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THE STORY HOUR
A BOOK FOR THE HOME AND THE KINDERGARTEN
By Kate Douglas Wiggin and Nora A. Smith
Therefore ear and heart open to the genuine story teller, as flowersopen to the spring sun and the May rain.
FRIEDRICH FROEBEL
CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTION. Kate Douglas Wiggin
PREFACE. Kate Douglas Wiggin and Nora A. Smith
THE ORIOLE'S NEST. Kate Douglas Wiggin
DICKY SMILY'S BIRTHDAY. Kate Douglas Wiggin
AQUA; OR, THE WATER BABY. Kate Douglas Wiggin
MOUFFLOU. Adapted from Ouida by Nora A. Smith
BENJY IN BEASTLAND. Adapted from Mrs. Ewing by Kate Douglas Wiggin andNora A. Smith
THE PORCELAIN STOVE. Adapted from Ouida by Kate Douglas Wiggin
THE BABES IN THE WOOD. E. S. Smith
THE STORY OF CHRISTMAS. Nora A. Smith
THE FIRST THANKSGIVING DAY. Nora A. Smith
LITTLE GEORGE WASHINGTON. Part I. Nora A. Smith
GREAT GEORGE WASHINGTON. Part II. Nora A. Smith
THE MAPLE-LEAF AND THE VIOLET. Nora A. Smith
MRS. CHINCHILLA. Kate Douglas Wiggin
A STORY OF THE FOREST. Nora A. Smith
PICCOLA. Nora A. Smith
THE CHILD AND THE WORLD. Kate Douglas Wiggin
WHEN I WAS A LITTLE GIRL. Kate Douglas Wiggin
FROEBEL'S BIRTHDAY. Nora A. Smith
INTRODUCTION.
Story-telling, like letter-writing, is going out of fashion. There areno modern Scheherezades, and the Sultans nowadays have to be amused ina different fashion. But, for that matter, a hundred poetic pastimesof leisure have fled before the relentless Hurry Demon who governs thisprosaic nineteenth century. The Wandering Minstrel is gone, and theTroubadour, and the Court of Love, and the King's Fool, and the RoundTable, and with them the Story-Teller.
"Come, tell us a story!" It is the familiar plea of childhood. Unhappyhe who has not been assailed with it again and again. Thrice miserableshe who can be consigned to worse than oblivion by the scathingcriticism, "She doesn't know any stories!" and thrice blessed she whois recognized at a glance as a person likely to be full to the brim ofthem.
There are few preliminaries and no formalities when the Person with aStory is found. The motherly little sister stands by the side of herchair, two or three of the smaller fry perch on the arms, and the babyclimbs up into her lap (such a person always has a capacious lap), andfolds his fat hands placidly. Then there is a deep sigh of blissfulexpectation and an expressive silence, which means, "Now we are ready,please; and if you would be kind enough to begin it with 'Once upon atime,' we should be much obliged; though of course we understand thatall the stories in the world can't commence that way, delightful as itwould be."
The Person with a Story smiles obligingly (at least it is to be hopedthat she does), and retires into a little corner of her brain, torummage there for something just fitted to the occasion. That samelittle corner is densely populated, if she is a lover of children. Init are all sorts of heroic dogs, wonderful monkeys, intelligent cats,naughty kittens; virtues masquerading seductively as fairies, and viceshiding in imps; birds agreeing and disagreeing in their little nests,and inevitable small boys in the act of robbing them; busy bees layingup their winter stores, and idle butterflies disgracefully neglectingto do the same; and then a troop of lost children, disobedient children,and lazy, industrious, generous, or heedless ones, waiting to furnishthe thrilling climaxes. The Story-Teller selects a hero or heroineout of this motley crowd,--all longing to be introduced to Bright-Eye,Fine-Ear, Kind-Heart, and Sweet-Lips,--and speedily the drama opens.
Did Rachel ever have such an audience? I trow not. Rachel never had tinyhands snuggling into hers in "the very best part of the story," nor wasshe near enough her hearers to mark the thousand shades of expressionthat chased each other across their faces,--supposing they had anyexpression, which is doubtful. Rachel never saw dimples lurking in theambush of rosy cheeks, and popping in and out in such a distractingmanner that she felt like punctuating her discourse with kisses! Herdull, conventional, grown-up hearers bent a little forward in theirseats, perhaps, and compelled by her magic power laughed and cried inthe right places; but their eyes never shone with that starry lustrethat we see in the eyes of happy children,--a lustre that is dimmed,alas, in after years. Their eyes still see visions, but the "shadowsof the prison house" have fallen about us, and the things which we haveseen we "now can see no more!"
