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[1] 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 in many parts, 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 shamefacedness, affecting your manner unfavourably, 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 recognises 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.