Adult ears repudiate anything as obvious as this; they still, however, enjoy a ballad refrain.

Just as small children cannot hear complications, so they cannot grasp details if the movement is swift. We must give time for a child’s slow reactions. We usually fail to do this in ordinary social situations and are often surprised to hear our three-year-old say “good-bye” long after the front door is closed and our guest well on his way down the street. In stories we must take a leisurely pace. We must also read very slowly allowing ample time for a child to give the full motor expression to his thought for the art of abbreviation he has not yet learned.

It is not enough to recognize that since a child attends to but one thing at a time the units must be simple. Here in the form as in the content, must the motor quality of a child’s thinking be held constantly in mind. In trying to find the general subject matter appropriate for little children I said that they think through their muscles. This motor expression of small children has its direct application in the concrete method of telling of any happening. The story child who is experiencing, should go through the essential muscular performances which the real listening child would go through if he were actually experiencing himself. For he thinks through these muscular expressions. As an example, when a group of four-year-olds heard a story about a little boy who saw the elevated train approach and pass above him, they thought the child might have been run over. The words “up” and “above” and “overhead” had been used but the children failed to get the idea of “upness.” Unquestionably they would have understood if I had made the little boy throw back his head and look up. Small children act with big gestures and with big muscles. And they think through the same mechanisms.

These two principles, simplicity and continuity, apply concretely to sentence and phrase structure as well. The effort to obtain continuity for the child explains the colloquial “The little boy who lived in this house, he did so and so——” You help your child back to the subject, “the little boy” by the grammatically redundant “he” after his mind has gone off on “this house.” This same need for continuity also explains why a child’s own stories are characteristically one continuous sentence strung together with “ands” and “thens” and “buts.” He sees and hears and consequently thinks in a simple, rhythmic, continuous flow. If we would have him see and hear and think with us, we must give him his stories and verse in simple units closely and obviously linked together.

But after all is said and done, why should we give children stories at all? Is it to instruct and so should we pay attention to the content? Is it to delight and so should we pay attention to the form? Both things, information and relish, have their place in justifying stories for children. But both to my mind are of minor importance compared to a third and quite different thing,—and this is to get children to create stories of their own, to play with words. “To get” is an unhappy phrase for it suggests that children must be coaxed to the task. This I do not believe though I cannot prove it. I do believe that children play with words naturally and spontaneously just as they play with any material that comes to their creative hands. And further I believe,—though this too I cannot prove,—that we adults kill this play with words just as we kill their creative play with most things. Most of us have forgotten how to play with anything, most of all with words. We are utilitarian, we are executive, we are didactic, we are earth-tied, we are hopelessly adult! Actually children use their ears and noses and fingers much more than do we adults. Our stories rely mainly upon visual recalls. We forget to listen even to birds whose message is pure melody. And how many of us hear the city sounds which surround us, the characteristic whirr of revolving wheels, the vibrating rhythm of horses’ feet, the crunch of footsteps in the snow? Noises we hear, the warning shriek of the fire engine or the honk! honk! of the automobile. But the subtler, finer reverberations we are not sensitive to. Yet little children love to listen and develop another method of sensing and appreciating their world by this pleasurable use of their hearing. It surely is an unused opportunity for story-tellers. I have tried to use it in “Pedro’s Feet” which is an attempt to give them an ordinary story by means of sounds. And even less than to city sounds do we listen for the cadences in language. We listen only for the meaning and forget the sensuous delight of sound.

But happily children are not so determined to wring a meaning out of every sight and every sound. Children play. Play is a child’s own technique. Through it he seizes the strange unknown world around him and fashions it into his very own. He recreates through play. And through creating, he learns and he enjoys.

