Educating by story-telling

CHAPTER TWELVE
Bible Stories

One of the glaring defects of our modern educational system is that almost no provision is made for the study of the Bible as a great classic, and as a result boys and girls complete grammar and high-school courses without sufficient knowledge of the epic of the Hebrews to enable them to understand the world’s best literature. The myths of Greece and Rome are studied because of their cultural value, yet from universities throughout the country comes the complaint that many of the works of famous authors are beyond the enjoyment of students because the Biblical allusions have no meaning for them. What should be as familiar as “Red Riding Hood” and “Cinderella” is known in name only, and the immortal book is regarded as a repository of golden texts and maxims instead of as a glorious artistic creation.

The masses of children know almost nothing of the story of Israel, because outside of the Sunday school and the exceptional home, it is rarely told. Yet educators emphasize its need in the intellectual as well as in the spiritual development of the child, and declare that the Old Testament tales should be as much a part of the school curriculum as are the myths of Greece and Rome and the northland. Rein, the great German educator, advocates using them in the third and fourth grades to the exclusion of all others, which is done in the state schools of Baden, while in America Dr. G. Stanley Hall pleads eloquently in behalf of Bible stories.

“To eliminate the Bible from education,” says this famous psychologist, “is as preposterous pedagogically as it would have been in the days of Plato to taboo Homer from the education of Greek youth. It is not only a model of English, but it is impossible to understand the culture history of Europe without it, as it has influenced the literature, history, and life of Western nations as no other book has begun to do.”

The secular narrator, as well as the teacher of religion, should use the Bible tales freely, that men and women of the future may have a broader knowledge of literature, history, and life than they can have without them. This is no impossible task, even for the amateur, because the Biblical narratives are perfect ones for telling. Nowhere else in literature do we find such thrilling tales of adventure, such exquisite idylls, such sublime ballads, such annals of high purpose and noble achievement, as in the epic of Israel. Nowhere else are there more spectacular, perfectly constructed plots. Ruskin said, “It would be pre-eminently the child’s book even though it had no religious value above other books”; and Dr. Fuchs of Vienna declares that we might, if we lacked material, give children nothing but Bible stories and yet satisfy every craving of their natures, because the Bible contains every type of tale that appeals to the child. From Genesis to Revelation it is an incomparable record of human desire, human endeavor, human failure, and human success. In the Old Testament we find myth, fairy tale, fable, romance, legend, and history, told in simple, elemental beauty by the Hebrew story-tellers, tinged with that varied color and imagery so characteristic of oriental literature and so fascinating to children,—stories that, as Mrs. Houghton says, “are the product of a child nation, and therefore very close to the heart of the child.”

The Old Testament, rather than the New, is the child’s storybook, because it is the expression of a primitive people, and its tales picture primitive, rugged heroes that boys and girls can understand, whereas the second division of the Bible, except that portion centering around the childhood and boyhood of Christ, is adult in character. But it is a mistake to think that all Old Testament tales can be presented with gratifying results. To tell the story of Ruth and Boaz to tiny tots would be as absurd as to give them the Decameron of Boccaccio or Goethe’s Faust, because the characters and incidents are remote from their interest. In using material from the Bible, as from any other source, it is necessary to keep in mind the story interests of childhood, and to remember that the skeletons of tales, not the style and vocabulary in which they are written, must be the test for selection. If the framework is suited to the period of mental development, the language can be adapted, while otherwise no amount of simplifying can bring it within the understanding and powers of enjoyment.

The Old Testament is particularly rich in stories for children, because it was formulated in a period when the Hebrew nation was a child nation. The men and women of Israel were grown to adult stature, but they had the hearts of children. They thought concretely, as the child thinks, and consequently their literary expression is concrete and illustrative. This, added to the facts that they, like all other orientals, loved the story and brought it to a high artistic point, and that the Old Testament heroes are not refined to the point of æstheticism, but are strong, rugged, elemental men, thoroughly human and far removed from goody-goodies, makes it an ideal book for the child. Gideon and Joshua possess virtues, but they possess faults also. They are punished and they are rewarded, and because they have much in common with children, the lessons learned through their victories and defeats are more valuable than a thousand admonitions.

In advocating the use of Bible stories a word of caution seems necessary, lest the narrator, actuated by the laudable desire to enrich the intellectual and spiritual life of the child, may harm instead of benefit. The Hebrew people were in a state of advanced barbarism when their tribal achievements grew into an epic, and the deeds of their heroes are often so bloodthirsty and revengeful that they cannot be reconciled with modern views. Boys and girls are quick to realize this, and consequently many of the Old Testament tales must be softened by the elimination of objectionable features, just as many fairy and epical tales must be softened.

Nor are gore and revenge the only elements we must cut away from these old tales. Those who give the narrative of Israel to boys and girls of twelve and fourteen should be careful to eliminate from it everything that may be suggestive of the vulgar, for which, at this age, many children are on the lookout. It is better to omit than to veil and modify questionable portions of a tale, because young people are very discerning, and to see through gossamer is to arouse curiosity. Dr. Bodley cites instances of youths in the romantic period reading the Bible because of lewd thoughts. This danger leads some persons to decry the use of Bible stories by the average narrator, in whose hands they believe them to be dangerous. However, if he uses judgment, if he makes it a rule to omit whatever awakens a doubt in his mind, even the amateur may tell Bible stories with beneficial results. It is possible to eliminate from many an Old Testament narrative without breaking the thread of the story, just as it is possible to give boys and girls a clear idea of the man Chopin without introducing the George Sand episode. So much of the Old Testament is pure adventure tale that the story-teller may use the portion that feeds the elemental hero love without touching upon what might arouse morbid curiosity or desire, or that which sanctions gore and revenge.

