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Contes Populaires Malgaches. By G. Ferrand.
2348. aaa. 19. Ernest Leroux.)</li>

<li>Arbutus.</li>
<li>Basil.</li>
<li>Briony.</li>
<li>Dandelion.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Legends of Myths and Flowers. C. Skinner.)
</li>
<li>The Magic Picture.</li>
<li>The Stone Monkey.</li>
<li>Stealing Peaches.</li>
<li>The Country of Gentlemen.</li>
<li>Football on a Lake.</li>
<li class="isub1">(From Chinese Fairy Tales. Professor Giles.)</li>

<li>The Lime Tree.</li>
<li>Intelligence and Luck.</li>
<li>The Frost, the Sun and Wind.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Sixty Folk Tales. Wratislaw.)</li>

<li>The Boy who Slept.</li>
<li>The Gods Know. (This story must be shortened and adapted for narration.)</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Chinese Fairy Stories. By Pitman.)</li>
<li>The Imp Tree.</li>
<li>The Pixy Flower.</li>
<li>Tom-Tit Tot.</li>
<li>The Princess of Colchester.</li>
<li class="isub1">(From Fairy Gold. Ernest Rhys.)</li>

<li>The Origin of the Mole.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Cossack Fairy Tales. Selected by Nisbet Bain.
12431. f. 51. Lawrence and Bullen.)</li>

<li>Dolls and Butterflies.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Myths and Legends of Japan. Chapter VI.)</li>

<li>The Child of the Forest.</li>
<li>The Sparrow's Wedding.</li>
<li><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">228</a></span>
The Moon Maiden.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Old World Japan. By Frank Binder.)</li>

<li>The Story of Merlin. (For Young People.)</li>

<li class="isub1">(Told in Early British Heroes. Harkey.)</li>

<li>The Isle of the Mystic Lake.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Voyage of Maildun, “Old Celtic Romances.”
P. W. Joice.)</li>

<li>The Story of Baldur. (In Three Parts, for Young Children.)</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Heroes of Asgard. M. R. Earle. Macmillan.)</li>

<li>Adalhero.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Evenings with the Old Story-Tellers. See
“Titles of Books.”)</li>

<li>Martin, the Peasant's Son.</li>

<li class="isub1">(This is more suitable for reading. From Russian
Wonder Tales. Post Wheeler.)</li>
</ul>

<h3><span class="smcap">Miscellaneous Stories.</span></h3>

<ul class="hang">
<li>Versions of the Legend of Rip Van Winkle.</li>
<li>Urashima.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Myths and Legends of Japan. Hadland Davis.)</li>

<li>The Monk and the Bird.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From the Book of Legends-Told Over Again. Horace
Scudder.)</li>

<li>Carob. (Talmud Legend.)</li>
<li class="isub1">(From Myths and Legends of Flowers. C. Skinner.)</li>
<li>The Land of Eternal Youth.</li> <li class="isub1">(From Child-Lore.)</li>

<li>Catskin.</li>
<li>Guy of Gisborne.</li>
<li>King Henry and the Miller.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Stories from Ballads. M. Macleod.)</li>

<li>The Legend of the Black Prince.</li>

<li>Why the Wolves no Longer Devour the Lambs on Xmas Night.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Au Pays des Legendes. E. Herpin. 12430.
bbb. 30. Hyacinthe Calliere.)</li>

<li>The Coyote and the Locust.</li>
<li>The Coyote and the Raven.</li>
<li class="isub1">(From Zuni Folk Tales. Cushing.)</li>
<li>The Peacemaker.

(From Legends of the Iroquois. W. V. Canfield.)</li>

<li>The Story of the Great Chief of the Animals.</li>
<li>The Story of Lion and Little Jackal.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Kaffir Folk Tales. G. M. Theal.)</li>

<li>The Legend of the Great St. Nicholas.</li>
<li>The Three Counsels.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Bulletin de Folk Lore. Liege. Academies,
987 ½.)</li>
<li><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">229</a></span>
The Tale of the Peasant Demyar.</li>

<li>Monkey and the Pomegranate Tree.</li>
<li>The Ant and the Snow.</li>
<li>The Value of an Egg.</li>
<li>The Padre and the Negro.</li>
<li>Papranka.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Tales of Old Lusitania. Coelho.)</li>

<li>Kojata.</li>
<li>The Lost Spear. (To be shortened.)</li>
<li>The Hermit. By Voltaire.</li>
<li>The Blue Cat. (From the French.)</li>
<li>The Silver Penny.</li>
<li>The Three Sisters.</li>
<li>The Slippers of Abou-Karem.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From The Golden Fairy Book. 12411. e. 36. Hutchinson.)</li>

<li>The Fairy Baby.

(From Uncle Remus in Hansaland. By Mary and
Newman Tremearne.)</li>

<li>Why the Sole of a Man's Foot is Uneven.</li>
<li>The Wonderful Hair.</li>
<li>The Emperor Trojan's Goat Ears.</li>
<li>The Language of Animals.</li>
<li>Handicraft above Everything.</li>
<li>Just Earnings are Never Lost.</li>
<li>The Maiden who was Swifter than a Horse.</li>
<li class="isub1">(From Servian Stories and Legends.)</li>

<li>Le Couple Silencieux.</li>
<li>Le Mort Parlant.</li>
<li>La Sotte Fiancee.</li>
<li>Le Cornacon.</li>
<li>Persin au Pot.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Contes Populaires du Vallon. Aug. Gittée.
12430. h. 44.)</li>

<li>The Rat and the Cat.</li>
<li>The Two Thieves.</li>
<li>The Two Rats.</li>
<li>The Dog and the Rat.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Contes Populaires Malgaches. 2348. aaa. 19.
Gab. Ferrand.)</li>
<li>Rua and Toka.
(From The Maori Tales. Clark.)</li>

<li>John and the Pig. (Old Hungarian Tales.)

(This story is given for the same purpose as “Long
Bow Story.” See Andrew Lang's Books.)</li>

<li>Lady Clare.</li>
<li>The Wolf-Child.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Land of Grapes and Nuts.)</li>
<li><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">230</a></span>
The Ungrateful Man.</li>
<li>The Faithful Servant. (In part.)</li>
<li>Jovinian the Proud Emperor.</li>
<li>The Knight and the King of Hungary.</li>
<li>The Wicked Priest.</li>
<li>The Emperor Conrad and the Count's Son.</li>

<li class="isub1">

(From the Gesta Romanorum. 1155. e. I.)</li>

<li>Virgil, the Emperor and the Truffles.

