How To Tell Children Stories | Page 7

in education?
Because I believe it to be such, not because I ignore the value of other
uses, I venture to push aside all aims which seem secondary to this for
later mention under specific heads. Here in the beginning of our
consideration I wish to emphasise this element alone. A story is a work
of art. Its greatest use to the child is in the everlasting appeal of beauty
by which the soul of man is constantly pricked to new hungers,
quickened to new perceptions and so given desire to grow.
The obvious practical bearing of this is that story-telling is first of all
an art of entertainment; like the stage, its immediate purpose is the
pleasure of the hearer,--his pleasure, not his instruction, first.
Now the story-teller who has given the listening children such pleasure
as I mean may or may not have added a fact to the content of their
minds, she has inevitably added something to the vital powers of their
souls. She has given a wholesome exercise to the emotional muscles of
the spirit, has opened up new windows to the imagination, and added
some line or colour to the ideal of life and art which is always taking
form in the heart of a child. She has, in short, accomplished the one
greatest aim of story-telling,--to enlarge and enrich the child's spiritual
experience, and stimulate healthy reaction upon it.

Of course this result cannot be seen and proved as easily and early as
can the apprehension of a fact. The most one can hope to recognise is
its promise, and this is found in the tokens of that genuine pleasure
which is itself the means of accomplishment. It is, then, the signs of
right pleasure which the story-teller must look to for her guide, and
which it must be her immediate aim to evoke. As for the recognition of
the signs,--no one who has ever seen the delight of a real child over a
real story can fail to know the signals when given, or flatter himself
into belief in them when absent.
Intimately connected with the enjoyment given are two very practically
beneficial results which the story-teller may hope to obtain, and at least
one of which will be a kind of reward to herself. The first is a
relaxation of the tense schoolroom atmosphere, valuable for its
refreshing recreative power. The second result, or aim, is not so
obvious, but is even more desirable; it is this: story-telling is at once
one of the simplest and quickest ways of establishing a happy relation
between teacher and children, and one of the most effective methods of
forming the habit of fixed attention in the latter.
If you have never seen an indifferent child aroused or a hostile one
conquered to affection by a beguiling tale, you can hardly appreciate
the truth of the first statement; but nothing is more familiar in the
story-teller's experience. An amusing, but--to me--touching experience
recently reaffirmed in my mind this power of the story to establish
friendly relations.
My three-year-old niece, who had not seen me since her babyhood,
being told that Aunt Sara was coming to visit her, somehow confused
the expected guest with a more familiar aunt, my sister. At sight of me,
her rush of welcome relapsed into a puzzled and hurt withdrawal,
which yielded to no explanations or proffers of affection. All the first
day she followed me about at a wistful distance, watching me as if I
might at any moment turn into the well-known and beloved relative I
ought to have been. Even by undressing time I had not progressed far
enough to be allowed intimate approach to small sacred nightgowns
and diminutive shirts. The next morning, when I opened the door of the

nursery where her maid was brushing her hair, the same dignity
radiated from the little round figure perched on its high chair, the same
almost hostile shyness gazed at me from the great expressive eyes.
Obviously, it was time for something to be done.
Disregarding my lack of invitation, I drew up a stool, and seating
myself opposite the small unbending person, began in a conversational
murmur: "M--m, I guess those are tingly-tanglies up there in that curl
Lottie's combing; did you ever hear about the tingly- tanglies? They
live in little girls' hair, and they aren't any bigger than THAT, and when
anybody tries to comb the hair they curl both weeny legs round, SO,
and hold on tight with both weeny hands, SO, and won't let go!" As I
paused, my niece made a queer little sound indicative of query battling
with reserve. I pursued the subject: "They like best to live right over a
little girl's ear, or down in her neck, because it is easier to