Those who have not had training in gathering and adapting story material from the Bible will be aided greatly in their work by Frances Jenkins Olcott’s book, Bible Stories to Read and Tell. Miss Olcott gives the stories as they are given in the King James Version, preserving all the beauty of language of the Hebrew story-tellers, but she has excluded everything that might prove objectionable; and with this book as a guide there is little danger of making a mistake in telling the Hebrew hero tales to children.

Bible stories should be graded as carefully as fairy stories are graded. In choosing for little children, select those whose heroes are children, and give to the boy who craves the heroic the incomparable tales of the Hebrew wanderers, those men whose lives were a varied succession of adventures. For the child of each period there is a wealth of material. The stories of the baby Moses, little Samuel, the boy Joseph, the boy Timothy, the boy David, and the baby Isaac are very appealing to six- and seven-year-olds. They love also to hear of the mother and the baby Samson, of Ishmael and Hagar, and those other mothers and babies of long ago, and especially dear to them is the story of the Babe of Bethlehem. This lovely narrative is a part of the birthright of every child, and is exquisite enough to merit careful preparation on the part of the story-teller. The Bible itself should be the storehouse to which the narrator goes for material, but those not especially gifted in visualizing and imagination will derive much help from the work of modern literary artists who have told again the story of the Christ Child. The eleventh and twelfth chapters of the first book of Ben Hur, the creation of a man whose reverence was as great as his talent, should be re-read by every one who attempts to tell of the song and the star in Judea, and the works of Henry van Dyke, Selma Lagerlöf, and John of Hildesheim will aid greatly in giving color and atmosphere. This means time and labor, but no amount of preparation is too great to put upon the world’s noblest stories. The narrator should approach them, not arrogantly, and satisfied of his ability to tell them because he has known them from childhood, but as the artist approaches the masterpiece he aspires to copy, willing to labor that he may be worthy of the task, willing to read them over and over again and count each reading a return to the fount of inspiration. This should be the attitude toward all great stories, but especially toward the immortal ones of the Bible.

For the child in the heroic period the Old Testament is a gold mine, and it is a pity that its superb adventure tales are so little used by story-tellers, since they are so fascinating to boys and girls. Even when told as separate stories they arouse interest and hold the attention, but they are most valuable when given in a sequence, because then the child regards the Old Testament as a great human drama, the epic of a people.

A good plan is to begin with the call of Abraham, as related in the twelfth chapter of Genesis. Picture the patriarch, with Lot and Sarah, going into exile out of the land of Haran, through Canaan to the plain of Moreh, building there the altar under the soothsayer’s oak, and journeying southward over the desert to Egypt. Tell of the banishment by Pharaoh and the return to Bethel, of the strife between the herdsmen and the survey of the land, of the captivity and rescue of Lot. Paint vividly the highway along which they traveled, now over the desert, now across the fertile plain skirting the sea, often footsore and weary, often suffering from heat and thirst as wanderers in the East suffered, and the story will cause children to turn from the cheap adventure tale of today as music lovers turn from ragtime to a Chopin prelude.

Then there are tales of those other Old Testament wanderers, Isaac, “the Ulysses of the Hebrews,” and Jacob, whose life was so eventful. Take the boys over the routes these men traveled. Let them share their exploits and adventures, resting in fertile places where the wanderers rested, now by the well outside Nahor, the servants praying beside the kneeling camels as Bethuel’s lovely daughter came down the hillside with the pitcher on her shoulder, now moving as the caravan moved, over roads the Hebrew armies traveled on their way to war, along which tradesfolk journeyed in times of peace. There is marvelous color and romance in these Old Testament thoroughfares, and they are highways of fascination even today. Still across their yellow sands turbaned Arabs go up and down, singing praise to Allah just as men sang to God in the remote time of Israel. They bear with them skin bags filled with water from the pools and streams, dates, figs, and dried goat’s flesh, such as formed the noontide repast of Isaac and his men, for in the changeless East life is today as it was in the beginning of things. When the caravans rest, they sit under the palm trees in some oasis, telling stories their fathers told, and using the Old Testament forms of speech. Still in that land of nomads to see is to “lift up the eyes,” and maidens go to draw water when the day’s heat is over just as Rebecca went to the well of Nahor.

The book of Joshua is a glorious adventure story. The siege and destruction of Jericho, the victories of Joshua, the slave boy from Egypt who became the first soldier of the Hebrews, the distribution of Canaan among the tribes of Israel, and Othniel’s valor and reward satisfy every desire of the child who craves hero stories. They satisfy now as they satisfied two thousand years ago, because they grew out of the life of a people and run the entire gamut of human emotion as only racial tales can do.

The book of Judges is a collection of incomparable narratives. The enslavement of Israel by Jabin, the defeat and death of Sisera, and Gideon’s deliverance and victory never fail to hold boys and girls who crave the heroic. Moreover, these stories will arouse interest in perhaps the finest ode known to any literature, the song of Deborah in the fifth chapter of Judges. Give the children some idea of what it has meant to the world. Ruskin said the memorizing of it in his boyhood shaped his taste for literature, and Macaulay declared it inspired him to write “Horatius at the Bridge.” Read the work of the English poet, and bring out the lovely pictures in the great Hebrew ode, for it is not fair to our young people that we allow them to go through life without knowing this gem, without leading them to see the beauty of these exquisite words:

Visualize the scenes in those lines: sumptuous, haughty Hebrews, traveling as only the prosperous traveled; men in the fine linen of lawgivers, holding places of power in the land; vagabonds lounging along the highways, begging alms of passers-by; husbandmen tilling fields far from the sound of conflict; men in every walk of life, widely separated by material conditions, yet brothers in a common weal, rejoicing in a common blessing, the victory of Barak over the foe of Israel. It is as rich in color as a canvas by Titian, and pupils in the upper grammar grades will grow to love it if it is presented as it should be, through the medium of the story.