(From Unpublished Legends of Virgil. Collected by
C. G. Leland. 12411. eee. 15. Elliot Stock.)</li>

<li>Seeing that All was Right. (A good story for boys.)</li>
<li>La Fortuna.</li>
<li>The Lanterns of the Strozzi Palace.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Legends of Florence. Re-told by C. G. Leland.
12411. c.cc. 2. David Nutt.)</li>

<li>The Three Kingdoms.</li>
<li>Yelena the Wise.</li>
<li>Seven Simeons.</li>
<li>Ivan, the Bird and the Wolf.</li>
<li>The Pig, the Deer and the Steed.</li>
<li>Waters of Youth.</li>
<li>The Useless Wagoner.</li>

<li class="isub1">(These stories need shortening and adapting. From
Myths and Folk Tales of the Russian. Curtin.) </li>
</ul>

<h3><span class="smcap">Miscellaneous Stories taken from the Andrew
<a id="Lang_Books"></a>Lang Books.</span></h3>

<ul class="hang">
<li>The Serpent's Gifts.</li>
<li>Unlucky John.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From All Sorts of Story Books. 012704. aaa. 35.)</li>

<li>Makoma. (A story for boys.)</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Orange Fairy Book. 12411. c. 36.)</li>

<li>The Lady of Solace.</li>
<li>How the Ass Became a Man Again.</li>
<li>Amys and Amile.</li>
<li>The Burning of Njal.</li>
<li>Ogier the Dane.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Red Book of Romance. 12411. bbb. 10.)</li>

<li>The Heart of a Donkey.</li>
<li>The Wonderful Tune.</li>
<li>A French Puck.</li>
<li>A Fish Story.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From The Lilac Fairy Book. 12411. de. 17.)</li>

<li>East of the Sun and West of the Moon. (As a preparation for Cupid and
Psyche.)</li>

<li class="isub1">(From The Blue Fairy Book. 12411. I. 3.)</li>
<li><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">231</a></span>
The Half Chick.</li>
<li>The Story of Hok Lee and the Dwarfs.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From The Green Fairy Book. 12411.1. 6.)</li>

<li>How to Find a True Friend. (To be given in shorter form.)</li>

<li class="isub1">(From The Crimson Fairy Book. 12411. c. 20.)
</li>
<li>The Long Bow Story. (This story makes children learn to distinguish
between falsehood and romance.)</li>
<li class="isub1">(From The Olive Fairy Book. 12410. dd. 18.)</li>

<li>Kanny, the Kangaroo.</li>
<li>Story of Tom the Bear.</li>
<li class="isub1">(From The Animal Story Book.)</li>

<li>The Story of the Fisherman.</li>
<li>Aladdin and the Lamp. (This story should be divided and told in two
sections.)</li>
<li>The Story of Ali Cogia.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From the Arabian Nights Stories of Andrew Lang.
All these stories are published by Longmans,
Green &amp; Co.)</li>
</ul>

<p class="noin">The following titles are taken from the “Story-telling
Magazine,” published 27 West 23rd Street,
New York.</p>

<ul class="hang">
<li>March and the Shepherd. </li>

<li class="isub1">(Folk Lore from Foreign Lands. January, 1914.)</li>

<li>The Two Young Lions.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Fénélon's Fables and Fairy Tales. Translated
by Marc T. Valette. March, 1914.)</li>

<li>Why the Cat Spits at the Dog. (November, 1913.)</li>
<li>The Story of Persephone. By R. T. Wyche. (September, 1913.)</li>
<li>The Story of England's First Poet. By G. P. Krapp.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From In Oldest England, July, 1913.)</li>
<li>The Three Goats. By Jessica Child. (For very young children. July,
1913.)</li>
<li>The Comical History of the Cobbler and the King. (Chap. Book. 12331. i.
4.)</li>
<li class="isub1">(This story should be shortened to add to the dramatic<br />
power.)</li>
</ul>

<p class="noin">The two following stories, which are great favourites,
should be told one after the other, one to illustrate the
patient wife, and the other the patient husband.</p>

<ul class="hang">

<li>The Fisherman and his Wife. Hans. C. Andersen.</li>

<li class="isub1">(See Publishers of Andersen's Stories.)</li>
<li><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">232</a></span>
Hereafter This.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From More English Fairy Tales. By Jacobs. 12411.
h. 23. David Nutt.)</li>

<li>How a Man Found his Wife in the Land of the Dead. (This is a very
dramatic and pagan story, to be used with discretion.)</li>
<li>The Man without Hands and Feet.</li>
<li>The Cockerel.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Papuan Fairy Tales. Annie Ker.)</li>

<li>The Story of Sir Tristram and La Belle Iseult. (To be told in shortened
form.)</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Cornwall's Wonderland. Mabel Quiller Couch.)</li>

<li>The Cat that Went to the Doctor.</li>
<li>The Wood Anemone.</li>
<li>Sweeter than Sugar.</li>
<li>The Raspberry Caterpillar.</li>
<li class="isub1">(From Fairy Tales from Finland. Zopelius.)</li>

<li>Dinevan the Emu.</li>
<li>Goomble Gubbon the Bustard.</li>
<li class="isub1">(From Australian Legendary Lore. By Mrs. Langloh
Parker. 12411. h. 13.)</li>

<li>The Tulip Bed.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From English Fairy Book. Ernest Rhys.)</li>
</ul>

<p>I have been asked so often for this particular story:
I am glad to be able to provide it in very poetical
language.</p>

<ul class="hang">
<li>The Fisherman and his Wife.</li>
<li>The Wolf and the Kids.</li>
<li>The Adventures of Chanticleer and Partlet.</li>
<li>The Old Man and his Grandson.</li>
<li>Rumpelstiltskin.</li>
<li>The Queen Bee.</li>
<li>The Wolf and the Man.</li>
<li>The Golden Goose.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Grimm's Fairy Tales. By Mrs. Edgar Lucas.
12410. dd. 33. Constable.)</li>
</ul>

<h3><span class="smcap">Stories from Hans <a id="C_Andersen"></a>C. Andersen.</span></h3>

<p class="center">(For young children.)</p>

<ul class="hang">
<li>Ole-Luk-Oie. (Series of seven.)</li>
<li>What the Old Man Does is Always Right.</li>
<li>The Princess and the Pea.</li>
<li>Thumbelina.</li>
</ul>

<p class="center"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">233</a></span>(For older children.)</p>

<ul class="hang">
<li>It's Quite True.</li>
<li>Five Out of One Pod.</li>
<li>Great Claus and Little Claus.</li>
<li>Jack the Dullard.</li>
<li>The Buckwheat.</li>
<li>The Fir-Tree.</li>
<li>The Little Tin Soldier.</li>
<li>The Nightingale.</li>
<li>The Ugly Duckling.</li>
<li>The Swineherd.</li>
<li>The Sea Serpent.</li>
<li>The Little Match-Girl.</li>
<li>The Gardener and the Family.</li>
</ul>

<p>The two best editions of Hans C. Andersen's Fairy Tales
are the translation by Mrs. Lucas, published by Dent, and
the only complete English edition, published by W. A. and
J. K. Craigie (Humphrey Milford, 1914).</p>

<h3><span class="smcap">Miscellaneous Modern Stories.</span></h3>

<ul class="hang">
<li>The Summer Princess.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From The Enchanted Garden. Mrs. Molesworth.
012803. d. f. T. Fisher Unwin. This could be
shortened and arranged for narration.)</li>

<li>Thomas and the Princess. (A Fairy Tale for Grown-Ups, for pure
relaxation.) By Joseph Conrad.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Twenty-six Ideal Stories for Girls. 012809. e. 1.
Hutchinson &amp; Co.)</li>

<li>The Truce of God.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From All-Fellowes Seven Legends of Lower Redemption.
Laurence Housman. 012630. 1. 25. Kegan
Paul.)</li>

<li>The Selfish Giant. By Oscar Wilde. 012356. e. 59. David Nutt.</li>
<li>The Legend of the Tortoise.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From the Provençal. From Windestraw. Pamela
Glenconner.) Chiswick Press.</li>

<li>Fairy Grumblesnooks.</li>
<li>A Bit of Laughter's Smile. By Maud Symonds.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Tales for Little People. Nos. 323 and 318.
Aldine Publishing Company.)</li>

<li>The Fairy who Judged her Neighbours.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From The Little Wonder Box. By Jean Ingelow.
12806. r. 21. Griffiths, Farren &amp; Co.)</li>

</ul>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">234</a></span></p>

<h3><span class="smcap">For Teachers of Young Children.</span></h3>

<ul class="hang">
<li>Le Courage.</li>
<li>L'Ecole.</li>
<li>Le Jour de Catherine.</li>
<li>Jacqueline et Mirant.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Nos Enfants. Anatole France. 12810. dd. 72.
Hachette.)</li>

