In Chapter II., I have tried to give my conception of the general aim of story-telling in school. From that conception, it is not difficult to deduce certain specific uses. The one most plainly intimated is that of a brief recreation period, a feature which has proved valuable in many classes. Less definitely implied, but not to be ignored, was the use of the story during, or accessory to, the lesson in science or history.
But more distinctive and valuable than these, I think, is a specific use which I have recently had the pleasure of seeing exemplified in great completeness in the schools of Providence, Rhode Island.
Some four years ago, the assistant superintendent of schools of that city, Miss Ella L. Sweeney, introduced a rather unusual and extended application of the story in her primary classes. While the experiment was in its early stages, it was my good fortune to be allowed to make suggestions for its development, and as the devices in question were those I had been accustomed to use as a pastime for children, I was able to take some slight hand in the formative work of its adoption as an educational method. Carried out most ably by the teachers to whom it was entrusted, the plan has evolved into a more inclusive and systematic one than was at first hoped for; it is one from which I have been grateful to learn.
Tersely stated, the object of the general plan is the freeing and developing of the power of expression in the pupils.
I think there can be no need of dwelling on the desirability of this result. The apathy and "woodenness" of children under average modes of pedagogy is apparent to anyone who is interested enough to observe. In elementary work, the most noticeable lack of natural expression is probably in the reading classes; the same drawback appears at a later stage in English composition. But all along the line every thoughtful teacher knows how difficult it is to obtain spontaneous, creative reaction on material given.
Story-telling has a real mission to perform in setting free the natural creative expression of children, and in vitalising the general atmosphere of the school. The method in use for this purpose in Providence (and probably elsewhere, as ideas usually germinate in more than one place at once) is a threefold giving back of the story by the children. Two of the forms of reproduction are familiar to many teachers; the first is the obvious one of telling the story back again.
It is such fun to listen to a good story that children remember it without effort, and later, when asked if they can tell the story of The Red-Headed Woodpecker or The Little Red Hen, they are as eager to try it as if it were a personal experience which they were burning to impart.
Each pupil, in the Providence classes, is given a chance to try each story, at some time. Then that one which each has told especially well is allotted to him for his own particular story, on which he has an especial claim thereafter.
It is surprising to note how comparatively individual and distinctive the expression of voice and manner becomes, after a short time. The child instinctively emphasises the points which appeal to him, and the element of fun in it all helps to bring forgetfulness of self. The main inflections and the general tenor of the language, however, remain imitative, as is natural with children. But this is a gain rather than otherwise, for it is useful in forming good habit. In no other part of her work, probably, has a teacher so good a chance to foster in her pupils pleasant habits of enunciation and voice. And this is especially worth while in the big city schools, where so many children come from homes where the English of the tenement is spoken.
I have since wished that every city primary teacher could have visited with me the first-grade room in Providence where the pupils were German, Russian, or Polish Jews, and where some of them had heard no English previous to that year,—it being then May. The joy that shone on their faces was nothing less than radiance when the low-voiced teacher said, "Would you like to tell these ladies some of your stories?"
They told us their stories, and there was truly not one told poorly or inexpressively; all the children had learned something of the joy of creative effort. But one little fellow stands out in my memory beyond all the rest, yet as a type of all the rest.
Rudolph was very small, and square, and merry of eye; life was one eagerness and expectancy to him. He knew no English beyond that of one school year. But he stood staunchly in his place and told me the story of the Little Half Chick with an abandon and bodily emphasis which left no doubt of his sympathetic understanding of every word. The depth of moral reproach in his tone was quite beyond description when he said, "Little Half Chick, little Half Chick, when I was in trubbul you wouldn't help me!" He heartily relished that repetition, and became more dramatic each time.
Through it all, in the tones of the tender little voice, the sidewise pose of the neat dark head, and the occasional use of a chubby pointing finger, one could trace a vague reflection of the teacher's manner. It was not strong enough to dominate at all over the child's personality, but it was strong enough to suggest possibilities.
In different rooms, I was told The Half Chick, The Little Red Hen, The Three Bears, The Red-Headed Woodpecker, The Fox and the Grapes, and many other simple stories, and in every instance there was a noticeable degree of spontaneity and command of expression.
When the reading classes were held, the influence of this work was very visible. It had crept into the teachers' method, as well as the children's attitude. The story interest was still paramount. In the discussion, in the teachers' remarks, and in the actual reading, there was a joyousness and an interest in the subject-matter which totally precluded that preoccupation with sounds and syllables so deadly to any real progress in reading. There was less of the mechanical in the reading than in any I had heard in my visits to schools; but it was exceptionally accurate.
The second form of giving back which has proved a keen pleasure and a stimulus to growth is a kind of "seat-work." The children are allowed to make original illustrations of the stories by cutting silhouette pictures.