The books of Samuel, with their tales of Saul and of David, of the shepherd boy from the Hebron hills making music for Israel’s king, his meeting and slaying Goliath, Saul and the Witch of Endor, and all the eventful life of David are glorious materials for the story-teller. Here again inspiration may be obtained from the work of a modern writer. Browning’s “Saul” will greatly aid the narrator in telling the story of the boy David, for the picture the poet gives of the afflicted monarch in his tent, the son of Jesse standing beside him singing the Hebrew gleaning songs, is as vivid as it is exquisite.

Where can we find a more splendid narrative than that of Solomon, in the second book of Kings? Where is the boy or girl who does not delight in listening to the account of the visit of Hiram, king of Tyre, when two sumptuous monarchs met; of the collection of materials and the building of the temple; of the visit of the Queen of Sheba, the adversity and death of Solomon, and that succession of events that led to the captivity of Israel? Here, too, we find the great story of the invasion of Judah and the destruction of Sennacherib; and Byron’s poem will vivify this tale just as Browning’s “Saul” vivifies that of the boy David.

The only reason why children look upon the Bible as a dull, ponderous book is that they are not familiar with the Old Testament adventure tales, and it is a mistake to think that present-day boys and girls will turn away from them. If playground and settlement workers would give more time and attention to the stories of the Hebrews, they would have less difficulty in reaching hoodlumish boys. It is necessary to use tact in presentation,—“sense,” as Lilian Bell says, “of the brand commonly known as horse,”—for to preface a narrative with, “Now I shall tell you a Bible story,” might mean an insurrection. The only way is to bring the hero on the stage and tell his tale so vividly that the listeners are held by it to the end. After they come to know such men as Gideon and Joshua, they will regard the Bible as a great storybook.

A settlement worker had this experience not long ago. She told the tale of Joshua to a group of young ruffians, who sat through it as if held by a spell, and at its conclusion the leader of the band remarked, “That was some story!” Other Old Testament heroes were then introduced with excellent effect, and the lads were amazed to learn that the Bible contained such stories. But results of this kind cannot be obtained without effort and preparation on the part of the raconteur.

Bible stories, being the perfect tales of the world, should be told as nearly as possible in the language and style in which they were written. Some modification is necessary for the purpose of clarifying, but the Biblical expressions should be used frequently. Quote freely from the original or follow the story with a Bible reading, that the child who hears the tales may catch something of the majestic beauty of expression of the Hebrew story-tellers. There can be no more pitiful mistake than to tell these matchless narratives in the vernacular of the street. To use modern slang in recounting the wanderings of Isaac or the passing of the Children of Israel through the Red Sea is to profane a marvelous artistic creation, even though it had no religious significance, and unfortunately story-tellers sometimes do this, thinking they will make the tales more interesting to children. That sort of narration will amuse and hold young folk only as long as it lasts, and leaders of children are not working merely for the here and now. Their effort is for time and eternity, and they should have sufficient vision to see beyond the present, sufficient sense of proportion to estimate values. The Old Testament tales need no modern strokes to make them attractive, because they abound in color and incidents that lead to superb climaxes, and never fail to fascinate when given with sincerity. Therefore they should be told in simple, dignified language, as the men of Israel told them when the world was young, and while they fire the imagination, they will lead children unconsciously to an appreciation of beautiful English, which is one of the cardinal aims of every story-teller who is worthy of the name.

The teller of Bible stories should draw from music and art, as well as from literature, because to follow a tale with a picture or musical number inspired by it is to heighten enjoyment and strengthen the impression already made. If children see Bendemann’s masterpiece, “By the Waters of Babylon,” after they have heard the story of the captivity of Israel, they will have a sympathy for the exiled Hebrews that they cannot have otherwise. Saul, David, and many other Old Testament heroes will seem more than ever like living, breathing men when viewed as Michelangelo portrayed them, while Giulio Romano’s frescoes, “The Story of Joseph,” or Pellafrino da Modena’s “Story of Solomon,” will intensify their color and romance and help to lead to an appreciation of art. Cheap reproductions bring these and other masterpieces within the reach of the narrator, and he should travel every bypath in which he may glean materials that will help children to love these old tales. He should keep ever before him the thought of how they have enriched the world, and how powerfully lives are influenced by stories heard in childhood. When Bertel Thorwaldsen was a blue-eyed boy in Copenhagen, he heard a tale that long afterward became the inspiration of “The Lion of Lucerne,” and young Richard Wagner, playing in a Dresden street one day, crept into a group to which a strolling bard was telling the medieval legend of “Parsifal.” It was a seed planted in a creative mind, and years afterward it flowered in two noble operas of the Holy Grail. So it was with Goethe, with Browning, with Byron, and many other great men. Perhaps in your group of youthful hearers there may be a boy or a girl who will listen as gifted children of the past have listened to an old, old story, and perhaps your telling it may result, long after your work is ended, in his giving to some branch of art a creation that will enrich the world through generations yet to come. But even though there be no budding genius among your auditors, sincere, artistic telling of the Bible stories cannot fail to produce great results. It will develop the emotional nature of the average child; it will broaden his sympathy and increase his capacity for feeling, make him more sympathetic, more responsive to the joys and sorrows of his fellow men, and better fitted to become a useful citizen.

