Stories To Tell To Children
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Sara Cone Bryant >> Stories To Tell To Children
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The thing said may look the same on a
printed page, but it is not the same when
spoken. And it is the spoken sentence
which is the original and the usual mode
of communication.
The widespread poverty of expression in
English, which is thus a matter of "how,"
and to which we are awakening, must be
corrected chiefly, at least at first, by the
common schools. The home is the ideal
place for it, but the average home of the
United States is no longer a possible place
for it. The child of foreign parents, the
child of parents little educated and bred in
limited circumstances, the child of powerful
provincial influences, must all depend
on the school for standards of English.
And it is the elementary school which
must meet the need, if it is to be met at all.
For the conception of English expression
which I am talking of can find no mode of
instruction adequate to its meaning, save
in constant appeal to the ear, at an age so
early that unconscious habit is formed. No
rules, no analytical instruction in later
development, can accomplish what is needed.
Hearing and speaking; imitating, unwittingly
and wittingly, a good model; it is to
this method we must look for redemption
from present conditions.
I believe we are on the eve of a real
revolution in English teaching,--only it is a
revolution which will not break the peace.
The new way will leave an overwhelming
preponderance of oral methods in use up to
the fifth or sixth grade, and will introduce
a larger proportion of oral work than has
ever been contemplated in grammar and
high school work. It will recognize the fact
that English is primarily something spoken
with the mouth and heard with the ear.
And this recognition will have greatest
weight in the systems of elementary teaching.
It is as an aid in oral teaching of English
that story-telling in school finds its second
value; ethics is the first ground of its
usefulness, English the second,--and after
these, the others. It is, too, for the oral uses
that the secondary forms of story-telling
are so available. By secondary I mean
those devices which I have tried to indicate,
as used by many American teachers, in the
chapter on "Specific Schoolroom Uses,"
in my earlier book. They are re-telling,
dramatization, and forms of seat-work.
All of these are a great power in the hands
of a wise teacher. If combined with much
attention to voice and enunciation in the
recital of poetry, and with much good reading
aloud BY THE TEACHER, they will go far
toward setting a standard and developing
good habit.
But their provinces must not be
confused or overestimated. I trust I may be
pardoned for offering a caution or two
to the enthusiastic advocate of these
methods,--cautions the need of which
has been forced upon me, in experience
with schools.
A teacher who uses the oral story as an
English feature with little children must
never lose sight of the fact that it is an aid
in unconscious development; not a factor
in studied, conscious improvement. This
truth cannot be too strongly realized.
Other exercises, in sufficiency, give the
opportunity for regulated effort for definite
results, but the story is one of the play-
forces. Its use in English teaching is most
valuable when the teacher has a keen
appreciation of the natural order of growth in
the art of expression: that art requires, as
the old rhetorics used often to put it, "a
natural facility, succeeded by an acquired
difficulty." In other words, the power of
expression depends, first, on something
more fundamental than the art-element;
the basis of it is something to say,
ACCOMPANIED BY AN URGENT DESIRE TO SAY IT, and
YIELDED TO WITH FREEDOM; only after this
stage is reached can the art-phase be of
any use. The "why" and "how," the
analytical and constructive phases, have no
natural place in this first vital epoch.
Precisely here, however, does the
dramatizing of stories and the paper-cutting, etc.,
become useful. A fine and thoughtful principal
of a great school asked me, recently,
with real concern, about the growing use of
such devices. He said, "Paper-cutting is
good, but what has it to do with English?"
And then he added: "The children use
abominable language when they play the
stories; can that directly aid them to speak
good English?" His observation was close
and correct, and his conservatism more
valuable than the enthusiasm of some of
his colleagues who have advocated sweeping
use of the supplementary work. But
his point of view ignored the basis of
expression, which is to my mind so important.
Paper-cutting is external to English,
of course. Its only connection is in its
power to correlate different forms of
expression, and to react on speech-expression
through sense-stimulus. But playing the
story is a closer relative to English than
this. It helps, amazingly, in giving the
"something to say, the urgent desire to say
it," and the freedom in trying. Never mind
the crudities,--at least, at the time; work
only for joyous freedom, inventiveness,
and natural forms of reproduction of the
ideas given. Look for very gradual changes
in speech, through the permeating power
of imitation, but do not forget that this is
the stage of expression which inevitably
precedes art.
