stories to tell to children-第11章

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Sleepy…head　opened　his　eyes　and　thought　he

would　like　to　take　a　walk　out　in　the　fresh

air。　　So　he　crept　out　of　the　nest　and　through

the　long　grass　that　nodded　over　the　hole　in

the　bank。　　He　ran　here　and　he　ran　there；　stopping

again　an　again　to　cock　his　little　ears　for

sound　of　any　creeping　thing　that　might　be　close

at　hand。　　His　little　fur　coat　was　soft　and　silky

as　velvet。　　Mother　had　licked　it　clean　before

starting　her　day's　work；　you　may　be　sure。　　As

Sleepy…head　moved　from　place　to　place　his　long

tail　swayed　from　side　to　side　and　tickled　the

daisies　so　that　they　could　not　hold　themselves

still　for　laughing。



Presently　something　very　cold　fell　on　Sleepy…

head's　nose。　　What　could　it　be？　　He　put　up

his　little　paw　and　dabbed　at　the　place。　　Then

the　same　thing　happened　to　his　tail。　　He

whisked　it　quickly　round　to　the　front。　　Ah；　it

was　raining！　　Now　Sleepy…head　couldn't　bear

rain；　and　he　had　got　a　long　way　from　home。

What　would　mother　say　if　his　nice　furry　coat

got　wet　and　draggled？　　He　crept　under　a　bush；

but　soon　the　rain　found　him　out。　　Then　he　ran

to　a　tree；　but　this　was　poor　shelter。　　He　began

to　think　that　he　was　in　for　a　soaking　when

what　should　he　spy；　a　little　distance　off；　but

a　fine　toadstool　which　stood　bolt　upright　just

like　an　umbrella。　　The　next　moment　Sleepy…

head　was　crawling　underneath　the　friendly

shelter。　　He　fixed　himself　up　as　snugly　as　he

could；　with　his　little　nose　upon　his　paws　and　his

little　tail　curled　round　all；　and　before　you　could

count　six；　eight；　ten；　twenty；　he　was　fast　asleep。



Now　it　happened　that　Sleepy…head　was　not

the　only　creature　that　was　caught　by　the　rain

that　morning　in　the　wood。　　A　little　elf　had

been　flitting　about　in　search　of　fun　or　mischief；

and　he；　too；　had　got　far　from　home　when　the

raindrops　began　to　come　pattering　through　the

leafy　roof　of　the　beautiful　wood。　　It　would　never

do　to　get　his　pretty　wings　wet；　for　he　hated　to

walkit　was　such　slow　work　and；　besides；　he

might　meet　some　big　wretched　animal　that　could

run　faster　than　himself。　　However；　he　was

beginning　to　think　that　there　was　no　help　for　it；

when；　on　a　sudden；　there　before　him　was　the

toadstool；　with　Sleepy…head　snug　and　dry　underneath！

There　was　room　for　another　little　fellow；

thought　the　elf；　and　ere　long　he　had　safely

bestowed　himself　under　the　other　half　of　the

toadstool；　which　was　just　like　an　umbrella。



Sleepy…head　slept　on；　warm　and　comfortable

in　his　furry　coat；　and　the　elf　began　to　feel

annoyed　with　him　for　being　so　happy。　　He

was　always　a　great　mischief；　and　he　could　not

bear　to　sit　still　for　long　at　a　time。　　Presently

he　laughed　a　queer　little　laugh。　　He　had　got

an　idea！　　Putting　his　two　small　arms　round

the　stem　of　the　toadstool　he　tugged　and　he

pulled　until；　of　a　sudden；　snap！　　He　had　broken

the　stem；　and　a　moment　later　was　soaring　in　air

safely　sheltered　under　the　toadstool；　which　he

held　upright　by　its　stem　as　he　flew。



Sleepy…head　had　been　dreaming；　oh；　so　cosy

a　dream！　　It　seemed　to　him　that　he　had

discovered　a　storehouse　filled　with　golden　grain

and　soft　juicy　nuts　with　little　bunches　of　sweet…

smelling　hay；　where　tired　mousies　might　sleep

dull　hours　away。　　He　thought　that　he　was

settled　in　the　sweetest　bunch　of　all；　with

nothing　in　the　world　to　disturb　his　nap；　when

gradually　he　became　aware　that　something　had

happened。　　He　shook　himself　in　his　sleep　and

settled　down　again；　but　the　dream　had　altered。

He　opened　his　eyes。　　Rain　was　falling；　pit…a…pat；

and　he　was　without　cover　on　a　wet　patch　of