Sources of Material for Bible Stories

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Story-Telling and the Teaching of Ethics

The function of education is not only to give the child knowledge and a capacity for acquiring further knowledge that shall equip him for the life struggle and make success a possible attainment, but also to give him an ethical standard that shall make him fit to live among his fellows and a respect for the rights and feelings of others, or, as Goethe says in Wilhelm Meister, “Reverence for what is above, reverence for what is beneath, reverence for what is equal.” He must be taught to realize that he is part of a great unit and that individual desires must often give way to the welfare of the many. He must be taught that as an individual he owes to society obedience to the laws that govern society and allegiance to the principles that make possible a harmonious family, civic, and national life. Consequently it is required of every teacher that she give ethical instruction, that she endeavor to bring children to an understanding of what is generally accepted as right and wrong, and implant in them convictions strong enough to cause them to adhere to those standards.

In establishing ethical standards, as in establishing standards in art, literature, or music, we must appeal to the emotional side of the child as well as to the intellectual side. We must lead him to feel that the right act is the one that he wants to do, and this cannot be accomplished by a presentation of dry facts and precepts. Every teacher knows that the time spent in admonishing a child what he ought to do brings no gratifying results. He is not swayed to repugnance for one act or to admiration for another by being told “Thou shalt,” or “Thou shalt not.” At the time the command is given, fear may cause him to obey it; but conduct that is the result of force does not strengthen the character or teach high standards of action. It tends instead to harden the child and make him determined to act differently at the first opportunity. Ethical training does not mean to attempt to control the child, but to enlighten him and direct his volition to the point where he will attempt to control himself. As Ella Lyman Cabot says, “Its aim is to make the best there is so inviting to the child that he will work eagerly and persistently to win it.” The ideal that is held up to him must be so beautiful that he will be willing to sacrifice and endure hardship in order to attain to it, and through story-telling he may be led to see this ideal more vividly than in any other way, because the story makes right acts appealing and wrong acts repugnant. Moreover, through the narrator’s art the child lives the experiences of the tales he hears. He suffers with the evildoer and is rewarded with the virtuous, and because he is powerfully moved by a narrative, his character is lastingly affected by it.

In giving ethical instruction, it is necessary to use the right material. Tales selected for this purpose should be suited to the child’s particular period of mental development, they should contain a lesson the boy or the girl ought to learn, and they should be strong and virile and true to life. Much harm is done by telling stories of unusually good children. Such young folk are unpopular with boys and girls, and the story about them is as distasteful as is the “goody-goody” that is met with in real life. Instead of being an influence toward commendable action and the acceptance of a higher standard of right and wrong, the over-idealistic tale antagonizes the child and goads him toward that from which we would have him veer aside. Perhaps this accounts for the fact that girls often enjoy boys’ stories more than those written especially for girls. The normal girl wants to read and hear about live, natural young folk, and the heroine who has drawing-room manners and nothing else is very far from her ideal. Story characters that influence children must be human, full of human faults and virtues. From their failures and successes young people will learn many valuable lessons, but they will learn no lesson from one who poses as an unnatural young saint.

Moral training should begin with the babe, and therefore the mother and primary teacher need stories that have ethical values as early as they need Mother Goose tales and jingles. Very early in life the child must be brought to realize that there is a higher law than that of its own will or desire. It must be taught obedience, cleanliness, kindness to animals, consideration for the rights of others, truthfulness, industry, honesty, and courtesy, and these lessons can be inculcated more effectively by means of story-telling than in any other way. The tale of “The Little Red Hen” doing the work and reaping the reward of her labor is a sermon on industry that little people do not forget. The story of the farmer boy who rolled the stone out of the highway because he feared it might cause injury to some one, and then of the compensation that came to him at the hands of the lord of the village who placed it there, will help to make children thoughtful and kindly.

In telling stories of this type, the narrator should emphasize the fact that the greatest reward is the mental satisfaction that follows a good action, because the child who hears much of material reward sometimes thinks chiefly of the money or picnic or good time commendable conduct may bring, and if it happens that he does not receive remuneration, decides it is useless to perform good deeds. A case of this kind that came under my observation was that of a boy in a country school, a lazy, thoughtless little fellow. One day when a man drove through the school yard, his brother, who was very considerate, ran to open the gate. The stranger tossed a penny to the child, and the teacher, thinking to give a lasting lesson in consideration to the thoughtless boy, dwelt at length upon the stick of candy the money would buy. Several days later another man drove through the school yard and the thoughtless boy ran to open the gate. He received a smile and a “Thank you” but no money, and he could not be persuaded to open the gate again.

It is well to give stories in which children are materially rewarded, but they should be taught to see that material reward is not the only reward, and that desire for it should not be the motive that prompts a good action. The fireman who risks his life in saving the property or life of another is not bountifully paid, and seldom does he receive a purse for bravery. But he is true to his duty. He is giving to society the thing that he owes it, service, and his greatest guerdon is the satisfaction that comes from being steadfast to a trust. Examples of this kind are of great value to the child who is inclined to be selfish, and they are very effective in bringing all children to realize the truth of Alice Cary’s words:

Very young children can be taught to realize that the true reward of right conduct comes from added self-respect and from winning the esteem of others, and whenever a child is given a tale in which a boy or a girl receives some wonderful treasure for kindness or courtesy or truthfulness, the narrator will do well to interpolate a sentence like this: “And the best part of it was that Albert was happy because he had done what was right. That thought gave him a glad feeling even more than the big, shiny dollar.”

Many fairy tales and fables are of particular ethical value for little children, and the narrator can draw much from the field of general literature; biography and history hold many good examples, while the Bible is a rich storehouse of material. Ella Lyman Cabot’s excellent work, Ethics for Children, discusses the ethical side of story-telling in such a detailed and complete way that it should be in the hands of every mother and teacher. The book gives valuable suggestions, not only to workers with little folk, but to those who have the training of grammar grade and high-school pupils also. Carolyn Sherwin Bailey’s Stories for Sunday Telling contains some good material for the mother and the primary teacher, while the several books by Sara Cone Bryant (listed in Chapter Seven, “Telling the Story”) will be helpful.