THERE WAS AN OLD WOMAN WHO LIVED IN A SHOE
It will be readily seen that no child can do this without visualising each image very perfectly. In the simplest and most unconscious way possible, the small artists are developing the power of conceiving and holding the concrete image of an idea given, the power which is at the bottom of all arts of expression.
Through the kindness of Miss Sweeney, I am able to insert several of these illustrations. They are entirely original, and were made without any thought of such a use as this.
The pictures and the retelling are both popular with children, but neither is as dear to them as the third form of reproduction of which I wish to speak. This third kind is taken entirely on the ground of play, and no visibly didactic element enters into it. It consists simply of playing the story.
When a good story with a simple sequence has been told, and while the children are still athrill with the delight of it, they are told they may play it.
"Who would like to be Red Riding Hood?" says the teacher; up go the little girls' hands, and Mary or Hannah or Gertrude is chosen.
"Who will be the wolf?" Johnny or Marcus becomes the wolf. The kind woodchopper and the mother are also happily distributed, for in these little dramatic companies it is an all-star cast, and no one realises any indignity in a subordinate rôle.
"Now, where shall we have little Red Riding Hood's house? 'Over in that corner,' Katie? Very well, Riding Hood shall live over there. And where shall the grandmother's cottage be?"
The children decide that it must be a long distance through the wood,—half-way round the schoolroom, in fact. The wolf selects the spot where he will meet Red Riding Hood, and the woodchopper chooses a position from which he can rush in at the critical moment, to save Red Riding Hood's life.
Then, with gusto good to see, they play the game. The teacher makes no suggestions; each actor creates his part. Some children prove extremely expressive and facile, while others are limited by nature. But each is left to his spontaneous action.
In the course of several days several sets of children have been allowed to try; then if any of them are notably good in the several rôles, they are given an especial privilege in that story, as was done with the retelling. When a child expresses a part badly, the teacher sometimes asks if anyone thinks of another way to do it; from different examples offered, the children then choose the one they prefer; this is adopted. At no point is the teacher apparently teaching. She lets the audience teach itself and its actors.
The children played a good many stories for me during my visit in Providence. Of them all, Red Riding Hood, The Fox and the Grapes, and The Lion and the Mouse were most vividly done.
It will be long before the chief of the Little Red Riding Hoods fades from my memory. She had a dark, foreign little face, with a good deal of darker hair tied back from it, and brown, expressive hands. Her eyes were so full of dancing lights that when they met mine unexpectedly it was as if a chance reflection had dazzled me. When she was told that she might play, she came up for her riding hood like an embodied delight, almost dancing as she moved. (Her teacher used a few simple elements of stage-setting for her stories, such as bowls for the Bears, a cape for Riding Hood, and so on.)
The game began at once. Riding Hood started from the rear corner of the room, basket on arm; her mother gave her strict injunctions as to lingering on the way, and she returned a respectful "Yes, mother." Then she trotted round the aisle, greeting the woodchopper on the way, to the deep wood which lay close by the teacher's desk. There master wolf was waiting, and there the two held converse,—master wolf very crafty indeed, Red Riding Hood extremely polite. The wolf then darted on ahead and crouched down in the corner which represented grandmother's bed. Riding Hood tripped sedately to the imaginary door, and knocked. The familiar dialogue followed, and with the words "the better to eat you with, my dear!" the wolf clutched Red Riding Hood, to eat her up. But we were not forced to undergo the threatened scene of horrid carnage, as the woodchopper opportunely arrived, and stated calmly, "I will not let you kill Little Red Riding Hood."
All was now happily culminated, and with the chopper's grave injunction as to future conduct in her ears, the rescued heroine tiptoed out of the woods, to her seat.
I wanted to applaud, but I realised in the nick of time that we were all playing, and held my peace.
The Fox and the Grapes was more dramatically done, but was given by a single child. He was the chosen "fox" of another primary room, and had the fair colouring and sturdy frame which matched his Swedish name. He was naturally dramatic. It was easy to see that he instinctively visualised everything, and this he did so strongly that he suggested to the onlooker every detail of the scene.
THE FOX AND THE GRAPES
He chose for his grape-trellis the rear wall of the room.
Standing there, he looked longingly up at the invisible bunch of grapes. "My gracious," he said, "what fine grapes! I will have some."
Then he jumped for them.
"Didn't get them," he muttered, "I'll try again," and he jumped higher.
"Didn't get them this time," he said disgustedly, and hopped up once more. Then he stood still, looked up, shrugged his shoulders, and remarked in an absurdly worldly-wise tone, "Those grapes are sour!" After which he walked away.
Of course the whole thing was infantile, and without a touch of grace; but it is no exaggeration to say that the child did what many grown-up actors fail to do,—he preserved the illusion.
It was in still another room that I saw the lion and mouse fable played.
The lion lay flat on the floor for his nap, but started up when he found his paw laid on the little mouse, who crouched as small as she could beside him. (The mouse was by nature rather larger than the lion, but she called what art she might to her assistance.) The mouse persuaded the lion to lift his paw, and ran away.