<li>The Giant and the Jackstraw. By David Starr Jordan.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From Una and the Knights. For very small children.)</li>

<li>The Musician.</li>
<li>Legend of the Christmas Rose.</li>

<li class="isub1">(From The Girl from the Marsh Croft. Selma <span class="err" title="original: Lagelöf">Lagerlöf</span>.
12581. p. 99.)</li>

<li class="isub1">Both these should be shortened and adapted for narration.</li>
</ul>

<p>I trust that the titles of my stories in this Section
may not be misleading. Under the titles of “Myths,
Legends and Fairy Tales,” I have included many
which contain valuable ethical teaching, deep philosophy
and stimulating examples for conduct in life.
I regret that I have not been able to furnish in my
own list many of the stories I consider good for
narration, but the difficulty of obtaining permission
has deterred me from further efforts in this direction.
I hope, however, that teachers and students will look
up the book containing these stories.</p>

<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_55_55" id="Footnote_55_55"></a><a href="#FNanchor_55_55"><span class="label">[55]</span></a> Both books dealing with insect life.</p></div></div>

<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">235</a></span></p>
<h2>INDEX</h2>

<ul class="index">
<li>Adler, Felix, on animal stories, <a href="#Page_80">80</a></li>

<li>Adventures of a Beetle, <a href="#Page_29">29</a></li>

<li>Alice in Wonderland, <a href="#Page_57">57</a>, <a href="#Page_136">136</a></li>

<li>Analysis of motive and feeling, to be avoided, <a href="#Page_43">43</a></li>

<li>Andersen, Hans C., <a href="#Page_2">2</a>, <a href="#Page_15">15</a>, <a href="#Page_16">16</a>, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>,
<a href="#Page_29">29</a>, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>, <a href="#Page_34">34</a>, <a href="#Page_39">39</a>, <a href="#Page_41">41</a>, <a href="#Page_44">44</a>, <a href="#Page_45">45</a>,
<a href="#Page_62">62</a>, <a href="#Page_63">63</a>,
<a href="#Page_80">80</a>, <a href="#Page_112">112</a>, <a href="#Page_116">116</a>, <a href="#Page_123">123</a>, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>, <a href="#Page_138">138</a>, <a href="#Page_150">150</a>, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>, <a href="#Page_232">232</a></li>

<li>Animal Play, Psychology of, <a href="#Page_105">105</a></li>

<li>Art, true purpose of, <a href="#Page_109">109</a></li>

<li>Arthur in the Cave, <a href="#Page_165">165</a>-<a href="#Page_169">9</a></li>

<li>Artifices of story telling, <a href="#Page_32">32</a></li>

<li class="p2">Bacon, J. D. D., <a href="#Page_12">12</a></li>

<li>Ballad for a boy, <a href="#Page_107">107</a></li>

<li>Baring, M., <a href="#Page_193">193</a></li>

<li>Barnes, Earl, <a href="#Page_60">60</a></li>

<li>Barnett, P. A., <a href="#Page_104">104</a></li>

<li>Barnett, Mrs. P. A., <a href="#Page_70">70</a></li>

<li>Barrow, E., <a href="#Page_40">40</a></li>

<li>Beautiful things need appropriate language, <a href="#Page_82">82</a></li>

<li>Beetle, the, <a href="#Page_125">125</a></li>

<li>Beginning, should be striking, <a href="#Page_39">39</a></li>

<li>Belloc's Cautionary Tales, <a href="#Page_56">56</a></li>

<li>Béranger, <a href="#Page_25">25</a></li>

<li>Bible Stories, <a href="#Page_67">67</a></li>

<li>Björnson's tribute to Andersen, <a href="#Page_116">116</a></li>

<li>Blazing Mansion, the, <a href="#Page_74">74</a></li>

<li>Bluebeard, <a href="#Page_76">76</a></li>

<li>Blue Rose, the, <a href="#Page_187">187</a></li>

<li>‘Blugginess,’ the thirst for, <a href="#Page_85">85</a></li>

<li>Books, choice of, <a href="#Page_61">61</a></li>

<li>Bradley, Professor, <a href="#Page_119">119</a></li>

<li>Brown, T. E., <a href="#Page_17">17</a></li>

<li>Buddha, stories of, <a href="#Page_87">87</a>, <a href="#Page_127">127</a>, <a href="#Page_200">200</a>, <a href="#Page_203">203</a></li>

<li>Buffoonery, to be discouraged, <a href="#Page_54">54</a></li>

<li>Burroughs, John, <a href="#Page_58">58</a>, <a href="#Page_108">108</a></li>

<li>Buster Brown, <a href="#Page_53">53</a></li>

<li>Butterfly, Story of, <a href="#Page_45">45</a></li>

<li class="p2">Call of the Homeland, <a href="#Page_71">71</a></li>

<li>Calypso, <a href="#Page_93">93</a></li>

<li>Calthrop, Dion, <a href="#Page_92">92</a></li>

<li>Carlyle, T., <a href="#Page_115">115</a></li>

<li>Chap books, <a href="#Page_51">51</a>, <a href="#Page_52">52</a></li>

<li>Chesterton, G. K., on sentimentality, <a href="#Page_46">46</a></li>

<li>Child, the, <a href="#Page_87">87</a></li>

<li>Child Play, <a href="#Page_104">104</a>, <a href="#Page_105">105</a></li>

<li>Children's Catalogue, <a href="#Page_211">211</a></li>

<li>Choice of books, <a href="#Page_61">61</a></li>

<li>Christopher, St., legend of, <a href="#Page_162">162</a>-<a href="#Page_165">5</a></li>

<li>Cid, the, <a href="#Page_133">133</a></li>

<li>Cinderella, <a href="#Page_71">71</a>, <a href="#Page_90">90</a>, <a href="#Page_119">119</a>, <a href="#Page_120">120</a></li>

<li>Classical Stories, <a href="#Page_218">218</a>, <a href="#Page_223">223</a></li>

<li>Class teaching, use of story-telling in, <a href="#Page_132">132</a></li>

<li>Clifford, Ethel, <a href="#Page_88">88</a></li>

<li>Clifford, Mrs. W. K., <a href="#Page_40">40</a>, <a href="#Page_64">64</a></li>

<li>Commonplace, to be avoided, <a href="#Page_99">99</a></li>

<li>Common sense of Education, <a href="#Page_104">104</a></li>

<li>Common sense, illustrated in stories, <a href="#Page_71">71</a>, <a href="#Page_224">224</a></li>

<li>Concealment of emotion by children, <a href="#Page_114">114</a></li>

<li>Confucius, <a href="#Page_60">60</a></li>

<li>Co-operation of audience, how to enlist, <a href="#Page_37">37</a></li>
<li><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">236</a></span>
Cory, W., <a href="#Page_107">107</a></li>

<li>Coquelin, <a href="#Page_27">27</a>, <a href="#Page_34">34</a></li>

<li>Crazy Jane, <a href="#Page_47">47</a></li>

<li>Creative work, value of, <a href="#Page_113">113</a></li>

<li>Curious Girl, <a href="#Page_51">51</a></li>

<li>Curtin, Russian Myths, <a href="#Page_90">90</a></li>

<li>Cymbeline, <a href="#Page_94">94</a></li>

<li class="p2">Danger of side issues, <a href="#Page_6">6</a></li>

<li>Danger of altering the story for the occasion, <a href="#Page_8">8</a></li>

<li>Darning Needle, <a href="#Page_125">125</a></li>

<li>Death, stories dealing with, <a href="#Page_86">86</a></li>

<li>Death-bed scenes, <a href="#Page_55">55</a></li>

<li>Defence of Poesy, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>, <a href="#Page_110">110</a></li>