The following list is one that has been used with good results:

Stories to Develop or Stamp out Certain Traits and Instincts

Deceit

Malice

Sympathy and Compassion

Honesty

Faithfulness to Duty

Inattention

Obedience

Generosity

Love and Sweetness

Forgiveness

Cleanliness

Perseverance

Industry

Contentment

Kindness

Greed

Courtesy

History and biography offer a particularly rich field from which to draw material for older children, for nothing drives home with more force a lesson in patriotism, loyalty, faithfulness, heroism, or obedience than to read of some one who has been put to the test and has triumphed. Dozens of characters worth emulating will occur to any teacher, and the following books will be found of particular value:

Sources of Material to Use in the Teaching of Ethics

PART TWO
THE USE OF STORY-TELLING TO ILLUMINATE SOME SCHOOLROOM SUBJECTS—STORIES FOR TELLING

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Story-Telling to Intensify Interest in History

It has been said by Walter Prichard Eaton, “The pupil who gets a mark of one hundred and thereafter hates Shakespeare, has failed—rather, his teacher has,”—and it is equally true that the instructor also has failed whose classes look upon history as a series of dates and dull facts instead of a colorful story.

To teach history successfully means to give the child vivid pictures of the past, to enable him to see as a whole the march of a race or of a nation across the canvas of time, to watch the legions of warriors go to victory or defeat, to hear the voices of statesmen whose wisdom has builded empires, to walk side by side with the men and women whose lives make up the annals of the world. To be of value to the child, history must be felt, just as a work of literature must be felt. He must live it, must approve the worthy and disapprove the unworthy, must rejoice in and sympathize with the fortunes and misfortunes of its characters, else it cannot be anything more to him than the chronology in the almanac, disliked during his school days and forgotten as soon as they are over.

Story-telling can make history alive and vital because of its power to convey the child to distant scenes and ages, and through it he may become, not only a spectator, but a participant in every human activity. If our libraries were to be swept away and publishing houses should shut their doors, we could still teach history to children, and teach it successfully, through the art of the narrator. By the medium of the story we can make the child see what has been done by his ancestors and other people in the past; by it we can interpret to him how his forefathers lived and acted, how other people have attempted to do what he is trying to do or sees done, and give him a vivid idea of human ways of living and conduct. This is history in the larger sense, and it was taught successfully by the story-teller in the past.

Before the days of printing, when books were manuscripts that no one but monks could read and kings could afford to own, story-telling was the only way in which this subject was taught. Tales of bygone days were told in castle halls and to groups of eager listeners on the village green, and boys and girls of King Alfred’s time knew as much of their country’s story from the lips of wandering bards as those of our generation know from cramming the contents of textbooks. They knew it because through the tales they heard they were able to relive it, and what has been done before can be done again. Because of the story’s power to vivify, modern children can relive the world’s story just as those in medieval times relived it, and history can be made a subject fraught with delight to the child.

Child attention centers first upon familiar things, and radiates from them to the unknown. Through his interest in creatures that are a part of his environment, the kindergarten tot becomes interested in those of other regions, in the men, women, children, and animals that are part of the life of some other child. Through knowledge of his immediate surroundings he comes to acquire knowledge of life in other surroundings, and according to the appeal it makes to his imagination, he understands and sympathizes with it, and his social sense is broadened. Therefore, in the study of history, the attention should be focused upon local environment, and from it should radiate to other sections of the world. In other words, by what the child sees happening around him, he must be led to see what has happened in the past and what is happening now in distant regions. This requires imagination, and a boy or a girl cannot see or feel these events if they are presented as a dry chronology, because under those conditions they do not arouse the imagination. He must behold them flashed on a canvas like a colorful picture, and because the story can do this, because it can make real to the imagination situations that cannot be experienced, through it he can be led to see and feel all that we desire him to see and feel.

The biographical story, the tale of the leader who towers above his fellows like the Matterhorn above the Valais foothills, is a boon to every teacher of history. Because it is unified in plot and dramatic in appeal to the imagination, it is the most easily handled of all the history material, and should be used freely. But if children are not to have a distorted idea of the story of the human race, we must not stop with the biographical tale. We must give them also a conception of the part the masses have had in the making of the great human story, of the yeomen of England, upon whose sturdy shoulders the foundation of British liberty stands, of the vassals of Italy, France, and Germany, of the army of unknown toilers who built the Pyramids and the Chinese Wall. Sometimes, in satisfying the child’s hero-love, we make him one-sided by laying too much stress upon individual achievement and not enough upon the work of the multitude. We do not lead him to value the importance of the humble who toil in the rank and file. This is not as it should be. We should make it clear to him that the stokers who feed the furnace of the man-of-war are as splendidly patriotic as the admiral who commands the fleet, and are as necessary to their land, because, were there no coal heavers, there could be no navy.

Sometimes, too, because martial events are more spectacular than those of peace, we give the impression that they are the only important and heroic ones, and fail to convince the children of the fact that the peasants of Lorraine, who tilled their fields until they blossomed like gardens, served their land as loyally as the soldiers who marched to victory under the oriflamme of Henry of Navarre. We are too prone to center the child interest around military affairs, and neglect to emphasize the importance of conflicts of another kind. The history of every modern industry, of every achievement that has meant anything to the world, is a story of struggle, of victory over opposing forces. It has its succession of events, its periods of triumph and defeat, its moments of suspense, and its thrilling climax, and if presented in all its possibilities, is as fascinating to childhood as Napoleon’s Russian campaign. Let us not fail to give these narratives of struggle that are unstained by human blood, and in doing it lead children to understand that there are other ways of serving one’s land besides riding a war horse or carrying a musket.