There is no better play material in the world than words. They surround us, go with us through our work-a-day tasks, their sound is always in our ears, their rhythms on our tongue. Why do we leave it to special occasions and to special people to use these common things as precious play material? Because we are grown-ups and have closed our ears and our eyes that we may not be distracted from our plodding ways! But when we turn to the children, to hearing and seeing children, to whom all the world is as play material, who think and feel through play, can we not then drop our adult utilitarian speech and listen and watch for the patterns of words and ideas? Can we not care for the way we say things to them and not merely what we say? Can we not speak in rhythm, in pleasing sounds, even in song for the mere sensuous delight it gives us and them, even though it adds nothing to the content of our remark? If we can, I feel sure children will not lose their native use of words: more, I think those of six and seven and eight who have lost it in part,—and their stories show they have,—will win back to their spontaneous joy in the play of words. This is the ultimate test of stories and verse,—whether they help children to retain their native gift of play with language and with thought.

In the City and Country School where my experiments in language have been carried on, we have not gone far enough to offer convincing proof along these lines. But I submit two stories told by a six-year-old class which are at least suggestive. The first is the best story told to me by any member of the class before any effort had been made to get the children to listen to the sound of their words or to think of their ideas as all pointing in one direction and giving a single impression. The second was told by the class as a whole while looking at Willebeek Le Mair’s illustration of “Twinkle, twinkle, little star.” They said the picture made them feel sleepy and that they would say only things that made them sleepy and use only words that made them sleepy. Between the two stories I had met with them seven times. I had read them sounding and rhythmic verse. They had become interested in the sound of language apart from its meaning. They had become interested in the sound of the rain and the fire. They were thinking through their ears. Am I mistaken in believing this shows in their language and in their thought?

Story by a Six-Year-Old

Joint Story by Six-Year-Old Class

“The Leaf Story” and “The Wind Story” I have incorporated with my stories, though they are almost entirely the work of children. In both cases the organization is beyond the children. But the content and the phraseology bear their unmistakable imprint. The same is true of “The Sea Gull.”

Because of the pattern, the play aspect of language, I believe in written stories even for very little ones. If we loved our language better and played with its sound in our ordinary speech, perhaps stories for two- and three-year-olds would not be needed. But as it is, we need to present them with something more intentional, more thought out than is possible with most of us in a story told. If the patterns of our ideas or of our speech are to have charm, if they are to fit the occasion with nicety, if they are to flow easily and are to be continuous enough to be comprehended by little children, they will need careful attention,—attention that cannot be given under the emergency of telling a story, not, at least, by the uninspired of us. Inevitably, with our utilitarian tendencies, we shall be drawn off to an undue regard of the content to the neglect of the expression. And yet, for very little children, there is unquestionably something lost by the formality and fixity of a written story. A story told has more spontaneity, allows more leeway to include the chance happenings or remarks of the children; it can be more intimately personal, more adapted to the particular occasion and to the particular child. Perhaps some time we shall achieve a fortunate compromise, a stepping stone between the story told and the story read. Perhaps we shall work out happy or characteristic phrases about familiar things,—little personal things about the clothes and habits of each child, general familiar things like autos and wagons and horses on the street, coal going down the hole in the sidewalk, the squabbling of sparrows in the dirt, the drift of snow on the roofs,—perhaps we shall learn to use such thought-out phrases or refrains like blocks for building many stories. If we could work out some such technique as this, we could keep the intimacy, the flexibility, the waywardness of the spoken story and still give the children the charm of careful thinking and careful phrasing. Many such phrases have been fashioned by people sensitive to the quality of sound. Every nursery has had its rooster crow:

“Cock-a-doodle-doo!”

But few have given its children that delightful epitome of the songs of spring birds which has piped with irrepressible freshness now for nearly four centuries:

“Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!”

I have never known the child who did not respond to Kipling’s engine song:

“With a michnai-ghignai-shtingal! Yah! Yah! Yah!”

Every child creates these wonderful sound interpretations of the world. We smile a smile of indulgence when we hear them. And then we forget them! Cannot we seize some of them however imperfectly and learn to build them into the structure of our stories? It was more or less this kind of thing that I had in mind in writing Marni’s stories and “The Room with the Window Looking Out Upon the Garden” which as I have said elsewhere are types to be told rather than narratives to be read. And I feel sure if we could once make a beginning that the children themselves would soon take the matter into their own hands and create their own building blocks.