<li>Detail, excess of, <a href="#Page_21">21</a></li>

<li>Dick Whittington, <a href="#Page_100">100</a></li>

<li>Didactic fiction, a low type of art, <a href="#Page_4">4</a>, <a href="#Page_59">59</a></li>

<li>Dido and Aeneas, <a href="#Page_66">66</a></li>

<li>Difficulties of the story, <a href="#Page_6">6</a></li>

<li>Dinkey Bird, the, <a href="#Page_64">64</a></li>

<li>Direct appeal, danger of, <a href="#Page_111">111</a></li>

<li>Divine Adventure, the, <a href="#Page_81">81</a></li>

<li>Dobson, Austin, <a href="#Page_21">21</a></li>

<li>Don Quixote, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_133">133</a></li>

<li>Dramatic and poetic elements, <a href="#Page_134">134</a></li>

<li>Dramatic Excitement, <a href="#Page_82">82</a></li>

<li>Dramatic joy, <a href="#Page_4">4</a>, <a href="#Page_93">93</a></li>

<li>Dramatic presentation, of moral value, <a href="#Page_59">59</a></li>

<li class="isub1">—— indispensable, <a href="#Page_89">89</a></li>

<li>Dramatisation, danger of, <a href="#Page_111">111</a></li>

<li>Drudgery, essential for success, <a href="#Page_29">29</a></li>

<li class="p2">Educational uses of story telling, <a href="#Page_4">4</a></li>

<li>Effect of story, difficult to gauge, <a href="#Page_14">14</a></li>

<li class="isub1">—— how to obtain and maintain, <a href="#Page_89">89</a></li>

<li>Elements, desirable, <a href="#Page_61">61</a></li>

<li class="isub1">—— to be avoided, <a href="#Page_42">42</a></li>

<li>Eliot, George, <a href="#Page_83">83</a></li>

<li>Emotions, unable to find expression, <a href="#Page_60">60</a></li>

<li>Emphasis, danger of, <a href="#Page_33">33</a></li>

<li>Endings, dramatic, <a href="#Page_40">40</a></li>

<li>Enfant Prodigue, <a href="#Page_18">18</a></li>

<li>Environment, <a href="#Page_95">95</a></li>

<li>Essentials of the story, <a href="#Page_25">25</a></li>

<li>Ewing, Mrs., <a href="#Page_50">50</a>, <a href="#Page_104">104</a>, <a href="#Page_106">106</a></li>

<li>Examples for Youth, <a href="#Page_56">56</a></li>

<li>Experience, the appeal to, <a href="#Page_62">62</a></li>

<li class="p2">Fact and make-believe, <a href="#Page_119">119</a></li>

<li>Fairchild Family, <a href="#Page_44">44</a></li>

<li>Fairy tales, <a href="#Page_58">58</a>, <a href="#Page_72">72</a>, <a href="#Page_73">73</a>, <a href="#Page_74">74</a>, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>, <a href="#Page_104">104</a>, <a href="#Page_112">112</a></li>

<li class="isub1">—— do not appeal to some, <a href="#Page_121">121</a></li>

<li class="isub1">—— mixed with science, to be avoided, <a href="#Page_57">57</a></li>

<li class="isub1">—— poor material of, <a href="#Page_122">122</a></li>

<li class="isub1">—— potential truth in, <a href="#Page_121">121</a></li>

<li class="isub1">—— right age for, <a href="#Page_75">75</a></li>

<li>Father and Son, <a href="#Page_102">102</a></li>

<li>Fear, appeals to, <a href="#Page_51">51</a></li>

<li>Fénélon's Telemachus, <a href="#Page_92">92</a></li>

<li>Festival Day, true spirit of, <a href="#Page_200">200</a>-<a href="#Page_203">3</a></li>

<li>Fiction, should be used, <a href="#Page_109">109</a></li>

<li>Field, Eugene, <a href="#Page_64">64</a>, <a href="#Page_69">69</a></li>

<li>Filial Piety, <a href="#Page_203">203</a>-<a href="#Page_206">6</a></li>

<li>Fleming, Marjorie, <a href="#Page_53">53</a></li>

<li>Folk lore, tampering with, <a href="#Page_76">76</a></li>

<li>Freeman, P., poems of, <a href="#Page_55">55</a></li>
<li><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">237</a></span>
Froebel, <a href="#Page_59">59</a></li>

<li>Fun, coarse and exaggerated, <a href="#Page_53">53</a></li>

<li class="p2">Gales, R. L., <a href="#Page_101">101</a></li>

<li>Geography, dramatic possibilities of, <a href="#Page_134">134</a></li>

<li>Gesture, use and abuse of, <a href="#Page_35">35</a>, <a href="#Page_126">126</a></li>

<li>Glenconner, Lady, <a href="#Page_187">187</a></li>

<li>Glover, Mrs. Arnold, <a href="#Page_96">96</a></li>

<li>Golden Numbers, <a href="#Page_71">71</a></li>

<li>Goschen, G., <a href="#Page_65">65</a>, <a href="#Page_99">99</a></li>

<li>Gosse, E., <a href="#Page_102">102</a></li>

<li>Gregory, Lady, <a href="#Page_24">24</a></li>

<li>Grimm, <a href="#Page_71">71</a></li>

<li>Groos, Karl, <a href="#Page_105">105</a></li>

<li>Grotesque stories, an antidote to sentimentality, <a href="#Page_78">78</a></li>

<li>Gunnar, Death of, <a href="#Page_133">133</a></li>

<li class="p2">Hafiz the Stone-cutter, <a href="#Page_170">170</a>-<a href="#Page_172">2</a></li>

<li>Harris, Muriel, <a href="#Page_56">56</a></li>

<li>Harrison, Frederic, <a href="#Page_61">61</a></li>

<li>Hearn, Lafcadio, <a href="#Page_31">31</a></li>

<li>Hector and Andromache, <a href="#Page_66">66</a></li>

<li>Helen and Paris, <a href="#Page_8">8</a></li>

<li>Heroes of Asgaard, <a href="#Page_65">65</a></li>

<li>History and fiction, <a href="#Page_109">109</a>, <a href="#Page_225">225</a></li>

<li>Honey Bee and other Stories, <a href="#Page_57">57</a></li>

<li>Human interest, <a href="#Page_93">93</a></li>

<li>Humour, development slow, <a href="#Page_136">136</a></li>

<li class="isub1">—— educational value of, <a href="#Page_135">135</a></li>

<li class="isub1">—— to encourage the sense of, <a href="#Page_4">4</a>, <a href="#Page_73">73</a>, <a href="#Page_224">224</a></li>

<li>Hushaby Lady, <a href="#Page_69">69</a></li>

<li>Hysteria, how encouraged, <a href="#Page_60">60</a></li>

<li class="p2">Ice Maiden, <a href="#Page_80">80</a></li>

<li>Ideal, translated into action, <a href="#Page_4">4</a>, <a href="#Page_110">110</a></li>

<li>Illustration of stories, <a href="#Page_131">131</a></li>

<li>Imagination, appeal by, <a href="#Page_20">20</a></li>

<li class="isub1">—— cultivation of, <a href="#Page_4">4</a>, <a href="#Page_65">65</a>, <a href="#Page_103">103</a></li>

<li class="isub1">—— Queyrat on, <a href="#Page_118">118</a></li>

<li class="isub1">—— Ribot on, <a href="#Page_105">105</a></li>

<li>Indian Stories, <a href="#Page_81">81</a>, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>, <a href="#Page_218">218</a></li>

