How to Tell Stories to Children

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HOW TO TELL STORIES
TO CHILDREN

AND SOME STORIES TO TELL


BY
SARA CONE BRYANT

[Illustration]

LONDON

GEORGE G. HARRAP & CO. LTD.

2 & 3 PORTSMOUTH STREET KINGSWAY W.C.

1918




=Books for Story-Tellers=

_UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME_

=How to Tell Stories to Children=
And Some Stories to Tell. By SARA CONE BRYANT. Tenth Impression.

=Stories to Tell to Children=
With Fifty-Three Stories to Tell. By SARA CONE BRYANT. Seventh Impression.

=The Book of Stories for the Story-Teller=
By FANNY COE. Fourth Impression.

=Songs and Stories for the Little Ones=
By E. GORDON BROWNE, M.A. With Melodies chosen and arranged by EVA BROWNE.
New and Enlarged Edition.

=Character Training=
A Graded Series of Lessons in Ethics, largely through Story-telling.
By E.L. CABOT and E. EYLES. Third Impression. 384 pages.

=Stories for the Story Hour=
From January to December. By ADA M. MARZIALS. Second Impression.

=Stories for the History Hour=
From Augustus to Rolf. By NANNIE NIEMEYER. Second Impression.

=Stories for the Bible Hour=
By R. BRIMLEY JOHNSON, B.A.

=Nature Stories to Tell to Children=
By H. WADDINGHAM SEERS.

* * * * *

MISS MAUD LINDSAY'S POPULAR BOOKS

=Mother Stories=
With 16 Line Illustrations.

=More Mother Stories=
With 20 Line Illustrations.

THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH
GREAT BRITAIN




_To My Mother_

THE FIRST, BEST STORY-TELLER
THIS LITTLE BOOK IS
DEDICATED




PREFACE


The stories which are given in the following pages are for the most part
those which I have found to be best liked by the children to whom I have
told these and others. I have tried to reproduce the form in which I
actually tell them,--although that inevitably varies with every
repetition,--feeling that it would be of greater value to another
story-teller than a more closely literary form.

For the same reason, I have confined my statements of theory as to method,
to those which reflect my own experience; my "rules" were drawn from
introspection and retrospection, at the urging of others, long after the
instinctive method they exemplify had become habitual.

These facts are the basis of my hope that the book may be of use to those
who have much to do with children.

It would be impossible, in the space of any pardonable preface, to name
the teachers, mothers, and librarians who have given me hints and helps
during the past few years of story-telling. But I cannot let these pages
go to press without recording my especial indebtedness to the few persons
without whose interested aid the little book would scarcely have come to
be. They are: Mrs Elizabeth Young Rutan, at whose generous instance I
first enlarged my own field of entertaining story-telling to include hers,
of educational narrative, and from whom I had many valuable suggestions at
that time; Miss Ella L. Sweeney, assistant superintendent of schools,
Providence, R.I., to whom I owe exceptional opportunities for
investigation and experiment; Mrs Root, children's librarian of Providence
Public Library, and Miss Alice M. Jordan, Boston Public Library,
children's room, to whom I am indebted for much gracious and efficient
aid.

My thanks are due also to Mr David Nutt for permission to make use of
three stories from _English Fairy Tales_, by Mr Joseph Jacobs, and
_Raggylug_, from _Wild Animals I have Known_, by Mr Ernest Thompson Seton;
to Messrs Frederick A. Stokes Company for _Five Little White Heads_, by
Walter Learned, and for _Bird Thoughts_; to Messrs Kegan Paul, Trench,
Truebner & Co. Ltd. for _The Burning of the Ricefields_, from _Gleanings in
Buddha-Fields_, by Mr Lafcadio Hearn; to Messrs H.R. Allenson Ltd. for
three stories from _The Golden Windows_, by Miss Laura E. Richards; and to
Mr Seumas McManus for _Billy Beg and his Bull_, from _In Chimney Corners_.

S.C.B.




CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION
PAGE
The Story-teller's Art
Recent Revival
The Difference between telling a Story and reading it aloud
Some Reasons why the Former is more effective 11


CHAPTER I

THE PURPOSE OF STORY-TELLING IN SCHOOL

Its immediate Advantages to the Teacher
Its ultimate Gifts to the Child 19


CHAPTER II

SELECTION OF STORIES TO TELL

The Qualities Children like, and why
Qualities necessary for Oral Delivery
Examples: _The Three Bears_, _The Three Little Pigs_,
_The Old Woman and her Pig_
Suggestions as to the Type of Story
especially useful in the several primary Grades
Selected List of familiar Fairy Tales 43


CHAPTER III

ADAPTATION OF STORIES FOR TELLING

How to make a long Story short
How to fill out a short Story
General Changes commonly desirable
Examples: _The Nuernberg Stove_, by Ouida;
_The King of the Golden River_, by Ruskin;
_The Red Thread of Courage_,
_The Elf and the Dormouse_
Analysis of Method 67


CHAPTER IV

HOW TO TELL THE STORY

Essential Nature of the Story
Kind of Appreciation necessary
Suggestions for gaining Mastery of Facts
Arrangement of Children
The Story-teller's Mood
A few Principles of Method, Manner and Voice,
from the psychological Point of View 93


CHAPTER V

SOME SPECIFIC SCHOOLROOM USES

Exercise in Retelling
Illustrations cut by the Children as Seat-work
Dramatic Games
Influence of Games on Reading Classes 117


STORIES SELECTED AND ADAPTED FOR TELLING

ESPECIALLY FOR KINDERGARTEN AND CLASS I.

Nursery Rhymes 133
Five Little White Heads 134
Bird Thoughts 134
How we came to have Pink Roses 135
Raggylug 135
The Golden Cobwebs 138
Why the Morning-Glory climbs 142
The Story of Little Tavwots 143
The Pig Brother 145
The Cake 148
The Pied Piper of Hamelin Town 149
Why the Evergreen Trees keep their Leaves in Winter 156
The Star Dollars 159
The Lion and the Gnat 161


ESPECIALLY FOR CLASSES II. AND III.

The Cat and the Parrot 168
The Rat Princess 172
The Frog and the Ox 175
The Fire-Bringer 176
The Burning of the Ricefields 179
The Story of Wylie 182
Little Daylight 186
The Sailor Man 199
The Story of Jairus's Daughter 201


ESPECIALLY FOR CLASSES IV. AND V.

Arthur and the Sword 204
Tarpeia 208
The Buckwheat 210
The Judgment of Midas 211
Why the Sea is salt 213
Billy Beg and his Bull 221
The Little Hero of Haarlem 233
The Last Lesson 238
The Story of Christmas 243


THE CHILD-MIND; AND HOW TO SATISFY IT

A short List of Books in which the Story-teller will find
Stories not too far from the Form in which they are
needed 247




INTRODUCTION


Not long ago, I chanced to open a magazine at a story of Italian life
which dealt with a curious popular custom. It told of the love of the
people for the performances of a strangely clad, periodically appearing
old man who was a professional story-teller. This old man repeated whole
cycles of myth and serials of popular history, holding his
audience-chamber in whatever corner of the open court or square he
happened upon, and always surrounded by an eager crowd of listeners. So
great was the respect in which the story-teller was held, that any
interruption was likely to be resented with violence.

As I read of the absorbed silence and the changing expressions of the
crowd about the old man, I was suddenly reminded of a company of people I
had recently seen. They were gathered in one of the parlours of a women's
college, and their serious young faces had, habitually, none of the
childlike responsiveness of the Italian populace; they were suggestive,
rather, of a daily experience which precluded over-much surprise or
curiosity about anything. In the midst of the group stood a frail-looking
woman with bright eyes. She was telling a story, a children's story, about
a good and a bad little mouse.

She had been asked to do that thing, for a purpose, and she did it,
therefore. But it was easy to see from the expressions of the listeners
how trivial a thing it seemed to them.

That was at first. But presently the room grew quieter; and yet quieter.
The faces relaxed into amused smiles, sobered in unconscious sympathy,
finally broke in ripples of mirth. The story-teller had come to her own.

The memory of the college girls listening to the mouse-story brought other
memories with it. Many a swift composite view of faces passed before my
mental vision, faces with the child's look on them, yet not the faces of
children. And of the occasions to which the faces belonged, those were
most vivid which were earliest in my experience. For it was those early
experiences which first made me realise the modern possibilities of the
old, old art of telling stories.

