Fairy tales must contain what interests children. It is a well-known principle that selective interest precedes voluntary attention; therefore interest is fundamental. All that is accomplished of permanent good is a by-product of the enjoyment of the tale. The tale will go home only as it brings joy, and it will bring joy when it secures the child's interest. Now interest is the condition which requires least mental effort. And fairy tales for little children must follow that great law of composition pointed out by Herbert Spencer, which makes all language consider the audience and the economy of the hearer's attention. The first step, then, is to study the interests of the child. We do not wish to give him just what he likes, but we want to give him a chance to choose from among those things which he ought to have and, as good and wise guardians, see that we offer what is in harmony with his interests. Any observation of the child's interest will show that he loves the things he finds in his fairy tales. He enjoys—
A sense of life. This is the biggest thing in the fairy tales, and the basis for their universal appeal. The little child who is just entering life can no more escape its attraction than can the aged veteran about to leave the pathway. The little pig, Whitie, who with his briskly curling tail goes eagerly down the road to secure, from the man who carried a load of straw, a bit with which to build his easily destructible house; Red Riding Hood taking a pot of jam to her sick grandmother; Henny Penny starting out on a walk, to meet with the surprise of a nut falling on her head—the biggest charm of all this is that it is life.
The familiar. The child, limited in experience, loves to come in touch with the things he knows about. It soothes his tenderness, allays his fears, makes him feel at home in the world,—and he hates to feel strange,—it calms his timidity, and satisfies his heart. The home and the people who live in it; the food, the clothing, and shelter of everyday life; the garden, the plant in it, or the live ant or toad; the friendly dog and cat, the road or street near by, the brook, the hill, the sky—these are a part of his world, and he feels them his own even in a story. The presents which the Rabbit went to town to buy for the little Rabbits, in How Brother Rabbit Frightens his Neighbors; the distinct names, Miss Janey and Billy Malone, given to the animals of In Some Lady's Garden, just as a child would name her dolls; and the new shoes of the Dog which the Rabbit managed to get in Why Mr. Dog Runs after Brother Rabbit—these all bring up in the child's experience delightful familiar associations. The tale which takes a familiar experience, gives it more meaning, and organizes it, such as The Little Red Hen, broadens, deepens, and enriches the child's present life.
The surprise. While he loves the familiar, nothing more quickly brings a smile than the surprise. Perhaps the most essential of the fairy traits is the combination of the familiar and the unfamiliar. The desire for the unknown, that curiosity which brings upon itself surprise, is the charm of childhood as well as the divine fire of the scientist. The naughty little Elephant who asked "a new, fine question he had never asked before," and who went to answer his own question of "what the crocodile has for dinner," met with many surprises which were spankings; and as a result, he returned home with a trunk and experience. He is a very good example of how delightful to the child this surprise can be. The essence of the fairy tale is natural life in a spiritual world, the usual child in the unusual environment, or the unusual child in the natural environment. This combination of the usual and unusual is the chief charm of Alice in Wonderland, where a natural child wanders through a changing environment that is unusual. For an idle moment enjoy the task of seeing how many ideas it contains which are the familiar ideas of children, and how they all have been "made different." All children love a tea-party, but what child would not be caught by having a tea-party with a Mad Hatter, a March Hare, and a sleepy Dormouse, with nothing to eat and no tea! Red Riding Hood was a dear little girl who set out to take a basket to her grandmother. But in the wood, after she had been gathering a nosegay and chasing butterflies, "just as I might do," any child might say, she met a wolf! And what child's ears would not rise with curiosity? "Now something's going to happen!" The Three Bears kept house. That was usual enough; but everything was different, and the charm is in giving the child a real surprise at every step. The house was not like an ordinary house; it was in the wood, and more like a play-house than a real one. There was a room, but not much in it; a table, but there was not on it what is on your table—only three bowls. What they contained was usual, but unusually one bowl of porridge was big and hot, one was less big and cold, and one was little and just right. There were usual chairs, unusual in size and very unusual when Goldilocks sat in them. Upstairs the bedroom was usual, but the beds were unusual when Goldilocks lay upon them. The Bears themselves were usual, but their talk and action was a delightful mixture of the surprising and the comical. Perhaps this love of surprise accounts for the perfect leap of interest with which a child will follow the Cock in The Bremen Town Musicians, as he saw from the top of the tree on which he perched, a light, afar off through the wood. Certainly the theme of a light in the distance has a charm for children as it must have had for man long ago.