<li>Infant piety, tales of, <a href="#Page_55">55</a></li>

<li>Irish peasants as an audience, <a href="#Page_10">10</a></li>

<li class="p2">Jack and the Beanstalk, <a href="#Page_74">74</a>, <a href="#Page_121">121</a></li>

<li>Jacob, More English tales, <a href="#Page_72">72</a></li>

<li>James, Henry, <a href="#Page_27">27</a></li>

<li>James, William, <a href="#Page_84">84</a></li>

<li>Janeway, Mrs., <a href="#Page_51">51</a></li>

<li>Jesper and the Hares, <a href="#Page_72">72</a></li>

<li>John and the Pig, <a href="#Page_106">106</a></li>

<li class="p2">Keatinge, on Suggestion, <a href="#Page_34">34</a></li>

<li>Kimmins, Dr., <a href="#Page_130">130</a></li>

<li>Kinematograph, dramatic value of, <a href="#Page_18">18</a>, <a href="#Page_48">48</a></li>

<li>King Peter, <a href="#Page_92">92</a></li>

<li>Kinship with animals, to be encouraged, <a href="#Page_80">80</a></li>

<li>Ker, Professor, <a href="#Page_157">157</a></li>

<li>Kipling, Rudyard, <a href="#Page_38">38</a>, <a href="#Page_39">39</a>, <a href="#Page_40">40</a>, <a href="#Page_41">41</a>, <a href="#Page_123">123</a>, <a href="#Page_127">127</a></li>

<li class="p2">Ladd's Psychology, <a href="#Page_108">108</a></li>

<li>Lang, Andrew, <a href="#Page_72">72</a>, <a href="#Page_73">73</a>, <a href="#Page_85">85</a>, <a href="#Page_230">230</a></li>

<li>Laocoon group, <a href="#Page_55">55</a></li>

<li>Lear's Book of Nonsense, <a href="#Page_79">79</a></li>

<li>Legends, Myths and Fairy tales, <a href="#Page_219">219</a>, <a href="#Page_227">227</a></li>

<li>Life, stories of saving, <a href="#Page_86">86</a></li>

<li>Little Citizens of other Lands, <a href="#Page_103">103</a></li>

<li>Little Cousin Series, <a href="#Page_214">214</a></li>

<li>Little Red Riding Hood, <a href="#Page_76">76</a></li>
<li><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">238</a></span>
Lion and Hare, <a href="#Page_126">126</a></li>

<li>Loti, <a href="#Page_114">114</a></li>

<li class="p2">Magnanimity, to be encouraged, <a href="#Page_107">107</a></li>

<li>Mahomet, advice to teachers, <a href="#Page_68">68</a></li>

<li>McKracken, Mrs. E., <a href="#Page_45">45</a></li>

<li>Macleod, Fiona, <a href="#Page_81">81</a></li>

<li>Marsh King's Daughter, <a href="#Page_62">62</a></li>

<li>Mechanical devices for attracting attention, <a href="#Page_32">32</a></li>

<li>Memory or improvisation, <a href="#Page_123">123</a></li>

<li>Memory, the effect of, <a href="#Page_63">63</a></li>

<li>Mentius, Chinese philosopher, <a href="#Page_95">95</a></li>

<li>Metempsychosis, <a href="#Page_81">81</a></li>

<li>Milking time, <a href="#Page_68">68</a></li>

<li>Mill on the Floss, <a href="#Page_83">83</a></li>

<li>Milton, <a href="#Page_69">69</a></li>

<li>Mimicry, use of, <a href="#Page_36">36</a></li>

<li>Ministering Children, <a href="#Page_44">44</a></li>

<li>Miscellaneous Stories, <a href="#Page_222">222</a>, <a href="#Page_228">228</a></li>

<li>Modern Stories, List of, <a href="#Page_233">233</a></li>

<li>Montessori, on Silence, <a href="#Page_131">131</a></li>

<li>Moore Smith, C. G., <a href="#Page_57">57</a></li>

<li>Moral Instruction of Children, <a href="#Page_81">81</a></li>

<li>Moral tales, <a href="#Page_55">55</a></li>

<li>Morley, Henry, <a href="#Page_58">58</a></li>

<li>Morley, Lord, on direct moral teaching, <a href="#Page_128">128</a></li>

<li>Mother Play, <a href="#Page_59">59</a></li>

<li>Moulton, Professor, <a href="#Page_67">67</a></li>

<li class="p2">Napoleon, <a href="#Page_85">85</a>, <a href="#Page_134">134</a></li>

<li>Nebuchadnezzar's golden image, <a href="#Page_67">67</a></li>

<li>Necker de Saussure, Mme., <a href="#Page_20">20</a></li>

<li>Nightingale, the, <a href="#Page_138">138</a>-<a href="#Page_150">150</a></li>

<li>Njal, Burning of, <a href="#Page_85">85</a>, <a href="#Page_133">133</a></li>

<li>Nonsense, a plea for, <a href="#Page_79">79</a></li>

<li>Norse Stories, <a href="#Page_210">210</a></li>

<li>Nursery Rhymes, <a href="#Page_101">101</a></li>

<li class="p2">Old people, as an audience, <a href="#Page_24">24</a></li>

<li>Openings, vivid, <a href="#Page_39">39</a>, <a href="#Page_40">40</a></li>

<li>Orpheus and Eurydice, <a href="#Page_66">66</a></li>

<li>Our Lady's Tumbler, <a href="#Page_123">123</a></li>

<li>Over dramatic stimulation, <a href="#Page_48">48</a></li>

<li>Over-elaboration, <a href="#Page_21">21</a></li>

<li>Over explanation, danger of, <a href="#Page_23">23</a></li>

<li>Over-illustration, danger of, <a href="#Page_17">17</a></li>

<li class="p2">Pandora, story of, <a href="#Page_123">123</a></li>

<li>Pantomime, stories in, <a href="#Page_18">18</a></li>

<li>Paris and Helen, <a href="#Page_8">8</a></li>

<li>Pausing, the art of, <a href="#Page_33">33</a></li>

<li>Piety Promoted, <a href="#Page_57">57</a></li>

<li>Planting for Eternity, <a href="#Page_115">115</a></li>

<li>Plato, on the End of Education, <a href="#Page_91">91</a></li>

<li>Poetic element, children's unexpressed need, <a href="#Page_135">135</a></li>

<li>Poetry and Life, <a href="#Page_119">119</a></li>

<li>Poetry, effect of, <a href="#Page_119">119</a></li>

<li>Poetry, value of, <a href="#Page_69">69</a></li>

<li>Polish, importance of, <a href="#Page_31">31</a></li>

<li>Poor Robin, <a href="#Page_55">55</a></li>

<li>Priggishness, how to avoid, <a href="#Page_51">51</a></li>

<li>Preparation for a story, <a href="#Page_124">124</a></li>

<li>Princess and the Pea, <a href="#Page_34">34</a>, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>-<a href="#Page_157">7</a></li>

<li>Proud Cock, the, <a href="#Page_178">178</a>-<a href="#Page_180">180</a></li>

<li>Psyche, <a href="#Page_120">120</a></li>

<li>Psychology, <a href="#Page_108">108</a></li>

<li>Psychological novelist, <a href="#Page_108">108</a></li>

<li>Pueblo tribe of Indians, <a href="#Page_91">91</a></li>

<li>Puss in Boots, <a href="#Page_108">108</a></li>

<li class="p2">Quebec and Téméraire, story of, <a href="#Page_107">107</a></li>

<li>Questions, danger of, <a href="#Page_13">13</a></li>
<li><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">239</a></span>
Questions of teachers, <a href="#Page_117">117</a></li>