We teach that Robert Fulton invented the first steamboat, but it is only the exceptional child-leader who makes the most of that event, who throws upon the canvas, for youth to behold, the story of the struggle and disappointment, the triumph and despair, of the young American engineer. To give them the fact that the Clermont made a successful trip from New York to Albany in 1807, is like telling the end of a story without the beginning or intervening chapters, and a snatch of a tale never has the effect of the whole. But if the children have all the light and shade of that splendid narrative of invention, of the labor beside the Seine, of the hope and discouragement there, it becomes a fascinating, unforgotten tale. They remember the Clermont episode because they have enjoyed a story, and years afterward, when they see a ferryboat or an ocean greyhound, they will think of the New Englander through whose dreams and labor it came to be.

To the teacher who looks upon history as a great, fascinating tale, who regards it as a narrative instead of a mere bunch of dates and periods, who knows the story of man’s inner development as well as that of his outer, and who uses the myths, legends, and epics of a land as side lights to illuminate its true story, great results are possible. There is no phase or period of history that he cannot make intensely interesting to the child, no page of the world’s story that will not teem with life and color to the boy or girl who receives it from such an instructor. It may be an account of events in his own land, of happenings in the stern, white north country or in the opalescent south, it may be of knights in glittering armor or of serene-faced, brown-cowled friars, of men from the masses or from the ranks of the exalted, but it will breathe and pulsate for him, it will give him the information that he should receive, and it will give him an understanding that no memorizing of dates and outlines can give, because he has lived with those who made history, because he has suffered, rejoiced, and achieved with them.

Every great historian is more than a recounter of events of the past. He is an artist who fits himself into the moods of men and women who lived and accomplished before his time, puts them into his pages as creatures of flesh and blood, and gives to their activities as much freshness and interest as have the events that happen before our eyes. Motley, Guizot, Hume, Hallam, Froissart, and our own Parkman, Lodge, Prescott, and Bancroft created as splendidly as ever Hugo, Corneille, or Balzac created, because they endowed characters of fact with as much life as these other men gave to characters of fiction; and consequently, with sources rich in inspiration from which to draw, the teacher who aspires to vivify history by story-telling is confronted by no hopeless task. He need only go to the works of the standard historians for his background, and then, by giving the imagination sufficient play to supply setting and detail of situation, he can carry a joyful lesson to the children. This is well illustrated in the following story of Western discovery. Children love it and ask to have it told again and again, while if the bare facts are given them in outline form, it means little to them. Not every teacher is gifted to the degree of Miss Hood and can hope to weave a fact of history into a tale that deserves to rank as a children’s classic; but every teacher can put history into story form with enough skill to make it hold delight for his pupils and cause them to go from his instruction with a fondness for history, an understanding of what history really means, which is worth infinitely more than a thousand dates or outlines crammed into the mind for an examination or recitation, or stored there permanently to rust and grow useless, because they have no meaning, and therefore no broadening or illuminating effect upon his life.

THE SEARCH FOR THE SEVEN CITIES

By Margaret Graham Hood

The Story of Tejos

In the year 1530, when Nuño de Guzmán was governor of New Spain, he had an Indian slave of whom he was very fond and who was likewise fond of his master. He was a good servant and different in many ways from all the other slaves in the palace, and it often pleased Nuño de Guzmán to talk with him.

“Tejos,” said De Guzmán to him one day, “tell me of your home when you were a boy, and tell me of your father and mother.”

Then Tejos turned away from his master and stood for a long time silent.

“Master,” he said at last, “when Tejos was a boy he lived not in this land, nor was he a slave. His home was in a land far, far to the northward. My lord, it was a great land. Beyond the home of my father there was yet another country greater still. In that farther land were seven great cities, and even the smallest of them was as great as this city of Mexico. So rich were the people of those cities that they made arrowheads of emeralds, and scraped the sweat from their bodies with scrapers made of gold, and put precious stones over their doors. Their houses were wide and high. My father carried to these people the feathers that they wore upon their heads, and in return they gave him gold and turquoises and emeralds. My father took Tejos with him twice, my lord, when he journeyed with feathers to those cities, and though Tejos was then but a small boy, he still remembers the long streets where were only the stores of jewelers who sold the precious stones and made them into ornaments for the people.”

“And where,” asked Nuño de Guzmán breathlessly, “where is this land?”

“It is far away from here, my lord,” answered Tejos, sadly. “Forty days you must journey to reach it, and the land through which you must travel is a desert lying between two seas, and there is neither water nor food to be had.”

Scarcely waiting to sleep, De Guzmán began to gather a force to march in search of this wonderful land. Far and wide the story spread and on all sides the talk was of

The Land of the Seven Cities

With four hundred Spaniards and twenty thousand Indians, De Guzmán marched from Mexico, and the people waited each day to hear that he had conquered a great empire in the north.

As he went, rumors of the Seven Cities kept coming to him, and his men were often so excited he could hardly get them to sleep enough. For days they pressed eagerly forward, hoping each day to find the Seven Cities at hand; but instead of this, the country each day grew more desolate, the mountains grew steeper and the roads harder to find, while the Seven Cities, instead of coming nearer, were always farther and farther to the north.

Then the Indians began to desert and the Spaniards to complain. “We have been deceived,” they said, “and we shall all die in this bleak land. Let us return to Mexico.”

For a while Nuño de Guzmán cheered them by holding ever before them the reward that awaited them, but at last he too grew discouraged and afraid; they all turned about and marched sadly back to Mexico.

“We will go back now,” said Nuño de Guzmán, “but some day I will have the right sort of an army and I will come again. Tejos himself shall lead me, and I will yet find and conquer those Seven Cities.”