Sense impression. Good things to eat, beautiful flowers, jewels, the beauties of sight, color, and sound, of odor and of taste, all gratify a child's craving for sense impression. This, in its height, is the charm of the Arabian Nights. But in a lesser degree it appears in all fairy tales. Cinderella's beautiful gowns at the ball and the fine supper stimulate the sense of color, beauty, and taste. The sugar-panes and gingerbread roof of the Witch's House, in Hansel and Grethel, stir the child's kindred taste for sweets and cookies. The Gingerbread Boy, with his chocolate jacket, his cinnamon buttons, currant eyes, rose-sugar mouth, orange-candy cap, and gingerbread shoes, makes the same strong sense appeal. There is a natural attraction for the child in the beautiful interior of Sleeping Beauty's Castle, in the lovely perfume of roses in the Beast's Rose-Garden, in the dance and song of the Elves, and in the dance of the Goat and her seven Kids about the well.
The beautiful. Closely related to this love of the material is the sense of the beautiful. "Beauty is pleasure regarded as the quality of a thing," says Santayana. Pleasures of the eye and ear, of the imagination and memory, are those most easily objectified, and form the groundwork on which all higher beauty rests. The green of the spring, the odor of Red Riding Hood's flowers, the splendor of the Prince's ball in Cinderella—these when perceived distinctly are intelligible, and when perceived delightfully are beautiful. Language is a kind of music, too; the mode of speaking, the sound of letters, the inflection of the voice—all are elements of beauty. But this material beauty is tied up in close association with things "eye hath not seen nor ear heard," the moral beauty of the good and the message of the true. The industry of the little Elves reflects the worth of honest effort of the two aged peasants, and the dance of the Goat and seven Kids reflects the triumph of mother wit and the sharpness of love. The good, the true, and the beautiful are inseparably linked in the tale, just as they forever grow together in the life of the child. The tales differ largely in the element of beauty they present. Among those conspicuous for beauty may be mentioned Andersen's Thumbelina; the Indian How the Sun, the Moon, and West Wind Went Out to Dinner; the Japanese Mezumi, the Beautiful; and the English Robin's Christmas Song. Little Two-Eyes stands out as one containing a large element of beauty, and Oeyvind and Marit represents in an ideal way the possible union of the good, the true, and the beautiful. This union of the good, the true, and the beautiful has been expressed by an old Persian legend: "In the midst of the light is the beautiful, in the midst of the beautiful is the good, in the midst of the good is God, the Eternal One."
Wonder, mystery, magic. The spirit of wonder, like a will-o'-the-wisp, leads on through a fairy tale, enticing the child who follows, knowing that something will happen, and wondering what. When magic comes in he is gratified because some one becomes master of the universe—Cinderella, when she plants the hazel bough, and later goes to the wishing-tree; the fairy godmother, when with her wand she transforms a pumpkin to a gilded coach and six mice to beautiful gray horses; Little Two-Eyes, when she says,—
Little kid, bleat,
I wish to eat!
and immediately her little table set with food so marvelously appears; or Hop-o'-my-Thumb when he steps into his Seven-League Boots and goes like the wind.
Adventure. This is a form of curiosity. In the old tale, as the wood was the place outside the usual habitation, naturally it was the place where things happened. Often there was a house in the wood, like the one "amidst the forest darkly green," where Snow White lived with the Dwarfs. This adventure the little child loves for its own sake. Later, when he is about eleven or twelve, he loves it for its motive. This love of adventure is part of the charm of Red Riding Hood, of the Three Bears, of the Three Pigs, or of any good tale you might mention.