<li>Questioning the audience, futility of, <a href="#Page_130">130</a></li>

<li>Queyrat, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_23">23</a>, <a href="#Page_63">63</a>, <a href="#Page_106">106</a>, <a href="#Page_113">113</a>, <a href="#Page_118">118</a></li>

<li>Quintilian, on the use of the hands, <a href="#Page_35">35</a></li>

<li class="p2">Reading matter for children, <a href="#Page_211">211</a></li>

<li>Realism, excessive, <a href="#Page_49">49</a></li>

<li>Repetition of story (by children) inadvisable, <a href="#Page_130">130</a></li>

<li>Repetition of stories (by lecturers) recommended, <a href="#Page_30">30</a>, <a href="#Page_62">62</a></li>

<li>Reproduction of stories, <a href="#Page_112">112</a>, <a href="#Page_130">130</a></li>

<li>Resourcefulness, stories of, <a href="#Page_71">71</a>, <a href="#Page_224">224</a></li>

<li>Ribot, on the imagination, <a href="#Page_34">34</a>, <a href="#Page_105">105</a></li>

<li>Riley, Whitcomb, <a href="#Page_100">100</a></li>

<li>Romance, Books of, <a href="#Page_85">85</a>, <a href="#Page_221">221</a></li>

<li>Romance, good for children, <a href="#Page_66">66</a></li>

<li class="isub1">—— in the streets, <a href="#Page_97">97</a></li>

<li>Rossetti, Christina, <a href="#Page_68">68</a></li>

<li>Russell, J., <a href="#Page_161">161</a></li>

<li>Russian myths and folk tales, <a href="#Page_90">90</a></li>

<li class="p2">Saga, a, <a href="#Page_160">160</a>, <a href="#Page_161">161</a></li>

<li>Saints, lives of, <a href="#Page_225">225</a></li>

<li>St. Christopher, Legend of, <a href="#Page_162">162</a>-<a href="#Page_165">5</a></li>

<li>St. Francis and St. Clare, <a href="#Page_66">66</a></li>

<li>Santa Claus, <a href="#Page_122">122</a></li>

<li>Sarcasm, excess to be avoided, <a href="#Page_44">44</a></li>

<li>Satire, excessive, to be deprecated, <a href="#Page_44">44</a></li>

<li>Saturation, necessity of, <a href="#Page_27">27</a></li>

<li>Scott, Dr., <a href="#Page_71">71</a></li>

<li>Scudder, H., <a href="#Page_111">111</a>, <a href="#Page_124">124</a></li>

<li>Sensationalism, danger of, <a href="#Page_47">47</a></li>

<li>Sentimentality, <a href="#Page_45">45</a></li>

<li>Shakespeare, <a href="#Page_69">69</a>, <a href="#Page_96">96</a></li>

<li>Shepherd, the Obstinate, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>-<a href="#Page_178">8</a></li>

<li>Sherwood, Mrs., <a href="#Page_52">52</a></li>

<li>Side issues, danger of, <a href="#Page_6">6</a></li>

<li>Sidney, Sir Philip, <a href="#Page_85">85</a>, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>, <a href="#Page_110">110</a></li>

<li>Siegfried and Brunhild, <a href="#Page_66">66</a></li>

<li>Silence, Montessori on, <a href="#Page_131">131</a></li>

<li>Simplicity, the keynote of story-telling, <a href="#Page_2">2</a></li>

<li>Smith, Mrs. R. B., <a href="#Page_14">14</a></li>

<li>Smith, N. A., <a href="#Page_71">71</a></li>

<li>Snake story, a, <a href="#Page_195">195</a>-<a href="#Page_200">200</a></li>

<li>Snegourka, <a href="#Page_180">180</a>-<a href="#Page_182">2</a></li>

<li>Snow Child, the, <a href="#Page_180">180</a>-<a href="#Page_182">2</a></li>

<li>Somerset, Lady H., <a href="#Page_110">110</a></li>

<li>Song and Story, <a href="#Page_70">70</a></li>

<li>Song of Roland, <a href="#Page_85">85</a></li>

<li>Souvenirs du Peuple, <a href="#Page_25">25</a></li>

<li>Standard, must be high, <a href="#Page_23">23</a></li>

<li>Sterne, <a href="#Page_44">44</a></li>

<li>Stephens, James, <a href="#Page_47">47</a></li>

<li>Stevenson, R. L., <a href="#Page_104">104</a>, <a href="#Page_105">105</a>, <a href="#Page_123">123</a></li>

<li>Stories, in full, <a href="#Page_138">138</a></li>

<li class="isub1">—— to counteract influence of the streets, <a href="#Page_93">93</a></li>

<li class="isub1">—— outside children's experience, futility of, <a href="#Page_48">48</a></li>

<li>Story telling in school and home, <a href="#Page_210">210</a></li>

<li>Story Telling Magazine, <a href="#Page_231">231</a></li>

<li>Sturla, story of, <a href="#Page_157">157</a>-<a href="#Page_160">160</a></li>

<li>Suggestion, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>, <a href="#Page_34">34</a>, <a href="#Page_59">59</a></li>

<li>Sully, on children, <a href="#Page_30">30</a>, <a href="#Page_90">90</a></li>

<li>Sunday books, <a href="#Page_56">56</a></li>

<li>Swineherd, the, <a href="#Page_150">150</a>-<a href="#Page_156">156</a></li>

<li>Sympathy for foreigners, <a href="#Page_103">103</a></li>

<li>Syrett, N., <a href="#Page_118">118</a></li>

<li class="p2">Talking over a story, <a href="#Page_129">129</a></li>

<li>Talking Thrush, the, <a href="#Page_200">200</a></li>

<li><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">240</a></span>
Talks to teachers, <a href="#Page_85">85</a></li>

<li>Teachers of Young Children, books for, <a href="#Page_234">234</a></li>

<li>Telemachus, <a href="#Page_92">92</a></li>

<li>Tell, Wilhelm, <a href="#Page_30">30</a></li>

<li>Tennant, Pamela, <a href="#Page_187">187</a></li>

<li>Thackeray, <a href="#Page_135">135</a></li>

<li>Thomas, W. Jenkyn, <a href="#Page_169">169</a></li>

<li>Three Bears, <a href="#Page_121">121</a></li>

<li>Through the Looking Glass, <a href="#Page_90">90</a></li>

<li>Tiger, Jackal and Brahman, <a href="#Page_11">11</a></li>

<li>Time, spent on story telling, <a href="#Page_117">117</a></li>

<li>Tin Soldier, the, <a href="#Page_63">63</a>, <a href="#Page_64">64</a>, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>, <a href="#Page_129">129</a></li>

<li>Top and Ball, <a href="#Page_125">125</a></li>

<li>To your good health, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>-<a href="#Page_178">8</a></li>

<li>Treasure of the Wise Man, <a href="#Page_100">100</a></li>

<li>Troy, tale of, <a href="#Page_8">8</a></li>

<li>Truth, many-sided, <a href="#Page_122">122</a></li>

<li>Truth of Stories, <a href="#Page_118">118</a></li>

<li>Truth and Falsehood, how to distinguish, <a href="#Page_106">106</a></li>

<li>Two Frogs, the, <a href="#Page_193">193</a>-<a href="#Page_195">5</a></li>

<li class="p2">Ulysses, <a href="#Page_7">7</a>, <a href="#Page_93">93</a></li>

<li>Unfamiliar words, danger of, <a href="#Page_10">10</a></li>

<li>United States, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>, <a href="#Page_33">33</a>, <a href="#Page_49">49</a></li>

