Stories to Tell to Children | Page 3

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SOME SUGGESTIONS FOR THE STORY-TELLER
Concerning the fundamental points of method in telling a story, I have
little to add to the principles which I have already stated as necessary,
in my opinion, in the book of which this is, in a way, the continuation.
But in the two years which have passed since that book was written, I
have had the happiness of working on stories and the telling of them,
among teachers and students all over this country, and in that

experience certain secondary points of method have come to seem
more important, or at least more in need of emphasis, than they did
before. As so often happens, I had assumed that "those things are taken
for granted;" whereas, to the beginner or the teacher not naturally a
story-teller, the secondary or implied technique is often of greater
difficulty than the mastery of underlying principles. The few
suggestions which follow are of this practical, obvious kind.
Take your story seriously. No matter how riotously absurd it is, or how
full of inane repetition, remember, if it is good enough to tell, it is a real
story, and must be treated with respect. If you cannot feel so toward it,
do not tell it. Have faith in the story, and in the attitude of the children
toward it and you. If you fail in this, the immediate result will be a
touch of shame- facedness, affecting your manner unfavorably, and,
probably, influencing your accuracy and imaginative vividness.
Perhaps I can make the point clearer by telling you about one of the
girls in a class which was studying stories last winter; I feel sure if she
or any of her fellow students recognizes the incident, she will not resent
being made to serve the good cause, even in the unattractive guise of a
warning example.
A few members of the class had prepared the story of "The Fisherman
and his Wife." The first girl called on was evidently inclined to feel that
it was rather a foolish story. She tried to tell it well, but there were parts
of it which produced in her the touch of shamefacedness to which I
have referred.
When she came to the rhyme,--
"O man of the sea, come, listen to me, For Alice, my wife, the plague
of my life, Has sent me to beg a boon of thee,"
she said it rather rapidly. At the first repetition she said it still more
rapidly; the next time she came to the jingle she said it so fast and so
low that it was unintelligible; and the next recurrence was too much for
her. With a blush and a hesitating smile she said, "And he said that
same thing, you know!" Of course everybody laughed, and of course
the thread of interest and illusion was hopelessly broken for everybody.
Now, any one who chanced to hear Miss Shedlock tell that same story
will remember that the absurd rhyme gave great opportunity for
expression, in its very repetition; each time that the fisherman came to
the water's edge his chagrin and unwillingness was greater, and his

summons to the magic fish mirrored his feeling. The jingle IS foolish;
that is a part of the charm. But if the person who tells it FEELS foolish,
there is no charm at all! It is the same principle which applies to any
address to any assemblage: if the speaker has the air of finding what he
has to say absurd or unworthy of effort, the audience naturally tends to
follow his lead, and find it not worth listening to.
Let me urge, then, take your story seriously.
Next, "take your time." This suggestion needs explaining, perhaps. It
does