For children are primarily creators. They do not willingly nor for long maintain the passive rôle. This should be reckoned with in stories and not merely as a concession to restless children but as a real aid to the story. An active rôle should be provided for the children somewhere within every story until the children are old enough to have a genuinely impersonal interest in things and events and until they do not need a motor expression of their thoughts. For as I have already said, up to that age,—and it is for psychologists to say when that age is,—children think in terms of themselves expressed through their own activities. This active rôle should be used not merely as a safety valve of expression to keep the child a patient listener, but as a tool by which he may become aware of the form of thought and language. It is interesting that the children to whom these stories have been read, have seized upon the rhyme refrains as their own and after a few readings have joined in saying them as though this were their natural portion. It is with this hope that I have tried to make the refrains not mere interludes in the story, as they usually are, but the real skeleton, the intrinsic thought pattern, the fundamental design. In “How the Singing Water Gets to the Tub” and “How Spot Found a Home,” for instance, the refrains taken by themselves out of the context, tell the whole story. It is too soon to say, but I am strong in the hope that through relish for this kind of active participation in written stories, a small child may become captivated by the play side of the stories as opposed to the content and so turn to language as play material in which to fashion patterns of his own.

For the sake of analysis, I have treated content and form separately. But I am keenly aware that the divorce of the two is what has made our stories for children so unsatisfactory. We have good ideas told without charm of design; and we have meaningless patterns which tickle the ear for the moment but fade because they spring from no real thought. Literature is only achieved when the thought pattern and the language pattern exactly fit. A refrain for the mere sake of recurrent jingle, that has no genuine no essential recurrence in the thought, is a trick. If the pattern does not help the thought and the thought suggest the pattern, there is something wrong. It is an artifice, not art. This matching of content and form is nothing new. It is and always has been the basis of good literature. The task that is new is to find thought sequences, thought relations which are truly childlike and the language design which is really appropriate to them,—to make both content and form the child’s.

As I said at the beginning, so must I say at the end. These stories are experiments, experiments both in content and form. To have any value they must be treated as such. The theses underlying them have been stated for brevity’s sake only in didactic form. In reality, they lie in my mind as open questions urgently in need of answers. But I do not hope much from the answers of adults,—from the deaf and blind writers to the hearing and seeing children. The answers must come from the children themselves. We must listen to children’s speech, to their casual everyday expressions. We must gather children’s stories. Mothers and teachers everywhere should be making these precious records. We must study them not merely as showing what a child is thinking, but the way he is thinking and the way he is enjoying. It is the hope that these stories may be tried out with children, the hope of reaching others who may be watching and listening and working along these lines, the hope that we may gather records of children’s stories which will become a basis for a real literature, the hope that somewhere among grown-ups we may find an ear still sensitive to hear and an eye still fresh to see,—it is this hope that has given me the courage to expose these pitifully inadequate adult efforts to speak with little children in their own language. Some one must dare, if only to give courage to the better equipped. And if we dare enough, I am sure the children will come to our rescue. If we let them, they will lead us. Whatever these stories hold of merit or of suggestiveness is due to the inspiration and tolerance of the courageous group of workers in the City and Country School and in the Bureau of Educational Experiments and in particular to Caroline Pratt without whom these stories would never have been dreamed or written; and above all to the children themselves, for whom the stories were written and to whom they have been read, both in the laboratory school and in my own home. To those then, who wish to follow the lead of little children, to those who have the curiosity to know into what new paths of literature children’s interest and children’s spontaneous expression of those interests will lead, and to the children themselves, I send these stories.

Lucy Sprague Mitchell.

New York City
July, 1921.

MARNI TAKES A RIDE

IN A WAGON

The refrains in this story were first made up during the actual ride. Later they served to recall the experience with vividness. This story is given only as a type which any one may use when helping a two-year-old to live over an experience.

MARNI TAKES A RIDE IN A WAGON

One day Marni went for a ride. Little Aa, he climbed into Sprague’s wagon and Marni, she climbed in behind him. Then Mother took the handle and she began to pull the wagon with little Aa and Marni in it. And Mother she went:

And the wheels, they went, (with motion of hands):

And then Mother was tired. So she stopped. And Marni said, “Whoa, horsie!”