All this will mean that no corrections are
made, except in flagrant cases of slang or
grammar, though all bad slips are mentally
noted, for introduction at a more favorable
time. It will mean that the teacher
will respect the continuity of thought and
interest as completely as she would wish an
audience to respect her occasional prosy
periods if she were reading a report. She
will remember, of course that she is not
training actors for amateur theatricals,
however tempting her show-material may be;
she is simply letting the children play with
expression, just as a gymnasium teacher
introduces muscular play,--for power
through relaxation.
When the time comes that the actors lose
their unconsciousness it is the end of the
story-play. Drilled work, the beginning of
the art, is then the necessity.
I have indicated that the children may be
left undisturbed in their crudities and
occasional absurdities. The teacher, on the
other hand, must avoid, with great judgment,
certain absurdities which can easily
be initiated by her. The first direful
possibility is in the choice of material. It is
very desirable that children should not be
allowed to dramatize stories of a kind so
poetic, so delicate, or so potentially valuable
that the material is in danger of losing
future beauty to the pupils through its present
crude handling. Mother Goose is a
hardy old lady, and will not suffer from the
grasp of the seven-year-old; and the familiar
fables and tales of the "Goldilocks"
variety have a firmness of surface which
does not let the glamour rub off; but
stories in which there is a hint of the beauty
just beyond the palpable--or of a dignity
suggestive of developed literature--are
sorely hurt in their metamorphosis, and
should be protected from it. They are for
telling only.
Another point on which it is necessary to
exercise reserve is in the degree to which
any story can be acted. In the justifiable
desire to bring a large number of children
into the action one must not lose sight of
the sanity and propriety of the presentation.
For example, one must not make a ridiculous
caricature, where a picture, however
crude, is the intention. Personally represent
only such things as are definitely and
dramatically personified in the story. If a
natural force, the wind, for example, is
represented as talking and acting like a
human being in the story, it can be imaged
by a person in the play; but if it remains a
part of the picture in the story, performing
only its natural motions, it is a caricature to
enact it as a role. The most powerful
instance of a mistake of this kind which I have
ever seen will doubtless make my meaning
clear. In playing a pretty story about
animals and children, some children in a
primary school were made by the teacher to
take the part of the sea. In the story, the
sea was said to "beat upon the shore," as
a sea would, without doubt. In the play,
the children were allowed to thump the
floor lustily, as a presentation of their
watery functions! It was unconscionably
funny. Fancy presenting even the crudest
image of the mighty sea, surging up on the
shore, by a row of infants squatted on the
floor and pounding with their fists! Such
pitfalls can be avoided by the simple rule
of personifying only characters that actually
behave like human beings.
A caution which directly concerns the
art of story telling itself, must be added
here. There is a definite distinction
between the arts of narration and dramatization
which must never be overlooked. Do
not, yourself, half tell and half act the
story; and do not let the children do it. It
is done in very good schools, sometimes,
because an enthusiasm for realistic and
lively presentation momentarily obscures
the faculty of discrimination. A much
loved and respected teacher whom I
recently listened to, and who will laugh if she
recognizes her blunder here, offers a good
"bad example" in this particular. She said
to an attentive audience of students that she
had at last, with much difficulty, brought
herself to the point where she could forget
herself in her story: where she could,
for instance, hop, like the fox, when she
told the story of the "sour grapes." She
said, "It was hard at first, but now it is a
matter of course; AND THE CHILDREN DO IT TOO,
WHEN THEY TELL THE STORY." That was the pity!
I saw the illustration myself a little later.
The child who played fox began with a
story: he said, "Once there was an old fox,
and he saw some grapes;" then the child
walked to the other side of the room, and
looked up at an imaginary vine, and said,
"He wanted some; he thought they would
taste good, so he jumped for them;" at
this point the child did jump, like his role;
then he continued with his story, "but he
couldn't get them." And so he proceeded,
with a constant alternation of narrative and
dramatization which was enough to make
one dizzy.
The trouble in such work is, plainly, a
lack of discriminating analysis. Telling a
story necessarily implies non-identification
of the teller with the event; he relates what
occurs or occurred, outside of his circle of
consciousness. Acting a play necessarily
implies identification of the actor with the
event; he presents to you a picture of the
thing, in himself. It is a difference wide
and clear, and the least failure to recognize
it confuses the audience and injures both
arts.
