How to Tell Stories to Children, and Some Stories to Tell

That, after all, is the real test of one's power. That is the real joy, when achieved; the

a right conception of the thing the question is about; and that naturally reverts to an earlier discussion of the real

e all the way from the "Victory" to a "Dresden Shepherdess," from an "Assumption" to a "Broken Pitcher," and farther. Each has its own place. But whateve

unless you first possess. The first demand of the story-teller is that he possess. He must feel the story. Whatever the particular quality and appeal of the work of art, from

g savour, the peculiar quality and point of view of the humour, pathos, or interest. Every tale which claims a place in good fiction has this identifying savour and quality, each different from every other. The laugh which echoes one of Seumas McManus's rigmaroles is not the chuckle which f

nces. No one can tell stories well who has not a

positive, cultivate your feeling, striving toward increasingly ju

eciate grow with cultivation; but it is the part of wisdo

once had a rather embarrassing and pointed proof of its des

amme before people with whom I was so closely in sympathy that no chill was likely to emanate from their side. I told the story as well as I knew how, putting into it more genuine effort than most stories can claim. The audience smiled politely, laughed gently once or twice, relapsed into the mildest of amusement. The most one could say was that

em over; and suddenly, I do not know how, I got the point of view! The salt of the hum

was won. Chuckles punctuated my periods; helpless laughter ran like an under-current below my narrat

logical smoothness. But I had not felt it. I did not really "see the joke." And that was why I could not tell the sto

to a story I myself greatly liked, but which common appreciation usually ignored. Thi

y should be told really ill, and of course the number of kinds one tells well increases with the growth of the appreciative capacity. But none the le

isite for good story-telling, a g

your portion. You have chosen a story, have felt i

our hearers will get the same kind of impr

measure of force with which the teller wills

nows that there is something approaching hypnotic suggestion in the close connection of effo

t on her control of her own mood and her sense of direct, intimate communion with the minds attending her. The "feel" of an audience,-that indescribable sense of the composite human soul waiting on the initiative of your own, the emotional currents interplaying along a m

nder the law sufficiently not to be a matter of sheer "knack." It has its technique. The following suggestions are an attempt to state what seem the foundation principles of that technique. The general statements are deduced from many consecutive experiences; partly, too, they are the results of introspective analy

l, is a rule without which any other

the admonition. The halting tongue, the slip in name or incident, the turning back to forge an omitted link in the chain, the repetition, the general weakness of

al experience; its essence must be so clearly in mind that the teller does not have to think of it at all in

amiliarity with its form to determine the manner of its telling. The easiest way to obtain this mastery is, I think, to analyse the story into its simplest elements of plot. Strip it bare of style, description, interpolation, and find out simply what happened. Pe

alking it out. Sometimes inaudibly, sometimes in loud and penetrating tones which arouse the sympathetic curiosity of my family, I tell it over and over, to an imaginary hearer. That hearer is as present to me, always has been, as Stevenson's "friend of the children" who takes the part of the enemy in their solitary games of war. His criticism (though he is a most composite double-sexed creature who should not have a designating personal pronoun) is all-revealing. For talking it

al telling to a real audience ready and spontaneously smooth. Scarcely an epithet or a sentence comes out as it was in the preliminar

the tale. And in stories like The Three Bears or Red Riding Hood the exact phraseology of the conversation as given in familiar versions should be preserved; it is in a way sacred, a classic, and not to be altered. But bey

ldren are seated in close and direct range of your eye; the familiar half-circle is the best arrangement for smal

th

it is not so important as to preserve your own mood of holiday, and theirs. If the fates and the atmosphere of the day are against you, it is wiser to trust to the drawing power of the tale itself, and abate the irritation of didactic methods. And never break into that magic tale, once begun, with an admonition to Ethel or Tommy to st

orie Fleming, and say "never-if you can help it." For, of course, there are exceptional occasions, and exception

the teller's initiatory mood. An act of memory and of will is the requisite. The story-teller must call up-it comes with the swiftness of thought-the essential emotion of the story as he felt it first.

