In any story which has to do with soldiers and battles, do not be too martial.  Do not permeate your tale with the roar of guns, the smell of powder, and the cries of the wounded.  Inculcate as much as possible the idea of a struggle for a principle, and omit the horrors of war.

We must remember that upon the kind of stories we tell the child depends much of his later taste in literature.  We can easily create a hunger for highly spiced and sensational writing by telling grotesque and horrible tales in childhood.  When the little one has learned to read, when he holds the key to the mystery of books, then he will seek in them the same food which so gratified his palate in earlier years.

We are just beginning to realize the importance of beginnings in education.

True, a king of Israel whose wisdom is greatly extolled, and whose writings are widely read, urged the importance of the early training of children about three thousand years ago; but the progress of truth in the world is proverbially slow.  When parents and teachers, legislators and lawgivers, are at last heartily convinced of the inestimable importance of the first six years of childhood, then the plays and occupations of that formative period of life will no longer be neglected or left to chance, and the exercise of story-telling will assume its proper place as an educative influence.

Long ago, when I was just beginning the study of childhood, and when all its possibilities were rising before me, “up, up, from glory to glory,”—­long ago, I was asked to give what I considered the qualifications of an ideal kindergartner.

My answer was as follows,—­brief perhaps, but certainly comprehensive:—­

  The music of St. Cecilia. 
  The art of Raphael. 
  The dramatic genius of Rachel. 
  The administrative ability of Cromwell. 
  The wisdom of Solomon. 
  The meekness of Moses, and—­
  The patience of Job.

Twelve years’ experience with children has not lowered my ideals one whit, nor led me to deem superfluous any of these qualifications; in fact, I should make the list a little longer were I to write it now, and should add, perhaps, the prudence of Franklin, the inventive power of Edison, and the talent for improvisation of the early Troubadours.

The Troubadours, indeed, could they return to the earth, would wander about lonely and unwelcomed till they found home and refuge in the hospitable atmosphere of the kindergarten,—­the only spot in the busy modern world where delighted audiences still gather around the professional story-teller.

If I were asked to furnish a recipe for one of these professional story-tellers, these spinners of childish narratives, I should suggest one measure of pure literary taste, two of gesture and illustration, three of dramatic fire, and four of ready speech and clear expression.  If to these you add a pinch of tact and sympathy, the compound should be a toothsome one, and certain to agree with all who taste it.