The Art of Story-Telling, with nearly half a hundred stories

by Julia Darrow Cowles

It has been well said that the fables are the child’s best introduction to the study of human nature. They are “an interpretation of life.” That animals are made to talk, and to exhibit human traits, only adds to the charm of the story without lessening its ethical value. The child applies to all nature his own standard of ethics.

The child’s ability to understand is far in advance of his ability to read, and the old folk-tales which have been handed down orally from generation to generation, and later gathered into volumes for the children of all nations to enjoy together, are a veritable mine of delight to both story-teller and listener.

Folk tales and fairy tales are so interwoven that it is difficult to separate them. That some of both are open to criticism is conceded, but with such abundance of supply there is no need of telling a story which presents even a doubt as to its value.

In her introduction to “The Story Hour,” Kate Douglas Wiggin says: “Some universal spiritual truth underlies the really fine old fairy tale; but there can be no educational influence in the so-called fairy stories, which are merely jumbles of impossible incidents, and which not infrequently present dishonesty, deceit, and cruelty in attractive or amusing guise.” Here we have the true test which anyone may apply: an underlying “universal spiritual truth.” Does our story contain such?

Two very familiar nursery tales which owe their origin to the folk-lore of old—namely, “Jack, the Giant Killer,” and “Cinderella”—have recently been brought into question upon the ground of their moral teaching. The critics in question look upon Jack as a thief and a murderer, who “lived happily ever after” upon his ill-gotten gains. For my own part, I find less to condemn in Jack’s treatment of the Giant, than in making a hero of a boy who was lazy and disobedient. The Giant had robbed and killed Jack’s father, and he was wicked and cruel to all, and Jack could scarcely be blamed for trying to regain his father’s stolen wealth, or for cutting down the bean-stalk when the Giant was descending for the purpose of killing him and, in all probability, his mother. But the false note in the story, to my mind, lies in selecting a boy who was avowedly lazy, idle, disobedient, and neglectful of his mother, for the hero of a tale of such marvelous deeds. The tale of Jack, the Giant Killer, however, has many versions, and there is no need whatever, when telling the story, of giving to Jack any of these undesirable traits. Rather, picture him as a boy capable of performing heroic deeds. The change is easily made.

On the other hand, I would champion the story of “Cinderella.” The recent criticism brought against this story is that it leads boys and girls to believe that all step-mothers are cruel. I do not think so. The stories of “The Babes in the Woods,” and of “The Princes in the Tower,” do not teach that all uncles are cruel. Of course the fact that Cinderella’s step-mother was a step-mother might be so emphasized in the telling as to give this impression, but it is not emphasized in the story—not, at least, in most of the versions which I have read. Selfishness and pride are set forth in the half-sisters in all their unattractiveness; while Cinderella’s final triumph serves as a means of showing her gentle and forgiving nature. These are the points to be brought out in the story-telling, and it would seem to me to be an unjustifiable robbery to take the story of Cinderella from the child’s early store of fairy tales. What a thrill of exquisite delight is felt by the child when the magic of the god-mother’s wand turns Cinderella’s rags into the robe of a princess and she is whirled away in her golden chariot to meet the prince. It is a story of goodness rewarded and of evil punished, but all in such a magical and wonderful way! I can feel the early thrill of it yet—and so can you.

There are different versions of both these stories, and it is not a difficult matter to tell either one in such a way as to do away with all objectionable features. As was shown in a previous chapter, much of the impression which a story leaves is due to the manner of its telling. The story of Cinderella certainly contains the “underlying universal, spiritual truth,” and so answers to the test of a truly “fine old fairy tale.”

American story tellers should not go far afield for their tales of folk lore, and overlook the two distinctive sources afforded by our own country. The stories of the North American Indian, told by camp fire or in tepee, are full of poetic imagery, of symbolic truth, and of heroic valor. They form the original legendary lore of our land, and they should be told to the children, preparing them for a later reading of the poets and authors who have shown us the picturesque as well as the tragic side of the history of the Red Man.

The other American source of folk lore tales is found in the south, and is typified at its best in “Uncle Remus,” though not confined to him. As has been said, the dialect story is difficult for a child to read, and Uncle Remus is undoubtedly most thoroughly appreciated by children of a larger growth. But no child can resist the drollery or the rollicking fun of the true darkey story when it is told to him.

The following story of “Ithenthiela” which closes this chapter is a good example of the folk lore tales of the Indian. Only a portion of the original story is here given, but it is to be found, with other good stories for telling, in Tales of the Red Children, by Abbie F. Brown, and James M. Bell (D. Appleton and Company).