ur mind,-not accurately and in detail, but blended to a composite of undeserved ignominy, of baffled innocent wonderment, and of delicious underlying satire on average views. With this is mingled th

w will be side-splitting. It is what makes grandmother sigh gently and look far over your heads, when her soft voice commences the story of "the little gi

oritative, beginning with the mood of the teller and emanating theref

, and being as thoroughly as you are able in the right mood, you begi

ional value of the work one is doing. Naturalness, being oneself, is the desideratum. I wonder why we so often use a preposterous voice,-a super-sweetened whine, in talking to children? Is it that the effort to realise an ideal of gentleness and

natural' than to be it," said

han simple naturalness. The remedy is to lose oneself in one's art. Think of the story so absorbingly and vividly that

ill come easily. Your choice of words

ay be true; but if so it does not apply to story-telling as it does to reading. We have constantly to remember that the movement of a story told is very swift. A concept not grasped in passing is irrevocably lost; there is no possibility of turning back, or lingering over the

matter are both essential to

ss, or talking round the story, utterly destroys this movement. The incidents should be told, one after another, without explanation or description beyond what is absolutely necessary; and they

quancy and a personal savour. But the genera

d to give the image, is a five-barred gate in t

ssarily include a little explanation, and stories of the fable order may qua

impression,-all with words. The teller has face, and voice, and body to do it with. The teller needs, consequently, but one swiftly incisi

nt adjectives of Homer were the device of one who entertained a childlike audience. His trick is unconscious and instinctive with people who have a natu

on of foreign matter, unhesitant speech,

ll agree with me that a good story-teller includes this in his qualities of manner. It means, not in the manner of the elocutionist, not excitably, not any of the things which are incompatible with simplicity and sincerity; but with a whole-hearted thro

f eyes and hands, which are all immediate and spontaneous with some temperaments, are to others a matter of shamefacedness and labour. To those, to all who are not by nature bodily expressive, I would reiterate the injunction already given,-not to pretend. Do nothing you cannot do naturally

must not forget. The story-teller is not playing the parts of his stories; he is merely arousing the imagination of his hearers to picture the

the comrade in the rear of the room what of mirth or sadness he sees; he hints at the policeman's strut, the organ-grinder's shrug, the schoolgirl's gaiety,

h the story-teller visualises the events and characters he describes. You must hold the image before the mind's eye, using your imagination

am tempted to put it in ornate

ealised by the listener beyond what you tell him. Children see, as a rule, no image you do not see; they see most clear

l come pretty surely in the train of effort along these lines; it follows the clear concept

, however, a close second to this clearness of mental vision. It is entirely necessary to be interested in your own story, to enjoy it as you tell it. If you are bored and tired, the children will soon be bored and tired, too. If you are not interested your manner cannot get that vitalised spontaneity which makes dramatic power possible. Nothing else will give that relish on the lips, that gusto, which communicates its joy to

nterested in a story I have told twenty times before?" as

ly. You have told a certain story till it seems as if a repetition of it must produce bodily effects dire to contemplate, yet that happens to be the very story you must tell. What can you do? I answer, "Make believe." The device seems incongruous with the repeated warnings against pretence; but it is necessary, and it is wise. Pretend as ha

llibility which is often attributed to them. They might, indeed, detect a pretence which conti

possibly can; and if you cannot, pretend to be, till th

on are after all merely single manifestations of degree and quality of culture, of taste, and of natural gift. No set rules can bring charm of voice and speech to a person whose feeling and habitual point of view are fundamentally wrong; the person whose habitual feeling and mental

to have the fundamental qualifications of fine and wholesome habit. These are not rules for the

enunciation is certainly very dreadful, but the unregenerate may be pardoned if they prefer it to the affected mouthing which

sal head-tones or a voice of metallic harshness. And it is entirely unnecessary. There is no need to speak loudly. The ordinary schoolroom needs no vocal effort. A hall seating three or four hundred

aker who knows his power goes straight home; but loud speech confuses. Never speak loudly. In a small room, speak as gently and easily as in conversation; in a large roo

gent teacher. But a good, natural speaking-voice, free from extraordinary vices, will fill all the requirements of story-

grasp, spontaneity: one must appreciate the story, and know it; and then, using the realising imagination as a constant