If you chance to be the Person with a Story, you sit like a queen on herthrone surrounded by her loyal subjects; or like an unworthy sun with agroup of flowers turning their faces towards you. Inspired by breathlessattention, you try ardently to do your very best. It seems to you thatyou could never endure a total failure, and you hardly see how you couldbear, with any sort of equanimity, even the vacant gaze or restlessmovement that would bespeak a vagrant interest. If you are a novice,perhaps the frightful idea crosses your mind, "What if one ofthese children should slip out of the room?" Or, still more tragicpossibility, suppose they should look you in the eye and remark with theterrible candor of infancy, "We do not like this story!" But no; youare more fortunate. The tale is told, and you are greeted with sighs ofsatisfaction and with the instantaneous request, "Tell it again!" Thatis the encore of the Story-Teller,--"Tell it again! No, not anotherstory; the same one over again, please!" for "what novelty is worththat sweet monotony where everything is known, and loved because it isknown?" No royal accolade could be received with greater gratitude. Youendeavor to let humility wait upon self-respect; but when you discoverthat the children can scarcely be dragged from your fascinatingpresence, crying like Romeo for death rather than banishment, and thatthe next time you appear they make a wild dash from the upper regions,and precipitate themselves upon you with the full impact of theirseveral weights "multiplied into their velocity," you cannot helphugging yourself to think the good God has endowed you sufficiently towin the love and admiration of such keen observers and merciless littlecritics.
Now this charming little drama takes place in somebody's nursery cornerat twilight, when you are waiting for "that cheerful tocsin of thesoul, the dinner-bell," or around somebody's fireside just before thechildren's bedtime; but the same scene is enacted every few days in thepresence of the fresh-hearted, childlike kindergartner, of all women thelikeliest to find the secret of eternal youth. She chooses the story asone of the vessels in which she shall carry the truth to her circleof little listeners, and you will never hear her say, like the needyknife-grinder, "Story? God bless you, I have none to tell, sir!"
If the group chances to be one of bright, well-born, well-bredyoungsters, the opportunity to inspire and instruct is one of the mosteffective and valuable that can come to any teacher. On the other hand,if the circle happens to be one of little ragamuffins, Arabs, scrips andscraps of vagrant humanity (sometimes scalawags and sometimesangels), born in basements and bred on curbstones, then believe me, mycountrymen, there is a sight worth seeing, a scene fit for a painter. Itmight be a pleasant satire upon our national hospitality if the artistwere to call such a picture "Young America," for comparatively fewdistinctively American faces would be found in his group of portraits.
Make a mental picture, dear reader, of the ring of listening children ina San Francisco free kindergarten, for it would be difficult to gatherso cosmopolitan a company anywhere else: curly yellow hair and rosycheeks ... sleek blonde braids and calm blue eyes ... swarthy faces andblue-black curls
... woolly little pows and thick lips ... long, archednoses and broad, flat ones. There you will see the fire and passionof the Southern races and the self-poise, serenity, and sturdiness ofNorthern nations. Pat is there, with a gleam of humor in his eye ...Topsy, all smiles and teeth ... Abraham, trading tops with littleIsaac, next in line ... Hans and Gretchen, phlegmatic and dependable... Francois, never still for an instant ... Christina, rosy, calm, andconscientious, and Duncan, canny and prudent as any of his clan.
What an opportunity for amalgamation of races and for laying thefoundation of American citizenship! for the purely social atmosphere ofthe kindergarten makes it a school of life and experience. Imagine sucha group hanging breathless upon your words, as you recount the landingof the Pilgrims, or try to paint the character of George Washingtonin colors that shall appeal to children whose ancestors have knownNapoleon, Cromwell, and Bismarck, Peter the Great, Garibaldi, Bruce, andRobert Emmett.
To such an audience were the stories in his little book told; and thelines that will perhaps seem commonplace to you glow for us with a"light that never was on sea or land;" for "the secret of our emotionsnever lies in the bare object, but in its subtle relations to our ownpast."