Then Little Aa said, “Ugh, ugh!” for he wanted to go.

But Marni said, “Get up, horsie!” for she wanted to go too. So Mother took hold of the handle and went:

And the wheels they went:

And then Mother was tired. So she stopped, and Marni said, “Whoa, horsie!”

Then Little Aa said, “Ugh, ugh!” for he wanted to go. But Marni said “Get up, horsie!” for she wanted to go too. So Mother took hold of the handle and went,

And the wheels they went:

And then Mother was very, very tired. So she stopped. And Marni said, “Whoa, horsie!”

Then Little Aa said, “Ugh, ugh!” for he wanted to go again. But Marni said “Get up, horsie!” for she wanted to go too. But Mother she was very, very, very tired. She had jogged, jogged, jogged so long and made the wheels go round, round, round, round, so much! So she said, “The ride is all over!” Then Little Aa climbed down out of the wagon and Marni climbed down out of the wagon. And Marni said, “Goodbye, wagon!” and ran away!

MARNI GETS DRESSED

IN THE MORNING

This story, obviously, is for a particular little girl. It is told in the terms of her own experience, of her own environment, and of her own observations. It is nothing more or less than the living over in rhythmic form of the daily routine of her morning dressing. Her story remarks are either literal quotations or adaptations of her actual every day responses. The little verse refrains are the type of thing almost anyone can improvise. I have found that any simple statement about a familiar object or act told (or sung) with a kind of ceremonious attention and with an obvious and simple rhythm, enthralls a two-year-old. The little girl for whom this story was written began embryonic stories before her second birthday. The water-soap-sponge episode is an adaptation of one of her first narrative forms. This story is meant merely as a suggestion of the way almost anyone can make language an every day plaything to the small child she is caring for.

MARNI GETS DRESSED IN THE MORNING

Once there was a little girl and her name was Marni Moo. Marni used to sleep in a little bed in mother’s room. In the morning Marni would wake up and she would say “Hello, Mother.” And then in a minute she would say, “I want to get up.”

And mother would say:

Then mother would get up and she’d come over and she’d unfasten the blanket and she’d take little Marni Moo in her arms and she’d walk into Marni’s bath-room and she’d take off Marni’s nightgown and Marni’s shirt. And then she’d get a little basin, and she’d put some water in it, and she’d get some soap and she’d get a sponge and she’d wash little Marni Moo. She’d wash Marni’s face and then she’d wash Marni’s hands, and Marni would put one hand in the basin and she’d splash the water like this:—      Then she’d put another hand in the basin and she’d splash the water like this:—      Then mother would wipe both hands and she’d throw the water down the sink and she’d put away the soap and the sponge. And Marni would watch mother and then she’d say:

And after that what do you suppose Marni would say?

“Shirt, shirt.” And mother would put Marni’s shirt over her head and say:

and then mother would button up Marni’s shirt.

And then Marni would say “Waist, waist.” Then while mother put on Marni’s waist she would say:

And then Marni would say, “Drawers, drawers.” And while mother put on Marni’s drawers she would say:

And then Marni would say, “Stockings, stockings.” And mother would put on one stocking on her left foot, and then she’d put on another stocking on her right foot. And then she’d fasten the garters on one stocking, and then she’d fasten the garters on the other stocking. And all the time mother would keep saying:

Then Marni would say, “Shoe, shoe.” And mother would put one shoe on her left foot and then she’d put on the other shoe on her right foot. And then she’d say again:

And then Marni would say, “Hook, hook.” And mother would get the button-hook and then she’d button up the left shoe and then she’d button up the right shoe. And all the time she was buttoning up first one shoe and then the other shoe Marni would say:

And when the shoes were all buttoned up, mother would hit first one little sole and then the other little sole, and say:

Then Marni would run and get her romper and bring it to mother calling, “Romper, romper.” And mother would put on her romper, singing:

And then Marni would say, “Button, button.” And mother would button up her romper all down the back. First one button and then another button and then another button and then another button, and then another button and then another button until they were buttoned all down the back.