grass。　　What　could　be　the　matter？　　Sleepy…

head　was　now　wide　awake。　　Said　he；



　　〃DEAR　ME；　WHERE　IS　MY　TOADSTOOL？〃





From　these　four　instances　we　may；　perhaps；

deduce　certain　general　principles　of　adaptation

which　have　at　least　proved　valuable　to　those

using　them。



These　are　suggestions　which　the　practised

story…teller　will　find　trite。　　But　to　others　they

may　prove　a　fair　foundation　on　which　to　build

a　personal　method　to　be　developed　by　experience。

I　have　given　them　a　tabular　arrangement　below。



The　preliminary　step　in　all　cases　is



　Analysis　of　the　Story。



The　aim；　then；　is



　to　REDUCE　a　long　story　or　to　AMPLIFY　a　short　one。



For　the　first；　the　need　is



ELIMINATION　of　secondary　threads　of　narrative；

　　　　extra　personages；

　　　　description；

　　　　irrelevant　events。



For　the　second；　the　great　need　is　of



　Realising　Imagination。



For　both；　it　is　desirable　to　keep

　　　　Close　Logical　Sequence；

　　　　Single　Point　of　View；

　　　　Simple　Language；

　　　　The　Point　at　the　End







CHAPTER　IV



HOW　TO　TELL　THE　STORY



Selection；　and；　if　necessary；　adaptationthese

are　the　preliminaries　to　the　act　of　telling。　　That；

after　all；　is　the　real　test　of　one's　power。　　That

is　the　real　joy；　when　achieved；　the　real　bugbear；

when　dreaded。　　And　that　is　the　subject　of　this

chapter；　〃How　to　tell　a　story。〃



How　to　tell　a　story：　it　is　a　short　question

which　demands　a　long　answer。　　The　right

beginning　of　the　answer　depends　on　a　right

conception　of　the　thing　the　question　is　about；　and

that　naturally　reverts　to　an　earlier　discussion　of

the　real　nature　of　a　story。　　In　that　discussion　it

was　stated　that　a　story　is　a　work　of　art；a　message；

as　all　works　of　art　are。



To　tell　a　story；　then；　is　to　pass　on　the　message；

to　share　the　work　of　art。　　The　message　may　be

merely　one　of　humour；of　nonsense；　even；

works　of　art　range　all　the　way　from　the　〃Victory〃

to　a　〃Dresden　Shepherdess；〃　from　an

〃Assumption〃　to　a　〃Broken　Pitcher；〃　and

farther。　　Each　has　its　own　place。　　But　whatever

its　quality；　the　story…teller　is　the　passer…on；　the

interpreter；　the　transmitter。　　He　comes　bringing

a　gift。　　Always　he　gives；　always　he　bears　a

message。



This　granted；　the　first　demand　of　the　story…

teller　is　not　far　to　seek。　　No　one　can　repeat　a

message　he　has　not　heard；　or　interpret　what　he

does　not　understand。　　You　cannot　give；　unless

you　first　possess。　　The　first　demand　of　the　story…

teller　is　that　he　possess。　　He　must　FEEL　the

story。　　Whatever　the　particular　quality　and

appeal　of　the　work　of　art；　from　the　lightest　to

the　grandest　emotion　or　thought；　he　must　have

responded　to　it；　grasped　it；　felt　it　intimately；

before　he　can　give　it　out　again。　　Listen；　humbly；

for　the　message。



I　realise　that　this　has　an　incongruous　sound；

when　applied　to　such　stories　as　that　of　the　little

pig　at　the　stile　or　of　the　greedy　cat　who　ate　up

man　and　beast。　　But；　believe　me；　it　does

apply　even　to　those。　　For　the　transmittable

thing　in　a　story　is　the　identifying　essence；　the

characterising　savour；　the　peculiar　quality　and

point　of　view　of　the　humour；　pathos；　or　interest。

Every　tale　which　claims　a　place　in　good　fiction

has　this　identifying　savour　and　quality；　each

different　from　every　other。　　The　laugh　which

echoes　one　of　Seumas　McManus's　rigmaroles　is

not　the　chuckle　which　follows　one　of　Joel

Chandler　Harris's　anecdotes；　the　gentle　sadness

of　an　Andersen　allegory　is　not　the　heart

searching　tragedy　of　a　tale　from　the　Greek；　nor

is　any　one　story　of　an　author　just　like　any　other

of　the　same　making。　　Each　has　its　personal