As we turn the pages, radiant faces peep between the words; the echo ofchildish laughter rings in our ears and curves our lips with its happymemory; there isn't a single round O in all the chapters but serves asa tiny picture-frame for an eager child's face! The commas say, "Isn'tthere any more?" the interrogation points ask, "What did the boy dothen?" the exclamation points cry in ecstasy, "What a beautiful story!"and the periods sigh, "This is all for to-day."
At this point--where the dog Moufflou returns to his little master--weremember that Carlotty Griggs clapped her ebony hands, and shrieked intransport, "I KNOWED HE'D come! _I_ KNOWED he'd come!"
Here is the place where we remarked impressively, "A lie, children, isthe very worst thing in the world!" whereupon Billy interrogated, withwide eyes and awed voice, "IS IT WORSE THAN A RAILROAD CROSSING?" Andthere is a sentence in the story of the "Bird's Nest" sacred to thememory of Tommy's tear!--Tommy of the callous conscience and the marbleheart. Tommy's dull eye washed for one brief moment by the salutarytear! Truly the humble Story-Teller has not lived in vain. Sing, yemorning stars, together, for this is the spot where Tommy cried!
If you would be the Person with a Story, you must not only have one totell, but you must be willing to learn how to tell it, if you wish tomake it a "rememberable thing" to children. The Story-Teller, unlike thepoet, is made as well as born, but he is not made of all stuffs nor inthe twinkling of an eye. In this respect he is very like the Ichneumonin the nonsense rhyme:&&
"There once was an idle Ichneumon Who thought he could learn to play Schumann; But he found, to his pains, It took talent and brains, And neither possessed this Ichneumon."
To be effective, the story in the kindergarten should always be told,never read; for little children need the magnetism of eye and smile aswell as the gesture which illuminates the strange word and endows itwith meaning. The story that is told is always a thousand times moreattractive, real, and personal than anything read from a book.
Well-chosen, graphically told stories can be made of distinct educativevalue in the nursery or kindergarten. They give the child a loveof reading, develop in him the germ, at least, of a taste for goodliterature, and teach him the art of speech. If they are told in simple,graceful, expressive English, they are a direct and valuable objectlesson in this last direction.
The ear of the child becomes used to refined intonations, and slovenlylanguage will grow more and more disagreeable to him. The kindergartnercannot be too careful in this matter. By the sweetness of her tone andthe perfection of her enunciation she not only makes herself a worthymodel for the children, but she constantly reveals the possibilities oflanguage and its inner meaning.
"The very brooding of a voice on a word," says George Macdonald, "seemsto hatch something of what is in it."
Stories help a child to form a standard by which he can live and grow,for they are his first introduction into the grand world of the ideal incharacter.
"We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love; And even as these are well andwisely fixed, In dignity of being we ascend."
The child understands his own life better, when he is enabled to compareit with other lives; he sees himself and his own possibilities reflectedin them as in a mirror.
They also aid in the growth of the imaginative faculty, which isvery early developed in the child, and requires its natural food."Imagination," says Dr. Seguin, "is more than a decorative attributeof leisure; it is a power in the sense that from images perceived andstored it sublimes ideals." "If I were to choose between two greatcalamities for my children," he goes on to say, "I would rather havethem unalphabetic than unimaginative."
There is a great difference of opinion concerning the value of fairystories. The Gradgrinds will not accept them on any basis whatever, butthey are invariably so fascinating to children that it is certain theymust serve some good purpose and appeal to some inherent craving inchild-nature. But here comes in the necessity of discrimination.The true meaning of the word "faerie" is spiritual, but many storiesmasquerade under that title which have no claim to it. Some universalspiritual truth underlies the really fine old fairy tale; but therecan be no educative influence in the so-called fairy stories whichare merely jumbles of impossible incidents, and which not unfrequentlypresent dishonesty, deceit, and cruelty in attractive or amusing guise.
When the fairy tale carries us into an exquisite ideal world, where thefancy may roam at will, creating new images and seeing truth ever in newforms, then it has a pure and lovely influence over children, who arenatural poets, and live more in the spirit and less in the body thanwe. The fairy tale offers us a broad canvas on which to paint ourword-pictures. There are no restrictions of time or space; the worldis ours, and we can roam in it at will; for spirit, there, is evervictorious over matter.