But when he returned to Mexico, Tejos was dead, and the story of Nuño de Guzmán’s misfortunes discouraged others; so for six years no one went to seek the Seven Cities. Then a strange thing happened.

The Wanderings of Cabeza de Vaca

Into the town of Culiacan there one day came wandering four strange men. They were barefooted and almost naked. The little clothing they wore was made of skins and hung in rags about them. Their hair lay in a tangled mass upon their shoulders, and their beards reached almost to their knees.

They fell at the feet of the first Spaniard they met, crying, “Thank God! Thank God! At last! At last!” Then they seized his hands and kissed them, kissed each other, and danced about, clapping their hands and shouting for joy.

“They are madmen,” said the people who gathered around to look at them. “What shall we do with them?”

“No, no,” cried the oldest of the strangers. “No, no! You do not understand. We are poor wanderers who have been lost for years among the Indians. We have been slaves; our companions have died, but at last we have escaped and now, for the first time in years, we see Christians and Spaniards and our joy overcomes us. Can you wonder at it, dear friends?”

“Lost among the Indians!” murmured the people in astonishment. “Made slaves by the Indians! Terrible! What can it mean?”

“There is something very strange about it,” said one.

“Let us take them before our Capitán,” said another, and they took them at once to the Capitán.

“Who are you?” he asked rudely, looking with disgust at their dirt and rags.

“I am Cabeza de Vaca,” said the oldest man. “I am a noble of Castile who came with Narvaez to conquer Florida. The fleet was wrecked and all were lost save these three companions and me. We have been all these years since among the Indians.”

“I do not believe a word of it,” said the Capitán. “There is something strange about it. These men may be criminals. Put them into prison until we find out.”

For three months they lay in the prison. Then they were sent for by the Alcalde Melchior Diaz. He received them with all kindness, and to him they were allowed to tell their story.

“Is it true,” he said to the oldest man, “that you are Cabeza de Vaca of Castile?”

“It is true,” answered Cabeza de Vaca. “Ten years ago I sailed with Narvaez to the Florida coast to take part in his great expedition, but, alas! all our ships were wrecked and only a few of us escaped to the mainland. There most of those who did escape died, and we four, three of us Spaniards and one a negro, have wandered ever since among the Indians. We wept for joy at sight of our own people when we reached your town, but they have treated us worse than did the Indians.”

“Do not think of that now,” said kind Melchior Diaz. “It was a mistake; you shall now be treated with all the kindness that is your due. Tell me your story.”

Then Cabeza de Vaca began the story of his wanderings:

“After Narvaez and the ships were lost,” said he, “we escaped to the mainland and were taken captive by the Indians. They were a poor, starved people who lived on roots and berries and whatever they could get, and who often went for days without a mouthful. I do not know how many years they held us as slaves, but it was for many years and our sufferings were great.

“We tried always to get to the north, and little by little we got further westward and northward.

“At last we escaped from those Indians who held us as slaves and fell in with others farther west who had never seen a white man. We had with us a rattle such as is used by their medicine men, and this, with our beards, made them think we were from heaven. They fell on their faces before us and gave us all that they had.

“We told these people we wished to go to where the sun sets, and they said, ‘No, you cannot go there. The people are too far away.’

“‘It makes no difference,’ I said, ‘you must still lead us there.’

“We saw they were in great fear, but at last they sent off two of their women to see if they could find the other people and tell them of our coming. In five days they came back. ‘They have found no people,’ said the Indians to us. ‘Then,’ said I, ‘lead us to the northward,’ and again they said: ‘There are no people there. Neither is there food or water.’

“At this I became offended and went apart from them, and at night went away by myself to sleep. But they came at once where I was and remained all night without sleep. They talked to me in great fear, telling me how great was their fright, begging us to be no longer angry; and they said they would lead us whatsoever way we wished to go, though they knew they should die on the way.

“We still pretended to be angry, lest their fright should leave them, and while we were thus pretending a remarkable thing happened: the very next day many of them became ill, and eight men died. They believed we had caused their death by willing it, and it seemed as if they must all die of fear.

“In truth, it caused us so much pain to see them suffer that it could not be greater, and we prayed to God, our Lord, to relieve them, and they soon got better.

“News of our strange power spread through the land, and the people trembled at our coming. Sometimes they would come to meet us, and bring all they owned and offer it to us. Or, again, when they heard we were coming, they would go into their houses and pile all their goods in a heap in the middle of the floor for us, and then sit down, with their faces to the wall, their heads bowed, and their hair drawn over their eyes. Thus they waited until we came and spoke to them. Then they gave us whatever we would take from them.

“Wherever we went, they brought their sick to us and begged us to cure them. We always examined them carefully, and treated them as best we knew how, and prayed earnestly to God to help us, and they nearly always got well. Whenever a sick man got well, he not only gave us all that he had, but all his friends did likewise.

“As we pressed westward and northward we came all the time to finer Indians who had more wealth and better homes than those farther east.

“At last we came to a land of plenty. The people lived in houses and had beans, pumpkins, and calabashes for food and covered themselves with blankets made of hides. They were the finest-looking and strongest people we had seen and intelligent beyond any of the others. They had nothing they did not give to us. They begged us to pray for rain and told us that for two years not a drop had fallen. When we asked where they had got their food, they told us from the land of the maize. Then I bade them tell me of this land of the maize, and they told that beyond them was a land of many people and large houses, where maize grew all over the land; that the people of that land were wealthy and wore beautiful plumes and feathers of parrots, and used precious stones for arrowheads and to decorate their houses. And they brought to me five beautiful emeralds cut into arrowheads, and many fine turquoises and beads made of coral such as come from the South Seas. When I asked whence they got these stones, they pointed to some lofty mountains that stand toward the north and told us that from there came the precious stones, and that near those mountains were large cities. They said that in those cities the houses were so large that there were sometimes three or four lofts one above the other.”