In the preceding instances of secondary
uses of story-telling I have come some
distance from the great point, the fundamental
point, of the power of imitation in
breeding good habit. This power is less
noticeably active in the dramatizing than in
simple re-telling; in the listening and the re-
telling, it is dominant for good. The child
imitates what he hears you say and sees
you do, and the way you say and do it, far
more closely in the story-hour than in any
lesson-period. He is in a more absorbent
state, as it were, because there is no
preoccupation of effort. Here is the great
opportunity of the cultured teacher; here is
the appalling opportunity of the careless or
ignorant teacher. For the implications of
the oral theory of teaching English are evident,
concerning the immense importance
of the teacher's habit. This is what it all
comes to ultimately; the teacher of young
children must be a person who can speak
English as it should be spoken,--purely,
clearly, pleasantly, and with force.
It is a hard ideal to live up to, but it is
a valuable ideal to try to live up to. And
one of the best chances to work toward
attainment is in telling stories, for there you
have definite material, which you can work
into shape and practice on in private.
That practice ought to include conscious
thought as to one's general manner in the
schoolroom, and intelligent effort to understand
and improve one's own voice. I hope
I shall not seem to assume the dignity of
an authority which no personal taste can
claim, if I beg a hearing for the following
elements of manner and voice, which appeal
to me as essential. They will, probably,
appear self-evident to my readers, yet
they are often found wanting in the public
school-teacher; it is so much easier to say
"what were good to do" than to do it!
Three elements of manner seem to me
an essential adjunct to the personality of a
teacher of little children: courtesy, repose
vitality. Repose and vitality explain themselves;
by courtesy I specifically do NOT
mean the habit of mind which contents
itself with drilling children in "Good-
mornings" and in hat-liftings. I mean
the attitude of mind which recognizes in
the youngest, commonest child, the potential
dignity, majesty, and mystery of the
developed human soul. Genuine reverence
for the humanity of the "other fellow"
marks a definite degree of courtesy in the
intercourse of adults, does it not? And
the same quality of respect, tempered by
the demands of a wise control, is exactly
what is needed among children. Again
and again, in dealing with young minds,
the teacher who respects personality as
sacred, no matter how embryonic it be,
wins the victories which count for true
education. Yet, all too often, we forget the
claims of this reverence, in the presence
of the annoyances and the needed corrections.
As for voice: work in schoolrooms brings
two opposing mistakes constantly before
me: one is the repressed voice, and the
other, the forced. The best way to avoid
either extreme, is to keep in mind that
the ideal is development of one's own
natural voice, along its own natural lines.
A "quiet, gentle voice" is conscientiously
aimed at by many young teachers, with so
great zeal that the tone becomes painfully
repressed, "breathy," and timid. This is
quite as unpleasant as a loud voice, which
is, in turn, a frequent result of early
admonitions to "speak up." Neither is natural.
It is wise to determine the natural volume
and pitch of one's speaking voice by a
number of tests, made when one is thoroughly
rested, at ease, and alone. Find out
where your voice lies when it is left to
itself, under favorable conditions, by reading
something aloud or by listening to yourself
as you talk to an intimate friend. Then
practise keeping it in that general range,
unless it prove to have a distinct fault, such
as a nervous sharpness, or hoarseness. A
quiet voice is good; a hushed voice is
abnormal. A clear tone is restful, but a loud
one is wearying.
Perhaps the common-sense way of setting
a standard for one's own voice is to
remember that the purpose of a speaking
voice is to communicate with others; their
ears and minds are the receivers of our
tones. For this purpose, evidently, a voice
should be, first of all, easy to hear; next,
pleasant to hear; next, susceptible of
sufficient variation to express a wide range of
meaning; and finally, indicative of personality.
Is it too quixotic to urge teachers who
tell stories to little children to bear these
thoughts, and better ones of their own,
in mind? Not, I think, if it be fully
accepted that the story hour, as a play hour,
is a time peculiarly open to influences
affecting the imitative faculty; that this
faculty is especially valuable in forming
fine habits of speech; and that an increasingly
high and general standard of English
speech is one of our greatest needs
and our most instant opportunities in the
American schools of to-day.
And now we come to the stories!
STORIES TO TELL TO CHILDREN
TWO LITTLE RIDDLES IN RHYME[1]
[1] These riddles were taken from the Gaelic, and are charming
examples of the naive beauty of the old Irish, and of Dr.