"Once upon a time," saith the Story-Teller, "there was a beautifullocust tree, that bent its delicate fans and waved its creamy blossomsin the sunshine, and laughed because its flowers were so lovely andfragrant and the world was so fresh and green in its summer dress."
"It's queer for a tree to laugh," said Bright-Eye.
"But queerer if it didn't laugh, with such lovely blossoms hanging allover it," replied Fine-Ear.
Everything is real to the happy child. Life is a sort of fairy garden,where he wanders as in a dream. "He can make abstraction of whateverdoes not fit into his fable; and he puts his eyes into his pocket justas we hold our noses in an unsavory lane."
Stories offer a valuable field for instruction, and for introducing insimple and attractive form much information concerning the laws of plantand flower and animal life.
A story of this kind, however, must be made as well as told by anartist; for in the hands of a bungler it is quite as likely to be afailure as a success. It must be compounded with the greatest care,and the scientific facts must be generously diluted and mixed in smallproportions with other and more attractive elements, or it will berejected by the mental stomach; or, if received in one ear, will beunceremoniously ushered from the other with an "Avaunt! cold fact! Whathave thou and I in common!"
Did you ever tell a story of this kind and watch its effect uponchildren? Did you ever note that fatal moment when it BEGAN to BEGIN todawn upon the intelligence of the dullest member of your flock that yournarrative was a "whited sepulchre," and that he was being instructedwithin an inch of his life?
"Treat me at least with honesty, my good woman!" he cries in his spirit."Read me lessons if you will, but do not make a pretense of amusing meat the same moment!"
This obvious attitude of criticism is very disagreeable to you, butnever mind, it will be a salutary lesson. Did you think, O clumsyvisitor in childhood land, that simply because you called your stuffeddolls "Prince" and "Princess" you could conduct them straight throughthe mineral kingdom, and
allow them to converse with all the metals withimpunity? Nest time make your scientific fact an integral part of thestory, and do not try to introduce too much knowledge in one dose. Allchildren love Nature and sympathize with her (or if they do not, "thendespair of them, O Philanthropy!"), and all stories that bring themnearer to the dear mother's heart bring them at the same time nearer toGod; therefore lead them gently to a loving observation of
"The hills Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun; the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods; rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green."
Stories bring the force of example to bear upon children in the verybest possible way. Here we can speak to the newly awakened soul andtouch it to nobler issues. This can be done with very little of thatabstract moralizing which is generally so ineffective. A moral "luggedin" by the heels, so to speak, without any sense of perspective on thepart of the Story-Teller, can no more incline a child to nobler livingthan cold victuals can serve as a fillip to the appetite. The factsthemselves should suffice to exert the moral influence; the deeds shouldspeak louder than the words, and in clearer, fuller tones. At the end ofsuch a story, "Go thou and do likewise" sounds in the child's heart, anda new throb of tenderness and aspiration, of desire to do, to grow, andto be, stirs gently there and wakes the soul to higher ideals. In such astory the canting, vapid, or didactic little moral, tacked like a tag onthe end, for fear we shall not read the lesson aright, is nothing shortof an insult to the better feelings. It used to be very much in vogue,but we have learned better nowadays, and we recognize (to paraphraseMrs. Whitney's bright speech) that we have often vaccinated childrenwith morality for fear of their taking it the natural way.
It is a curious fact that children sympathize with the imaginary woesof birds and butterflies and plants much more readily than with thesufferings of human beings; and they are melted to tears much morequickly by simple incidents from the manifold life of nature, than bythe tragedies of human experience which surround them on every side.Robert Louis Stevenson says in his essay on "Child's Play," "Once, whenI was groaning aloud with physical pain, a young gentleman came into theroom and nonchalantly inquired if I had seen his bow and arrow. He madeno account of my groans, which he accepted, as he had to accept somuch else, as a piece of the inexplicable conduct of his elders. Thoseelders, who care so little for rational enjoyment, and are even theenemies of rational enjoyment for others, he had accepted withoutunderstanding and without complaint, as the rest of us accept the schemeof the universe." Miss Anna Buckland quotes in this connection a storyof a little boy to whom his mother showed a picture of Daniel in thelions' den. The child sighed and looked much distressed, whereupon hismother hastened to assure him that Daniel was such a good man that Goddid not let the lions hurt him. "Oh," replied the little fellow, "I wasnot thinking of that; but I was afraid that those big lions were goingto eat all of him themselves, and that they would not give the poorlittle lion down in the corner any of him!"