<li>Unsuitable material for stories, <a href="#Page_42">42</a></li>

<li>Unusual element, desirable, <a href="#Page_64">64</a></li>

<li>Unwholesome Extravagance, <a href="#Page_53">53</a></li>

<li>Utilitarian stories, danger of, <a href="#Page_99">99</a></li>

<li class="p2">Very Short Stories, <a href="#Page_64">64</a></li>

<li>Virginibus Puerisque, <a href="#Page_104">104</a></li>

<li>Voice, dramatic power of, <a href="#Page_17">17</a></li>

<li class="p2">Wallas, K., <a href="#Page_71">71</a></li>

<li>Warlike Excitement, not essential, <a href="#Page_87">87</a></li>

<li>Water Nixie, the, <a href="#Page_183">183</a>-<a href="#Page_187">7</a></li>

<li>Wide, Wide World, <a href="#Page_44">44</a></li>

<li>Wiggin, Kate Douglas, <a href="#Page_48">48</a>, <a href="#Page_71">71</a></li>

<li>Wise Old Shepherd, the, <a href="#Page_195">195</a>-<a href="#Page_200">200</a></li>

<li>Wolf and Kids, <a href="#Page_78">78</a></li>

<li class="p2">Yonge, Miss, <a href="#Page_54">54</a></li>

<li>Youngest Child, success of, <a href="#Page_226">226</a></li>
</ul>
<hr class="chap" />

<p class="p6 center"><i>Sherratt and Hughes, Printers, London and Manchester.</i></p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p class="center"><big><b>MURRAY'S <br />SHILLING LIBRARY</b></big></p>

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<p class="hang"><b>THE SCHOOLMASTER.</b> A Commentary upon the
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By <span class="smcap">A. C. Benson</span>, C.V.O., President of Magdalene College,
Cambridge.</p>

<p>This book is the fruits of the experience of one who has gained
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<p class="hang"><b>GOLDEN STRING.</b> A Day Book for Busy Men and
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<p>An absorbing record of personal adventure, and a real contribution
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<p class="hang"><b>HISTORICAL MEMORIALS OF CANTERBURY.</b>
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<p>This is the great missionary-explorer's own narrative of his first
travel experiences in Africa, and consists chiefly of a full account
of his wonderful journeys in the years 1849-1856, in the course of
which he discovered the Victoria Falls, and crossed the continent
from west to east.</p>

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By <span class="smcap">Michael Fairless</span>.</p>

<p>Through this little book runs the road of life, the common road
of men, the white highway that Hilarius watched from the monastery
gate and Brother Ambrose saw nearing its end in the Jerusalem
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author it is a romance of the Image of God.</p>

<p class="hang"><b>AN ENGLISHWOMAN'S LOVE LETTERS.</b> By
<span class="smcap">Laurence Housman</span>.</p>

<p>Mr. T. P. O'Connor in the <i>Daily Mail</i> said:&mdash;“I turned over the
leaves rapidly, almost greedily, and had read almost all its story
before I could allow myself to sleep.... It is a loud cry, not
merely of one intoxicated and torn heart, but of the claim of inner
and true emotion to be still the greatest force of life; the one thing
worth having&mdash;worth living for, longing for, dying for.”</p>

<p class="hang"><b>ÆSOP'S FABLES.</b> A New Version, chiefly from the
original sources. By the Rev. <span class="smcap">Thomas James</span>, M.A. With
more than 100 Woodcuts designed by <span class="smcap">Tenniel</span> and <span class="smcap">Wolfe</span>.</p>

<p>Sir John Tenniel's beautiful illustrations are a notable feature of
this edition of “the most popular moral and political class-book
of more than two thousand years.”</p>

<p class="hang"><b>THE LION HUNTER IN SOUTH AFRICA.</b>
Five Years' Adventures in the Far Interior of South Africa,
with Notices of the Native Tribes and Savage Animals. By
<span class="smcap">Roualeyn Gordon Cumming</span>, of Altyre. With Woodcuts.</p>

<p>This sporting classic is a fascinating first-hand narrative of
hunting expeditions in pursuit of big game and adventures with
native tribes. A special interest now attaches to it by reason of
the great changes which have come over the “scene of the lion
hunter's” exploits.</p>

<p class="hang"><b>UNBEATEN TRACKS IN JAPAN.</b> An Account of
Travels in the Interior, including visits to the Aborigines of
Yezo and the Shrine of Nikkô. By Mrs. <span class="smcap">Bishop</span> (<span class="smcap">Isabella
L. Bird</span>). With Illustrations.</p>

<p>This book gives practically Mrs. <span class="smcap">Bishop's</span> day to day experiences
during journeys of over one hundred and four thousand miles in
Japan. As a faithful and realistic description of Old Japan by
one of the most remarkable Englishwomen of her day, this book
has an abiding interest.</p>

<p class="hang"><b>NOTES FROM A DIARY.</b> First Series. By <span class="smcap">Sir
Mountstuart E. Grant Duff</span>.</p>

<p>Sir Mountstuart Grant Duff, besides being a distinguished public-servant,
was a popular member of society with a genius for gathering
and recording good stories. In his series of “Notes from a Diary”
he jotted down the best things he heard, and thereby made some
enjoyable volumes.</p>

<p class="hang"><b>LAVENGRO: The Scholar, the Gypsy, the Priest.</b>
By <span class="smcap">George Borrow</span>. With 6 Pen and Ink Sketches by
<span class="smcap">Percy Wadham</span>.</p>

<p>This edition contains the unaltered text of the original issue:
with the addition of some Suppressed Episodes printed only in the
Editions issued by Mr. Murray; MS. Variorum, Vocabulary, and
Notes by the late Professor <span class="smcap">W. I. Knapp</span>.</p>

<p class="hang"><b>OUR ENGLISH BIBLE.</b> The Story of its Origin and
Growth. By <span class="smcap">H. W. Hamilton Hoare</span>, late of Balliol College,
Oxford, now an Assistant Secretary to the Board of Education,
Whitehall. With Specimen Pages of Old Bibles.</p>

<p>An historical sketch of the lineage of our Authorised Version,
which was published in 1901 under the title of “The Evolution of
the English Bible.”</p>

<p>The aim of the sketch is to give, in a continuous and narrative
form, a history of our English translations, and to exhibit them in
close connection with the story of the national life.</p>

<p class="hang"><b>THE LETTERS OF QUEEN VICTORIA. A Selection
from her Majesty's correspondence between the years
1837 and 1861.</b> Edited by <span class="smcap">A. C. Benson</span>, M.A., C.V.O., and
<span class="smcap">Viscount Esher</span>, G.C.V.O., K.C.B. With 16 Portraits.
3 vols. 1<i>s.</i> net each volume.</p>

<p>Published by authority of his Majesty King Edward VII. This
edition is not abridged, but is the complete and revised text of the
original.</p>

<p class="hang"><b>ORIGIN OF SPECIES BY MEANS OF NATURAL
SELECTION.</b> By <span class="smcap">Charles Darwin</span>. Popular impression
of the Corrected Copyright Edition. Issued with the approval
of the author's executors.</p>

<p>The first edition of Darwin's “Origin of Species” has now passed
out of copyright.</p>

<p>It should, however, be clearly understood that the edition which
thus loses its legal protection is the imperfect edition which the
author subsequently revised and which was accordingly superseded.
This, the complete and authorised edition of the work, will not
lose copyright for some years.</p>

<p>The only complete editions authorised by Mr. Darwin and his
representatives are those published by Mr. Murray.</p>

<p class="hang"><b>ROUND THE HORN BEFORE THE MAST.</b> An
Account of a Voyage from San Francisco round Cape Horn to
Liverpool, in a Fourmasted “Windjammer,” with experiences
of the life of an Ordinary Seaman. By <span class="smcap">Basil Lubbock</span>.
With Illustrations.</p>