Hyde's accurate and sympathetic modern rendering. From
"Beside the Fire" (David Nutt, London).
There's a garden that I ken,
Full of little gentlemen;
Little caps of blue they wear,
And green ribbons, very fair.
(Flax.)
From house to house he goes,
A messenger small and slight,
And whether it rains or snows,
He sleeps outside in the night.
(The path.)
THE LITTLE PINK ROSE
Once there was a little pink Rosebud,
and she lived down in a little dark house
under the ground. One day she was sitting
there, all by herself, and it was very
still. Suddenly, she heard a little TAP, TAP,
TAP, at the door.
"Who is that?" she said.
"It's the Rain, and I want to come in;"
said a soft, sad, little voice.
"No, you can't come in," the little Rosebud said.
By and by she heard another little TAP,
TAP, TAP on the window pane.
"Who is there?" she said.
The same soft little voice answered,
"It's the Rain, and I want to come in!"
"No, you can't come in," said the little
Rosebud.
Then it was very still for a long time. At
last, there came a little rustling, whispering
sound, all round the window: RUSTLE,
WHISPER, WHISPER.
"Who is there?" said the little Rosebud.
"It's the Sunshine," said a little, soft,
cheery voice, "and I want to come in!"
"N--no," said the little pink rose, "you
can't come in." And she sat still again.
Pretty soon she heard the sweet little
rustling noise at the key-hole.
"Who is there?" she said.
"It's the Sunshine," said the cheery
little voice, "and I want to come in, I
want to come in!"
"No, no," said the little pink rose,
"you cannot come in."
By and by, as she sat so still, she heard
TAP, TAP, TAP, and RUSTLE, WHISPER, RUSTLE,
all up and down the window pane, and
on the door, and at the key-hole.
"WHO IS THERE?" she said.
"It's the Rain and the Sun, the Rain
and the Sun," said two little voices,
together, "and we want to come in! We
want to come in! We want to come in!"
"Dear, dear!" said the little Rosebud,
"if there are two of you, I s'pose I shall
have to let you in."
So she opened the door a little wee
crack, and in they came. And one took
one of her little hands, and the other
took her other little hand, and they ran,
ran, ran with her, right up to the top of
the ground. Then they said,--
"Poke your head through!"
So she poked her head through; and she
was in the midst of a beautiful garden.
It was springtime, and all the other flowers
had their heads poked through; and
she was the prettiest little pink rose in the
whole garden!
THE COCK-A-DOO-DLE-DOO[1]
[1] From "The Ignominy of being Grown Up," by Dr. Samuel
M. Crothers, in the Atlantic Monthly for July, 1906.
A very little boy made this story up
"out of his head," and told it to his papa
I think you littlest ones will like it; I do.
Once upon a time there was a little boy,
and he wanted to be a cock-a-doo-dle-doo
So he was a cock-a-doo-dle-doo. And
he wanted to fly up into the sky. So he
did fly up into the sky. And he wanted
to get wings and a tail. So he did get
some wings and a tail.
THE CLOUD[2]
[2] Adapted from the German of Robert Reinick's Maarchen,
Lieder-und Geschichtenbuch (Velhagen und Klasing, Bielefeld
and Leipsic).
One hot summer morning a little Cloud
rose out of the sea and floated lightly
and happily across the blue sky. Far
below lay the earth, brown, dry, and
desolate, from drouth. The little Cloud
could see the poor people of the earth
working and suffering in the hot fields,
while she herself floated on the morning
breeze, hither and thither, without a care.
"Oh, if I could only help the poor
people down there!" she thought. "If I could
but make their work easier, or give the
hungry ones food, or the thirsty a drink!"
And as the day passed, and the Cloud
became larger, this wish to do something
for the people of earth was ever greater in
her heart.
On earth it grew hotter and hotter; the
sun burned down so fiercely that the people
were fainting in its rays; it seemed as if
they must die of heat, and yet they were
obliged to go on with their work, for they
were very poor. Sometimes they stood and
looked up at the Cloud, as if they were
praying, and saying, "Ah, if you could
help us!"
"I will help you; I will!" said the Cloud.
And she began to sink softly down toward
the earth.
But suddenly, as she floated down, she
remembered something which had been
told her when she was a tiny Cloud-child,
in the lap of Mother Ocean: it had been
whispered that if the Clouds go too near
the earth they die. When she remembered
this she held herself from sinking, and
swayed here and there on the breeze,
thinking,--thinking. But at last she stood
quite still, and spoke boldly and proudly.
