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 the children in “Good-mornings” and in hat-liftings.  I mean the attitude of mind which recognises 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 favourable 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 schools of to-day.