And then Marni would say, “Sweater.” And mother would put on her little blue sweater saying:

And then Marni would say, “Hair.” And mother would get the brush and comb and brush Marni’s hair. And all the time she was brushing it she would say:

And then Marni would say, “All ready.” And mother would put her down on the floor.

Then Marni would say:

And mother would give her her little pail. And Marni would put one nut in her pail, and then she’d put another nut in her pail, and then she’d put another nut in her pail. And then she’d put a marble in her pail, and then she’d put another marble in her pail, and then she’d put another marble in her pail. And then she’d put her quack-quack in her pail, and then she’d put her fish in her pail, and then she’d put her frog in her pail. Then she would shake her pail with all of the nuts and the marbles and the quack-quack and the frog and the fish, and they would all go bingety-bang, crickety-crack, bingety-bang, crickety-crack.

And Marni would say, “Bingety-bang, crickety-crack. Where Jack-o?” And Marni would run to find Jack-o, and she would say, “Jack-o, hear bingety-bang, crickety-crack.” And she would rattle her little pail with all the nuts and the marbles and the quack-quack and the fish and the frog. Then she’d say, “Where Peter?” And Marni would run to find Peter, and she would say, “Peter, hear bingety-bang, crickety-crack.” And she would rattle her little pail with all the nuts and the marbles and the quack-quack and the fish and the frog.

Then mother would call, “Breakfast, breakfast. Anyone ready for breakfast?”

And Jack-o would call back, “I am, I am, I am ready for breakfast.”

And Peter would run as fast as he could calling, “I am, I am, I am ready for breakfast.”

And last of all would come little Marni Moo calling, “Breakfast, breakfast.”

Then the two boys would chase Marni to the breakfast table saying:

And Marni would scimper scamper like a mousie until she reached the breakfast table.

Then they would all have breakfast together.

THE ROOM WITH THE

WINDOW LOOKING OUT

ON THE GARDEN

In this story written for a three-year-old group, I have tried to present the familiar setting of the classroom from a new point of view and to give the presentation a very obvious pattern. I want the children to take an active part in the story. But before they try to do this I want them to have some conception of the whole pattern of the story so that their contributions may be in proper design, both in substance and in length. That is the reason I give two samples before throwing the story open to the children. If each child has a part which falls into a recognized scheme, through performing that part he gets a certain practice in pattern making in language,—however primitive—and also a certain practice in the technique of co-operation which means listening to the others as well as performing himself. I have not tried to add anything to their stock of information,—merely to give them the pleasure of drawing on a common fund together.

THE ROOM WITH THE WINDOW LOOKING OUT ON THE GARDEN

Once there was a little girl. She was just three years old. One morning she and her mother put on their hats and coats right after breakfast. They walked and walked and walked from their house until they came to MacDougal Alley. And then they walked straight down the alley into the Play School. Now the little girl had never been to the Play School before and she didn’t know where anything was and she didn’t know any of the children and she didn’t even know her teacher! So she asked her mother, “Which room is going to be mine?” And her mother answered, “The one with the window looking out on the garden.”

And sure enough, when the little girl looked around there was the sun shining right in through a window which looked out on a lovely garden! She knelt right down on the window sill to look out.

Then she heard some one say, “Little New Girl, why don’t you take off your things?” She turned around and there was Virginia talking to her. “Because I don’t know where to put them,” said Little New Girl. “How funny!” laughed Virginia, “because see, here are all the hooks right in plain sight,” and she pointed under the stairs. So the little girl took off her hat and her mittens. Her mother had to unbutton the hard top button but she did all the rest. Then she hung up everything on a hook.

“Goodbye,” said her mother. “Goodbye,” said Little New Girl. “Don’t forget to come for me because I don’t know where anything is and I don’t know the children and I don’t even know my teacher.” And her mother answered, “No, I won’t.” And then she was gone.

“Now, Little New Girl, what do you want to do?” said her teacher. But the little girl only shook her head and said, “I don’t know anything to do.” One little boy said, “Let me show Little New Girl something.” And what did he show her? He took her over to the shelves and he showed her the blocks. “You can build a house or anything with them,” said the little boy.

Then another little girl said, “Let me show Little New Girl something.” And what did this other little girl show her? She showed her the dolls. “You can put them into a house,” said this other little girl.