<p><i>The Sheffield Independent</i> says:&mdash;“If you care to read what
life at sea in a sailing vessel really is like, this is the book that tells
the story.... Mr. Lubbock has a fine power of telling a tale
realistically. I have never read any work about the sea that is as
vivid and actual as this.”</p>

<p class="hang"><b>ENGLISH BATTLES AND SIEGES IN THE
PENINSULA.</b> By <span class="smcap">Lieut.-Gen. Sir William Napier</span>,
K.C.B. With Portrait.</p>

<p>In spite of the countless books which have appeared on the
Peninsular War, this great work has preserved its popularity as a
standard book on the subject for over half a century and still holds
its own when most rivals, which have appeared since, have become
forgotten.</p>

<p class="hang"><b>STUDIES IN THE ART OF RAT-CATCHING.</b>
By <span class="smcap">H. C. Barkley</span>.</p>

<p>“Should the reader know of a schoolboy fond of ratting, the
proud possessor possibly of a sharp terrier, and, maybe, a few
ferrets, and wish to bestow a present upon him, the memory of which
would last throughout his life, we could not do better than advise
him to purchase this most pleasantly-written book and bestow it
upon him.”&mdash;<i>Field.</i></p>

<p class="hang"><b>THE SERMON ON THE MOUNT.</b> By the Right
Rev. <span class="smcap">Charles Gore</span>, D.D., LL.D., Bishop of Oxford.</p>

<p>Cultured and scholarly, and yet simple and luminous, eloquent
in tone and graceful in diction, practical and stimulating, it is far
and away the best exposition of the Sermon on the Mount that has
yet appeared.</p>

<p class="hang"><b>THE HOUSE OF QUIET. An Autobiography.</b>
By <span class="smcap">A. C. Benson</span>.</p>

<p>“The House of Quiet” is an autobiography, and something more&mdash;a
series of very charming essays on people and life. The writer
has placed himself in the chair of an invalid, an individual possessed
of full mental vigour and free from bodily pain, but compelled by
physical weakness to shirk the rough and tumble of a careless,
unheeding, work-a-day world. He writes with a pen dipped in
the milk of human kindness, and the result is a book to read time
and again.</p>

<p class="hang"><b>THE THREAD OF GOLD.</b> By <span class="smcap">A. C. Benson</span>.</p>

<p><i>The Guardian</i> says:&mdash;“The style of the writing is equally simple
and yet dignified; from beginning to end an ease of movement
charms the reader. The book is abundantly suggestive....
The work is that of a scholar and a thinker, quick to catch a vagrant
emotion, and should be read, as it was evidently written, in leisure
and solitude. It covers a wide range&mdash;art, nature, country life,
human character, poetry and the drama, morals and religion.”</p>

<p class="hang"><b>THE PAINTERS OF FLORENCE. From the 13th
to the 16th Centuries.</b> By <span class="smcap">Julia Cartwright</span> (Mrs. <span class="smcap">Ady</span>).
With Illustrations.</p>

<p>Mrs. Ady is a competent and gifted writer on Italian painting,
and presents in these 350 pages an excellent history of the splendid
art and artists of Florence during the golden period from Cimabue
and Giotto to Andrea del Sarto and Michelangelo.</p>

<p class="hang"><b>A LADY'S LIFE IN THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS.</b>
By Mrs. <span class="smcap">Bishop</span> (<span class="smcap">Isabella L. Bird</span>). With Illustrations.</p>

<p><i>The Irish Times</i> says:&mdash;“‘A Lady's Life in the Rocky Mountains’
needs no introduction to a public who have known and admired
Mrs. Bishop (Isabella L. Bird) as a fearless traveller in the days
when it was something of an achievement for a woman to undertake
long and remote journeys.”</p>

<p class="hang"><b>THE LIFE OF DAVID LIVINGSTONE.</b> By
<span class="smcap">William Garden Blaikie</span>. With Portrait.</p>

<p>This is the standard biography of the great missionary who will
for ever stand pre-eminent among African travellers.</p>

<p class="hang"><b>DEEDS OF NAVAL DARING; or, Anecdotes of
the British Navy.</b> By <span class="smcap">Edward Giffard</span>.</p>

<p>This work contains ninety-three anecdotes, told in everyday
language, of such traits of courage and feats of individual daring
as may best serve to illustrate the generally received idea of the
British sailor's character for “courage verging on temerity.”</p>

<p class="hang"><b>SINAI AND PALESTINE in connection with their
History.</b> By the late <span class="smcap">Dean Stanley</span>. With Maps.</p>

<p>“There is no need, at this time of day, to praise the late Dean
Stanley's fascinating story of his travels in Palestine. It is enough
to say that here Mr. Murray has given us, for the sum of one shilling
net, a delightful reprint of that charming book, with maps and
plans and the author's original advertisement and prefaces. We
would especially commend this cheap storehouse of history, tradition,
and observation to Bible students.”&mdash;<i>Dundee Courier.</i></p>

<p class="hang"><b>THE NATURALIST ON THE RIVER AMAZONS.</b>
A Record of Adventures, Habits of Animals, Sketches of
Brazilian and Indian Life, and Aspects of Nature under the
Equator, during Eleven Years of Travel. By <span class="smcap">H. W. Bates</span>,
F.R.S. Numerous Illustrations.</p>

<p>A most readable record of adventures, sketches of Brazilian and
Indian life, habits of animals, and aspects of nature under the
Equator during eleven years of travel.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p class="center"><b><big>WORKS OF SAMUEL SMILES.</big></b></p>

<p>Few books in the whole history of literature have had such wide
popularity or such healthy and stimulating effect as the works of
Samuel Smiles during the last half-century. How great men have
attained to greatness and successful men achieved success is the
subject of these enthralling volumes, which are now brought within
the reach of all.</p>

<p class="hang"><b>SELF-HELP. With Illustrations of Conduct and
Perseverance.</b> With Portrait.</p>

<p class="hang"><b>LIFE AND LABOUR; or, Characteristics of Men
of Industry, Culture, and Genius.</b></p>

<p class="hang"><b>CHARACTER. A Book of Noble Characteristics.</b>
With Frontispiece.</p>

<p class="hang"><b>JAMES NASMYTH, Engineer and Inventor of the
Steam Hammer.</b> An Autobiography. Portrait and Illustrations.</p>
<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/i_back.jpg" width="400" height="612" alt="back cover" />
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="transnote">
<h3><a id="Transcribers_Note"></a>Transcriber's Note:</h3>

<p>Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained. Minor punctuation
inconsistencies have been silently repaired.</p>

<h4>Corrections.</h4>

<p>The first line indicates the original, the second the correction.</p>

<p>p. <a href="#Page_72">72:</a></p>

<ul><li>is “What the Old Man
does is alway Right.”</li>

<li>is “What the Old Man
does is <span class="u ">always</span> Right.”</li></ul>

<p>p. <a href="#Page_91">91:</a></p>

<ul>
<li>I remember the surprise
which which, when I had grown somewhat older</li>
<li>I remember the surprise
<span class="u ">which, when</span> I had grown somewhat older</li>

</ul>

<p>p. <a href="#Page_126">126</a>:</p>
<ul><li>and practice will
make make you more and more critical</li>

<li>and practice <span class="u">will
make</span> you more and more critical</li></ul>

<p>p. <a href="#Page_234">234:</a></p>

<ul><li>(From The Girl from the Marsh Croft. Selma Lagelöf.
12581. p. 99.)</li>

<li>(From The Girl from the Marsh Croft. Selma <span class="u ">Lagerlöf</span>.
12581. p. 99.)</li></ul>
</div>

<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 61340 ***</div>
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