She said, "Men of earth, I will help you,
come what may!"
The thought made her suddenly marvelously
big and strong and powerful. Never
had she dreamed that she could be so big.
Like a mighty angel of blessing she stood
above the earth, and lifted her head and
spread her wings far over the fields and
woods. She was so great, so majestic, that
men and animals were awe-struck at the
sight; the trees and the grasses bowed
before her; yet all the earth-creatures felt that
she meant them well.
"Yes, I will help you," cried the Cloud
once more. "Take me to yourselves; I will
give my life for you!"
As she said the words a wonderful light
glowed from her heart, the sound of thunder
rolled through the sky, and a love greater
than words can tell filled the Cloud; down,
down, close to the earth she swept, and gave
up her life in a blessed, healing shower of
rain.
That rain was the Cloud's great deed;
it was her death, too; but it was also her
glory. Over the whole country-side, as far
as the rain fell, a lovely rainbow sprang its
arch, and all the brightest rays of heaven
made its colors; it was the last greeting of
a love so great that it sacrificed itself.
Soon that, too, was gone, but long, long
afterward the men and animals who were
saved by the Cloud kept her blessing in
their hearts.
THE LITTLE RED HEN
The little Red Hen was in the farmyard
with her chickens, when she found a grain
of wheat.
"Who will plant this wheat?" she said.
"Not I," said the Goose.
"Not I," said the Duck.
"I will, then," said the little Red Hen,
and she planted the grain of wheat.
When the wheat was ripe she said, "Who
will take this wheat to the mill?"
"Not I," said the Goose.
"Not I," said the Duck.
"I will, then," said the little Red Hen,
and she took the wheat to the mill.
When she brought the flour home she
said, "Who will make some bread with
this flour?"
"Not I," said the Goose.
"Not I," said the Duck.
"I will, then," said the little Red Hen.
When the bread was baked, she said,
"Who will eat this bread?"
"I will," said the Goose
"I will," said the Duck
"No, you won't," said the little Red Hen.
"I shall eat it myself. Cluck! cluck!" And
she called her chickens to help her.
THE GINGERBREAD MAN[1]
[1] I have tried to give this story in the most familiar form; it
varies a good deal in the hands of different story-tellers, but
this is substantially the version I was "brought up on." The
form of the ending was suggested to me by the story in Carolyn
Bailey's For the Children's Hour (Milton Bradley Co.).
Once upon a time there was a little old
woman and a little old man, and they
lived all alone in a little old house. They
hadn't any little girls or any little boys,
at all. So one day, the little old woman
made a boy out of gingerbread; she made
him a chocolate jacket, and put cinnamon
seeds in it for buttons; his eyes were made
of fine, fat currants; his mouth was made
of rose-colored sugar; and he had a gay
little cap of orange sugar-candy. When
the little old woman had rolled him out,
and dressed him up, and pinched his
gingerbread shoes into shape, she put him in
a pan; then she put the pan in the oven
and shut the door; and she thought, "Now
I shall have a little boy of my own."
When it was time for the Gingerbread
Boy to be done she opened the oven door
and pulled out the pan. Out jumped the
little Gingerbread Boy on to the floor, and
away he ran, out of the door and down the
street! The little old woman and the little
old man ran after him as fast as they could,
but he just laughed, and shouted,--
"Run! run! as fast as you can!
"You can't catch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man!"
And they couldn't catch him.
The little Gingerbread Boy ran on and
on, until he came to a cow, by the roadside.
"Stop, little Gingerbread Boy," said
the cow; "I want to eat you." The little
Gingerbread Boy laughed, and said,--
"I have run away from a little old woman,
"And a little old man,
"And I can run away from you, I can!"
And, as the cow chased him, he looked
over his shoulder and cried,--
"Run! run! as fast as you can!
"You can't catch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man!"
And the cow couldn't catch him.
The little Gingerbread Boy ran on, and
on, and on, till he came to a horse, in
the pasture. "Please stop, little Gingerbread
Boy," said the horse, "you look very
good to eat." But the little Gingerbread
Boy laughed out loud. "Oho! oho!" he
said,--
"I have run away from a little old woman,
"A little old man,
"A cow,
"And I can run away from you, I can!"
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