“And did you not go to those cities?” asked Melchior Diaz, eagerly.

“No,” answered Cabeza de Vaca. “I did not go because I heard that toward the sunset were other men of my kind, and I hurried westward, hoping to meet them. Therefore I did not go to the land of the cities. I longed once more to look upon the face of a Spaniard.”

“You have suffered much,” said Melchior Diaz, “but do not think of it, and now rest.”

Then Melchior Diaz sent off a messenger to Mexico to carry a letter to the Viceroy de Mendoza, telling him of Cabeza de Vaca and his strange tale.

Forthwith the messenger returned with a letter commanding Cabeza de Vaca and his companions to come at once to Mexico and appear before the viceroy.

To Mexico they went, and again Cabeza told the strange story of their wanderings.

“It is a wonderful story,” said the viceroy, when he had finished, “and you certainly deserve to spend the rest of your life in ease. Say the word, and I myself will send you home to Spain.”

Cabeza de Vaca almost wept for joy at these words. “Gladly will I go, dear friend. Gladly will I go, for I am weary of wandering and would once more see my own country.”

So Cabeza de Vaca and two of his companions sailed off to Spain, and the Viceroy de Mendoza thought much of the wonderful cities far to the northward.

The Journey of Fray Marcos

The story of Cabeza de Vaca set all New Spain talking once more of the Seven Cities.

“Of course,” said the people, as they talked, “of course they are the same seven cities Nuño de Guzmán learned of from Tejos, the Indian. He did not get the right directions, and so he failed to reach them. But now we know they are there,” and many were eager to set out at once.

But the Viceroy de Mendoza was a quiet and careful statesman.

“There have been many lives lost already,” he said, “and it will be better not to be in too great a hurry. I believe these are the seven cities sought for by Nuño de Guzmán, but I shall not send an army until I am sure.”

Then he thought of a monk called Fray Marcos of Niza, who had been much among the Indians of the north, and he sent for him to come at once to Mexico.

Fray Marcos came, and the Viceroy de Mendoza told him the story of Cabeza de Vaca.

“Now, Fray Marcos,” said the viceroy, after finishing the story, “if we should send an army, these Indians would surely make war upon us and both for them and for us there would be many lives lost. You understand them, and it might be that they would let you come among them and learn what we desire. Perhaps there lies to the northward as great a nation as Peru or Mexico. It must be taken for the church and the crown. Will you not be the one to carry the message of the cross and to take possession of the country for the king of Spain?”

“I will,” said Fray Marcos, eagerly.

“Very well,” said Mendoza, smiling. “The negro Stephen who was with Cabeza de Vaca is here, and he shall be your guide. Remember that this expedition is to be undertaken more to spread our knowledge of God than for great wealth. Therefore, bear in mind that the natives are to be treated with the utmost kindness, and my displeasure will fall heavy upon whosoever shall offend them. Say to them that the Emperor is very angry at those Christians who have been unkind to them, and that never again shall they be enslaved or taken from their homes.

“Take special note of their number, and of their manner of life, and whether they are at peace or at war among themselves. Notice the nature of the country, the fertility of the soil, and the character of its products. Learn what wild animals there are there, and find out if there are any rivers great or small. Search for precious stones and metals and, if possible, bring back specimens of them. Also make careful inquiry if the natives have any knowledge of a neighboring sea.

“If you shall succeed in reaching the Southern Sea, write out an account of all your discoveries and bury it at the foot of the tallest tree and then mark the tree with a cross. Do the same at the mouth of all rivers, and those who are sent after you will be on the lookout for such a sign. Take enough Indians with you so that you can send them back from time to time to bring to us reports of the route you have taken and how you are treated by the Indians you meet. If you shall come to any great city, do not send back word but come yourself and tell me about it. And lastly, although all the world belongs to the Emperor, be sure and plant the cross in those new lands and take possession of them in the name of the Spanish crown, and never forget that your life is of great value to your church and your country, and do not risk it needlessly. Now, go. Make all your plans and set out as soon as may be.”

Fray Marcos hastened to make his plans, and on the seventh of March, 1539, he set out from Culiacan with the negro Stephen and a few faithful Indians.

Several months went by; then, at the end of September, 1539, a traveler in a monk’s gown came walking alone into Culiacan.

“It is Fray Marcos!” cried the people. “It is Fray Marcos, who went to search for the Seven Cities!” “Did you find them, Fray Marcos?” “Where is Stephen, the negro?” “Are the Seven Cities full of wealth?”

But Fray Marcos would not answer. “I have much to tell,” he said to them, “but I will tell it only to the Lord de Mendoza himself.”

To the Lord de Mendoza he told a story even more wonderful than the story of Tejos, the Indian, or that of Cabeza de Vaca.

“All the way,” he said, “I found great entertainment, for after I told the Indians they were not to be enslaved, they could not do enough to show their love for me. I went where the Holy Ghost did lead me. The Indians guided me from place to place, and some went ahead to tell others that I was coming. Everywhere they came to meet me and gave me welcome. They had food ready for me; and where there were no houses, they built bowers of trees and flowers that I might rest safe from the sun.

“I saw naught that was worthy of notice until there came to me some Indians from an island off the coast, and these wore about their necks great shells that were of mother-of-pearl. To these I showed the pearls which I carried with me for show, and they told me that in their islands there were great stores of such, and that there were thirty islands.

“And then I passed through a desert of four days’ journey, and there went with me the Indians from the island and from the mountains I had passed. At the end of this desert I found other Indians, who marveled much to see me, because they had not before seen a white man. They gave me great stores of food and sought to touch my garments, and called me Hayota, which in their language means ‘A man come from Heaven.’