It had become a part of my work, some years ago, to give English lectures
on German literature. Many of the members of my class were unable to read
in the original the works with which I dealt, and as these were modern
works it was rarely possible to obtain translations. For this reason, I
gradually formed the habit of telling the story of the drama or novel in
question before passing to a detailed consideration of it. I enjoyed this
part of the lesson exceedingly, but it was some time before I realised how
much the larger part of the lesson it had become to the class. They
used--and they were mature women--to wait for the story as if it were a
sugarplum and they, children; and to grieve openly if it were omitted.
Substitution of reading from a translation was greeted with precisely the
same abatement of eagerness that a child shows when he has asked you to
tell a story, and you offer, instead, to "read one from the pretty book."
And so general and constant were the tokens of enjoyment that there could
ultimately be no doubt of the power which the mere story-telling exerted.

The attitude of the grown-up listeners did but illustrate the general
difference between the effect of telling a story and of reading one.
Everyone who knows children well has felt the difference. With few
exceptions, children listen twice as eagerly to a story told as to one
read, and even a "recitation" or a so-called "reading" has not the charm
for them that the person wields who can "tell a story." And there are
sound reasons for their preference.

The great difference, including lesser ones, between telling and reading
is that the teller is free; the reader is bound. The book in hand, or the
wording of it in mind, binds the reader. The story-teller is bound by
nothing; he stands or sits, free to watch his audience, free to follow or
lead every changing mood, free to use body, eyes, voice, as aids in
expression. Even his mind is unbound, because he lets the story come in
the words of the moment, being so full of what he has to say. For this
reason, a story told is more spontaneous than one read, however well read.
And, consequently, the connection with the audience is closer, more
electric, than is possible when the book or its wording intervenes.

Beyond this advantage, is the added charm of the personal element in
story-telling. When you make a story your own and tell it, the listener
gets the story, _plus your appreciation of it_. It comes to him filtered
through your own enjoyment. That is what makes the funny story thrice
funnier on the lips of a jolly raconteur than in the pages of a memoir. It
is the filter of personality. Everybody has something of the curiosity of
the primitive man concerning his neighbour; what another has in his own
person felt and done has an especial hold on each one of us. The most
cultured of audiences will listen to the personal reminiscences of an
explorer with a different tingle of interest from that which it feels for
a scientific lecture on the results of the exploration. The longing for
the personal in experience is a very human longing. And this instinct or
longing is especially strong in children. It finds expression in their
delight in tales of what father or mother did when they were little, of
what happened to grandmother when she went on a journey, and so on, but it
also extends to stories which are not in themselves personal: which take
their personal savour merely from the fact that they flow from the lips in
spontaneous, homely phrases, with an appreciative gusto which suggests
participation.

The greater ease in holding the attention of children is, for teachers, a
sufficient practical reason for telling stories rather than reading them.
It is incomparably easier to make the necessary exertion of "magnetism,"
or whatever it may be called, when nothing else distracts the attention.
One's eyes meet the children's gaze naturally and constantly; one's
expression responds to and initiates theirs without effort; the connection
is immediate. For the ease of the teacher, then, no less than for the joy
of the children, may the art of story-telling be urged as pre-eminent over
the art of reading.

It is a very old, a very beautiful art. Merely to think of it carries
one's imaginary vision to scenes of glorious and touching antiquity. The
tellers of the stories of which Homer's _Iliad_ was compounded; the
transmitters of the legend and history which make up the _Gesta
Romanorum_; the travelling raconteurs whose brief heroic tales are woven
into our own national epic; the grannies of age-old tradition whose
stories are parts of Celtic folk-lore, of Germanic myth, of Asiatic
wonder-tales,--these are but younger brothers and sisters to the
generations of story-tellers whose inventions are but vaguely outlined in
resultant forms of ancient literatures, and the names of whose tribes are
no longer even guessed. There was a time when story-telling was the
chiefest of the arts of entertainment; kings and warriors could ask for
nothing better; serfs and children were satisfied with nothing less. In
all times there have been occasional revivals of this pastime, and in no
time has the art died out in the simple human realms of which mothers are
queens. But perhaps never, since the really old days, has story-telling so
nearly reached a recognised level of dignity as a legitimate and general
art of entertainment as now.