“Who else can show Little New Girl something to do?” called her teacher. “Will you, Robert?” So what did Robert show her? (Give child ample time to think. If he does not respond go on.) Robert took her over to the shelves and showed her the paper and crayons. “You can draw ever so many pictures,” said Robert.

Then Virginia said, “Let me show Little New Girl something.” So what did Virginia show her?—Virginia showed her the horses and wagons. “You can harness them up,” said Virginia.

Then Craig said, “Let me show Little New Girl something.” So what did Craig show her?—Craig showed her the beads. “You can string them in strings,” said Craig.

Then Peter said, “Let me show Little New Girl something.” So what did Peter show her?—Peter showed her the clay. “You can make anything you want out of it,” said Peter.

Then Tom said, “Let me show Little New Girl something.” So what did Tom show her? Tom showed her the saw and hammer and nails. “You can saw or hammer nails,” said Tom.

Then Barbara said, “Let me show Little New Girl something.” So what did Barbara show her? Barbara showed her the paper and scissors. “You can cut out anything you want,” said Barbara.

“Now Little New Girl, what do you want to do?” said her teacher. And this time the little girl jumped right up and down and said, “I’m glad! I want to do everything.” “But which thing first?” asked her teacher. “Let me watch,” the Little New Girl said.

So Little New Girl stood quite still. She saw Robert go and get some paper and crayons and sit down at his little table to draw. She saw Virginia get some horses and harness and sit down at her little table to harness them. She saw Craig get some beads and sit down at his little table to string them. She saw Peter get the clay and sit down at his little table to model. She saw Tom go to the bench and begin to saw a piece of wood. She saw Barbara get some paper and scissors and paste and sit down at her little table to cut out and to paste.

Then she said, “I want to draw first.” So she took some paper and some colored crayons and she sat down at a little table near the window looking out on the garden. There she drew and she drew and she drew. And she didn’t feel like a Little New Girl at all for now she knew where everything was and she knew all the children and she knew her teacher.

THE ROOM WITH THE WINDOW LOOKING OUT ON THE GARDEN

THE MANY-HORSE STABLE

All the material for this story was supplied by a three-year-old. The pattern was added. An older child would not be content with so sketchy an account. But it seems to compass a three-year-old’s most significant associations with a stable. The title is one in actual use by a four-year-old class.

THE MANY-HORSE STABLE

Once there was a stable. The stable was in a big city. Downstairs in the stable there were many g-r-e-a-t b-i-g wagons and one little-bit-of-a wagon. And on the walls there were many g-r-e-a-t b-i-g harnesses and one little-bit-of-a harness. And there were many g-r-e-a-t b-i-g blankets and one little-bit-of-a blanket. And there were some g-r-e-a-t b-i-g whips and one little-bit-of-a whip. And there were some g-r-e-a-t b-i-g nose bags and one little-bit-of-a nose bag. Upstairs in the stalls there were some g-r-e-a-t b-i-g horses and one little-bit-of-a pony.

In the morning the men would come and harness up the g-r-e-a-t b-i-g horses with the g-r-e-a-t b-i-g harnesses to the g-r-e-a-t b-i-g wagons. They would put in the g-r-e-a-t b-i-g blankets and the g-r-e-a-t b-i-g whips and the g-r-e-a-t b-i-g nose bags. Then they would get up on the seats and gather up the reins and off down the street would go the g-r-e-a-t b-i-g horses. Clumpety-lumpety bump! thump! Clumpety-lumpety bump! thump!

Then a little-bit-of-a man would harness up the little-bit-of-a pony with the little-bit-of-a harness to the little-bit-of-a wagon. He would put in the little-bit-of-a blanket and the little-bit-of-a whip and the little-bit-of-a nose bag. Then he would get up on the seat and gather up the reins and off down the street would go the little-bit-of-a pony! Lippety-lippety! lip! lip! lip! Lippety-lippety! lip! lip! lip!

MY KITTY

Here there is no plot. Instead I have attempted to enumerate the associations which cluster around a kitten, and present them in a patterned form.

MY KITTY