Isn’t it true that the person who, day after day, creates these altruistic emotions in the hearts of his hearers will find his sorrow, deep-seated though it may be, growing dimmer day by day as he brightens the lives of his hearers?
There are many cases which I could give you to prove my point. One, of a little child with spinal trouble, who was treated by a great surgeon. He would call upon her two or three days out of the week and each time tell her a story. He required her, meanwhile, to make up similar stories. For instance, he would tell her the story of “Little Green Cap.” Then he would say, “Now, by Tuesday I want you to have a story ready for me. It must be about a poor little girl, a princess and a magic ring.” So absorbed did the child become in such work that the pain in the poor little back grew less and less insistent until she ceased to be an invalid and was able to attend school. She was one of the happiest children I ever knew. She said she didn’t mind the pain any more, she had such lovely things to think about.
Another was the case of a young woman upon whom sorrow laid a heavy hand. Prostrated by grief, she lay for several days in a darkened room. Then rousing herself she went to a hospital and secured permission from the superintendent to visit daily the friendless patients who seemed lonely. For months she reported daily to the superintendent, was given directions as to which patients to visit, and for three hours she would go from one to the other telling humorous stories. The morning hours she spent hunting for artistic, mirth-provoking stories and her afternoons in bringing smiles to sad faces. The result was inevitable. People everywhere welcomed her as a ray of sunshine.
One more case—that of a young woman who, while making a brave struggle to recover from one serious operation, suddenly found herself facing another even more serious. With nerves racked by persistent pain, courage well nigh gone, pursued by that dread foe insomnia, she turned to her one accomplishment, Story telling. Though able to sit up but a few hours at a time, she held large audiences in many cities two or three times a week, until she once more went under the knife. Then within two months she was on the platform again, bringing herself back to health by compelling her mind to dwell in Storyland. I knew all the particulars of this case, the physical torture she endured for two years, the struggle she made to live, and knowing what I do, forces me to believe that if Story telling did not save her life, it certainly saved her reason.
It is a law of life that the only thing which we may always keep, is the thing we give. If then, the prime function of Story telling is the giving of Joy, then Joy is the thing which the Story teller may have.
To those who “travail and are heavy laden” I commend the Art of Story telling.
Story Telling for Mothers
Interesting accounts were recently published in the Herald, Sun and other New York papers of Miss Georgene Faulkner’s story telling for mothers and children at the Waldorf-Astoria, New York and St. Mary’s Parish House, Brooklyn.