Its present popularity seems in a way to be an outgrowth of the
recognition of its educational value which was given impetus by the German
pedagogues of Froebel's school. That recognition has, at all events, been
a noticeable factor in educational conferences of late. The function of
the story is no longer considered solely in the light of its place in the
kindergarten; it is being sought in the first, the second, and indeed in
every standard where the children are still children. Sometimes the demand
for stories is made solely in the interests of literary culture, sometimes
in far ampler and vaguer relations, ranging from inculcation of scientific
fact to admonition of moral theory; but whatever the reason given, the
conclusion is the same: tell the children stories.

The average teacher has yielded to the pressure, at least in theory.
Cheerfully, as she has already accepted so many modifications of old
methods by "new thought," she accepts the idea of instilling mental and
moral desiderata into the receptive pupil, _via_ the charming tale. But,
confronted with the concrete problem of what desideratum by which tale,
and how, the average teacher sometimes finds her cheerfulness displaced by
a sense of inadequacy to the situation.

People who have always told stories to children, who do not know when they
began or how they do it; whose heads are stocked with the accretions of
years of fairyland-dwelling and nonsense-sharing,--these cannot understand
the perplexity of one to whom the gift and the opportunity have not "come
natural." But there are many who can understand it, personally and all
too well. To these, the teachers who have not a knack for story-telling,
who feel as shy as their own youngest scholar at the thought of it, who do
not know where the good stories are, or which ones are easy to tell, it is
my earnest hope that the following pages will bring something definite and
practical in the way of suggestion and reference.




HOW TO TELL STORIES TO CHILDREN




CHAPTER I

THE PURPOSE OF STORY-TELLING IN SCHOOL


Let us first consider together the primary matter of the _aim_ in
educational story-telling. On our conception of this must depend very
largely all decisions as to choice and method; and nothing in the whole
field of discussion is more vital than a just and sensible notion of this
first point. What shall we attempt to accomplish by stories in the
schoolroom? What can we reasonably expect to accomplish? And what, of
this, is best accomplished by this means and no other?

These are questions which become the more interesting and practical
because the recent access of enthusiasm for stories in education has led
many people to claim very wide and very vaguely outlined territory for
their possession, and often to lay heaviest stress on their least
essential functions. The most important instance of this is the fervour
with which many compilers of stories for school use have directed their
efforts solely toward illustration of natural phenomena. Geology, zoology,
botany, and even physics are taught by means of more or less happily
constructed narratives based on the simpler facts of these sciences.
Kindergarten teachers are familiar with such narratives: the little
stories of chrysalis-breaking, flower-growth, and the like. Now this is a
perfectly proper and practicable aim, but it is not a primary one. Others,
to which at best this is but secondary, should have first place and
receive greatest attention.

What is a story, essentially? Is it a text-book of science, an appendix to
the geography, an introduction to the primer of history? Of course it is
not. A story is essentially and primarily a work of art, and its chief
function must be sought in the line of the uses of art. Just as the drama
is capable of secondary uses, yet fails abjectly to realise its purpose
when those are substituted for its real significance as a work of art, so
does the story lend itself to subsidiary purposes, but claims first and
most strongly to be recognised in its real significance as a work of art.
Since the drama deals with life in all its parts, it can exemplify
sociological theory, it can illustrate economic principle, it can even
picture politics; but the drama which does these things only, has no
breath of its real life in its being, and dies when the wind of popular
tendency veers from its direction. So, you can teach a child interesting
facts about bees and butterflies by telling him certain stories, and you
can open his eyes to colours and processes in nature by telling certain
others; but unless you do something more than that and before that, you
are as one who should use the Venus of Milo for a demonstration in
anatomy.

The message of the story is the message of beauty, as effective as that
message in marble or paint. Its part in the economy of life is _to give
joy_. And the purpose and working of the joy is found in that quickening
of the spirit which answers every perception of the truly beautiful in the
arts of man. To give joy; in and through the joy to stir and feed the life
of the spirit: is not this the legitimate function of the story 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 hang on, there;
tingly-tanglies are very smart, indeed."