Concerning the fundamental points of method in telling a story, I have little to add to the principles which I have already stated 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 all over this country, 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 shame- facedness, affecting your manner unfavorably, 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 recognizes 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 morerapidly; 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.
Now, any one who chanced to hear Miss Shedlock tell that same story will remember that the absurd rhyme gave great opportunity for expression, in its very repetition; each time that the fisherman came to the water's edge his chagrin and unwillingness was greater, and his summons to the magic fish mirrored his feeling.The jingle IS foolish; that is a part of the charm.But if the person who tells it FEELS foolish, there is no charm at all! It is the same principle which applies to any address to any assemblage: if the speaker has the air of finding what he has to say absurd or unworthy of effort, the audience naturally tends to follow his lead, and find it not worth listening to.
Let me urge, then, take your story seriously.
Next, "take your time." This suggestion needs explaining, perhaps.It does not mean license to dawdle.Nothing is much more annoying in a speaker than too great deliberateness, or than hesitation of speech.But it means a quiet realization of the fact that the floor is yours, everybody wants to hear you, there is time enough for every point and shade of meaning and no one will think the story too long.This mental attitude must underlie proper control of speed.Never hurry.A business-like leisure is the true attitude of the storyteller.
And the result is best attained by concentrating one's attention on the episodes of the story.Pass lightly, and comparatively swiftly, over the portions between actual episodes, but take all the time you need for the elaboration of those.And above all, do not FEEL hurried.
The next suggestion is eminently plain and practical, if not an all too obvious one.It is this: if all your preparation and confidence fails you at the crucial moment, and memory plays the part of traitor in some particular, if, in short, you blunder on a detail of the story, NEVER ADMIT IT.If it was an unimportant detail which you misstated, pass right on, accepting whatever you said, and continuing with it; if you have beenso unfortunate as to omit a fact which was a necessary link in the chain, put it in, later, as skillfully as you can, and with as deceptive an appearance of its being in the intended order; but never take the children behind the scenes, and let them hear the creaking of your mental machinery.You must be infallible.You must be in the secret of the mystery, and admit your audience on somewhat unequal terms; they should have no creeping doubts as to your complete initiation into the secrets of the happenings you relate.
Plainly, there can be lapses of memory so complete, so all-embracing, that frank failure is the only outcome, but these are so few as not to need consideration, when dealing with so ****** material as that of children's stories.There are times, too, before an ***** audience, when a speaker can afford to let his hearers be amused with him over a chance mistake.But with children it is most unwise to break the spell of the entertainment in that way.Consider, in the matter of a detail of action or description, how absolutely unimportant the mere accuracy is, compared with the effect of smoothness and the enjoyment of the hearers.They will not remember the detail, for good or evil, half so long as they will remember the fact that you did not know it.So, for their sakes, as well as for the success of your story, cover your slips of memory, and let them be as if they were not.