likeness；　its　facial　expression；　as　it　were。



And　the　mind　must　be　sensitised　to　these

differences。　　No　one　can　tell　stories　well　who

has　not　a　keen　and　just　feeling　of　such　emotional

values。



A　positive　and　a　negative　injunction　depend　on

this　premise；the　positive；　cultivate　your　feeling；

striving　toward　increasingly　just　appreciation；

the　negative；　never　tell　a　story　you　do　not　feel。



Fortunately；　the　number　and　range　of　stories

one　can　appreciate　grow　with　cultivation；　but

it　is　the　part　of　wisdom　not　to　step　outside　the

range　at　any　stage　of　its　growth。



I　feel　the　more　inclined　to　emphasise　this

caution　because　I　once　had　a　rather　embarrassing

and　pointed　proof　of　its　desirability；which　I

relate　for　the　enlightening　of　the　reader。



There　is　a　certain　nonsense　tale　which　a

friend　used　to　tell　with　such　effect　that　her

hearers　became　helpless　with　laughter；　but　which

for　some　reason　never　seemed　funny　to　me。　　I

could　not　laugh　at　it。　　But　my　friend　constantly

urged　me　to　use　it；　quoting　her　own　success。

At　last；　with　much　curiosity　and　some　trepidation；

I　included　it　in　a　programme　before　people

with　whom　I　was　so　closely　in　sympathy　that

no　chill　was　likely　to　emanate　from　their　side。

I　told　the　story　as　well　as　I　knew　how；　putting

into　it　more　genuine　effort　than　most　stories

can　claim。　　The　audience　smiled　politely；

laughed　gently　once　or　twice；　relapsed　into　the

mildest　of　amusement。　　The　most　one　could

say　was　that　the　story　was　not　a　hopeless　failure；

I　tried　it　again；　after　study；　and　yet　again；　but

the　audiences　were　all　alike。　　And　in　my　heart

I　should　have　been　startled　if　they　had　behaved

otherwise；　for　all　the　time　I　was　telling　it　I　was

conscious　in　my　soul　that　it　was　a　stupid　story！

At　last　I　owned　my　defeat　to　myself；　and　put

the　thing　out　of　mind。



Some　time　afterward；　I　happened　to　take　out

the　notes　of　the　story；　and　idly　looked　them

over；　and　suddenly；　I　do　not　know　how；　I　got

the　point　of　view！　　The　salt　of　the　humour　was

all　at　once　on　my　lips；　I　felt　the　tickle　of　the

pure　folly　of　it；　it　WAS　funny。



The　next　afternoon　I　told　the　story　to　a

hundred　or　so　children　and　as　many　mothers；

and　the　battle　was　won。　　Chuckles　punctuated

my　periods；　helpless　laughter　ran　like　an　under…

current　below　my　narrative；　it　was　a　struggle

for　me　to　keep　sober；　myself。　　The　nonsense

tale　had　found　its　own　atmosphere。



Now　of　course　I　had　known　all　along　that

the　humour　of　the　story　emanated　from　its　very

exaggeration；　its　absurdly　illogical　smoothness。

But　I　had　not　FELT　it。　　I　did　not　really　〃see　the

joke。〃　　And　that　was　why　I　could　not　tell　the

story。　　I　undoubtedly　impressed　my　own　sense

of　its　fatuity　on　every　audience　to　which　I　gave

it。　　The　case　is　very　clear。



Equally　clear　have　been　some　happy　instances

where　I　have　found　audiences　responding　to　a

story　I　myself　greatly　liked；　but　which　common

appreciation　usually　ignored。　　This　is　an

experience　even　more　persuasive　than　the　other；

certainly　more　to　be　desired。



Every　story…teller　has　lines　of　limitation；

certain　types　of　story　will　always　remain　his　or

her　best　effort。　　There　is　no　reason　why　any

type　of　story　should　be　told　really　ill；　and　of

course　the　number　of　kinds　one　tells　well

increases　with　the　growth　of　the　appreciative

capacity。　　But　none　the　less；　it　is　wise　to

recognise　the　limits　at　each　stage；　and　not　try　to

tell　any　story　to　which　the　honest　inner

consciousness　says；　〃I　do　not　like　you。〃



Let　us　then　set　down　as　a　prerequisite　for

good　story…telling；　A　GENUINE　APPRECIATION　OF　THE

STORY。



Now；　we　may　suppose　this