The Art of Story-Telling

by Marie L. Shedlock

Because these two animals are the chief characters, they must stand out in sharp outline: the other animals must be painted in fainter colours—they should be suggested rather than presented in detail. It might be as well to give a definite gesture to the Elephant—say, a characteristic movement with his trunk—a scowl to the Tiger, a supercilious and enigmatic smile to the Camel (suggested by Kipling's wonderful creation). But if a gesture were given to each of the animals, the effect would become monotonous, and the minor characters would crowd the foreground of the picture, impeding the action and leaving little to the imagination of the audience.... I personally have found it effective to repeat the gestures of these animals as they are leaving the stage, less markedly, as it is only a form of reminder.

Now, what is the impression we wish to leave on the mind of the child, apart from the dramatic joy and interest we have endeavoured to provide? Surely it is that he may realise the danger of a panic. One method of doing this (alas! a favourite one still) is to say at the end of the story: “Now, children, what do we learn from this?” Of this method Lord Morley has said: “It is a commonplace to the wise, and an everlasting puzzle to the foolish, that direct inculcation of morals should invariably prove so powerless an instrument—so futile a method.”

If this direct method were really effective, we might as well put the little drama aside, and say plainly: “It is foolish to be nervous; it is dangerous to make loose statements. Large-minded people understand things better than those who are narrow-minded.”

Now, all these abstract statements would be as true and as tiresome as the multiplication-table. The child might or might not fix them in his mind, but he would not act upon them.

But, put all the artistic warmth of which you are capable into the presentation of the story, and, without one word of comment from you, the children will feel the dramatic intensity of that vast concourse of animals brought together by the feeble utterance of one irresponsible little hare. Let them feel the dignity and calm of the Lion, which accounts for his authority; his tender but firm treatment of the foolish little Hare; and listen to the glorious finale when all the animals retire convinced of their folly; and you will find that you have adopted the same method as the Lion (who must have been an unconscious follower of Froebel), and that there is nothing to add to the picture.

Question VI. Is it wise to talk over a story with children and to encourage them in the habit of asking questions about it?

At the time, no! The effect produced is to be by dramatic means, and this would be destroyed by any attempts at analysis by means of questions.

The medium that has been used in the telling of the story is (or ought to be) a purely artistic one which will reach the child through the medium of the emotions: the appeal to the intellect or the reason is a different method, which must be used at a different time. When you are enjoying the fragrance of a flower or the beauty of its colour, it is not the moment to be reminded of its botanical classification. Just as in the botany lesson it would be somewhat irrelevant to talk of the part that flowers play in the happiness of life.

From a practical point of view, it is not wise to encourage questions on the part of the children, because they are apt to disturb the atmosphere by bringing in entirely irrelevant matter, so that in looking back on the telling of the story, the child often remembers the irrelevant conversation to the exclusion of the dramatic interest of the story itself.[51]

I remember once making what I considered at the time a most effective appeal to some children who had been listening to the story of the Little Tin Soldier, and, unable to refrain from the cheap method of questioning, of which I have now recognised the futility, I asked: “Don't you think it was nice of the little dancer to rush down into the fire to join the brave little soldier?” “Well,” said a prosaic little lad of six: “I thought the draught carried her down.”