It is well to remember the details with which you surrounded yourstory when first you told it, and hold to them strictly on all otheroccasions. The children allow you no latitude in this matter; theydraw the line absolutely upon all change. Woe unto you, scribes andPharisees, if you speak of Jimmy when "his name was Johnny;" or if, whenyou are depicting the fearful results of disobedience, you lose Jane ina cranberry bog instead of the heart of a forest! Personally you do notcare much for little Jane, and it is a matter of no moment to you whereyou lost her; but an error such as this undermines the very foundationsof the universe in the children's minds. "Can Jane be lost in twoplaces?" they exclaim mentally, "or are there two Janes, and are theyboth lost? because if so, it must be a fatality to be named Jane."
Perez relates the following incident: "A certain child was fond of astory about a young bird, which, having left its nest, although itsmother had forbidden it to do so, flew to the top of a chimney, felldown the flue into the fire, and died a victim to his disobedience. Theperson who told the story thought it necessary to embellish it from hisown imagination. 'That's not right,' said the child at the first changewhich was made, 'the mother said this and did that.' His cousin, notremembering the story word for word, was obliged to have recourse toinvention to fill up gaps. But the child could not stand it. He sliddown from his cousin's knees, and with tears in his eyes, and indignantgestures, exclaimed, 'It's not true! The little bird said, coui, coui,coui, coui, before he fell into the fire, to make his mother hear; butthe mother did not hear him, and he burnt his wings, his claws, and hisbeak, and he died, poor little bird.' And the child ran away, cryingas if he had been beaten. He had been worse than beaten; he had beendeceived, or at least he thought so; his story had been spoiled by beingaltered." So seriously do children for a long time take fiction forreality.
If you find the attention of the children wandering, you can frequentlywin it gently back by showing some object illustrative of your story, bydrawing a hasty sketch on a blackboard, or by questions to the children.You sometimes receive more answers than you bargained for; sometimesthese answers will be confounded with the real facts; and sometimes theywill fall very wide of the mark.
I was once telling the exciting tale of the Shepherd's Child lost inthe mountains, and of the sagacious dog who finally found him. When Ireached the thrilling episode of the search, I followed the dog as hestarted from the shepherd's hut with the bit of breakfast for his littlemaster. The shepherd sees the faithful creature, and seized by a suddeninspiration follows in his path. Up, up the mountain sides they climb,the father full of hope, the mother trembling with fear. The dog rushesahead, quite out of sight; the anxious villagers press forward in hotpursuit. The situation grows more and more intense; they round a littlepoint of rocks, and there, under the shadow of a great gray crag, theyfind&&
"What do you suppose they found?"
"FI' CENTS!!" shouted Benny in a transport of excitement. "BET YER THEYFOUND FI' CENTS!!"
You would imagine that such a preposterous idea could not find favor inany sane community; but so altogether seductive a guess did this appearto be, that a chorus of "Fi' cents!" "Fi' cents!" sounded on every side;and when the tumult was hushed, the discovery of an ordinary flesh andblood child fell like an anti-climax on a public thoroughly in lovewith its own incongruities. Let the psychologist explain Benny's mentalprocesses; we prefer to leave them undisturbed and unclassified.
If you have no children of your own, dear Person with a Story, go intothe highways and by-ways and gather together the little ones whosemothers' lips are dumb; sealed by dull poverty, hard work, and constantlife in atmospheres where graceful fancies are blighted as soon as theyare born. There is no fireside, and no chimney corner in those crowdedtenements. There is no silver-haired grandsire full of years and wisdom,with memory that runs back to the good old times that are no more. Thereis no cheerful grandame with pocket full of goodies and a store of dearold reminiscences all beginning with that enchanting phrase, "When I wasa little girl."
Brighten these sordid lives a little with your pretty thoughts, yourlovely imaginations, your tender pictures. Speak to them simply, fortheir minds grope feebly in the dim twilight of their restricted lives.The old, old stories will do; stories of love and heroism and sacrifice;of faith and courage and fidelity. Kindle in tired hearts a gentlerthought of life; open the eyes that see not and the ears that hear not;interpret to them something of the beauty that has been revealed to you.You do not need talent, only sympathy, "the one poor word that includesall our best insight and our best love."
KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN.
The Story Hour: A Book for the Home and the Kindergarten Page 1