Presently a most horrific groaning emanated from the lion. The mouse ran up, looked him over, and soliloquised in precise language,—evidently remembered, "What is the matter with the lion? Oh, I see; he is caught in a trap." And then she gnawed with her teeth at the imaginary rope which bound him.
"What makes you so kind to me, little Mouse?" said the rescued lion.
"You let me go, when I asked you," said the mouse demurely.
"Thank you, little Mouse," answered the lion; and therewith, finis.
It is not impossible that all this play atmosphere may seem incongruous and unnecessary to teachers used to more conventional methods, but I feel sure that an actual experience of it would modify that point of view conclusively. The children of the schools where story-telling and "dramatising" were practised were startlingly better in reading, in attentiveness, and in general power of expression, than the pupils of like social conditions in the same grades of other cities which I visited soon after, and in which the more conventional methods were exclusively used. The teachers, also, were stronger in power of expression.
But the most noticeable, though the least tangible, difference was in the moral atmosphere of the schoolroom. There had been a great gain in vitality in all the rooms where stories were a part of the work. It had acted and reacted on pupils and teachers alike. The telling of a story well so depends on being thoroughly vitalised that, naturally, habitual telling had resulted in habitual vitalisation.
This result was not, of course, wholly due to the practice of story-telling, but it was in some measure due to that. And it was a result worth the effort.
I beg to urge these specific uses of stories, as both recreative and developing, and as especially tending toward enlarged power of expression: retelling the story; illustrating the story in seat-work; dramatisation.
FIVE LITTLE WHITE HEADS[1]
BY WALTER LEARNED
[1] From Mother-Song and Child-Song, Charlotte Brewster Jordan.
BIRD THOUGHTS[2]
[2] Ibid.
HOW WE CAME TO HAVE PINK ROSES [1]
[1] Told me by Miss Elizabeth McCracken.
Once, ever and ever so long ago, we didn't have any pink roses. All the roses in the world were white. There weren't any red ones at all, any yellow ones, or any pink ones,—only white roses.
And one morning, very early, a little white rosebud woke up, and saw the sun looking at her. He stared so hard that the little white rosebud did not know what to do; so she looked up at him and said, "Why are you looking at me so hard?"
"Because you are so pretty!" said the big round sun. And the little white rosebud blushed! She blushed pink. And all her children after her were little pink roses!
RAGGYLUG[2]
[2] Adapted from Mr Ernest Thompson Seton's Wild Animals I have known. (David Nutt, 57-59 Long Acre, W.C. 6s. net.)
Once there was a little furry rabbit, who lived with his mother deep down in a nest under the long grass. His name was Raggylug, and his mother's name was Molly Cottontail. Every morning, when Molly Cottontail went out to hunt for food, she said to Raggylug, "Now, Raggylug, lie still, and make no noise. No matter what you hear, no matter what you see, don't you move. Remember you are only a baby rabbit, and lie low." And Raggylug always said he would.
One day, after his mother had gone, he was lying very still in the nest, looking up through the feathery grass. By just cocking his eye, so, he could see what was going on up in the world. Once a big blue-jay perched on a twig above him, and scolded someone very loudly; he kept saying, "Thief! thief!" But Raggylug never moved his nose, nor his paws; he lay still. Once a lady-bird took a walk down a blade of grass, over his head; she was so top-heavy that pretty soon she tumbled off and fell to the bottom, and had to begin all over again. But Raggylug never moved his nose nor his paws; he lay still.
The sun was warm, and it was very still.
Suddenly Raggylug heard a little sound, far off. It sounded like "Swish, swish," very soft and far away. He listened. It was a queer little sound, low down in the grass, "rustle—rustle—rustle"; Raggylug was interested. But he never moved his nose or his paws; he lay still. Then the sound came nearer, "rustle—rustle—rustle"; then grew fainter, then came nearer; in and out, nearer and nearer, like something coming; only, when Raggylug heard anything coming he always heard its feet, stepping ever so softly. What could it be that came so smoothly,—rustle—rustle—without any feet?
He forgot his mother's warning, and sat up on his hind paws; the sound stopped then. "Pooh," thought Raggylug, "I'm not a baby rabbit, I am three weeks old; I'll find out what this is." He stuck his head over the top of the nest, and looked—straight into the wicked eyes of a great big snake. "Mammy, Mammy!" screamed Raggylug. "Oh, Mammy, Mam—" But he couldn't scream any more, for the big snake had his ear in his mouth and was winding about the soft little body, squeezing Raggylug's life out. He tried to call "Mammy!" again, but he could not breathe.
Ah, but Mammy had heard the first cry. Straight over the fields she flew, leaping the stones and hummocks, fast as the wind, to save her baby. She wasn't a timid little cottontail rabbit then; she was a mother whose child was in danger. And when she came to Raggylug and the big snake, she took one look, and then hop! hop! she went over the snake's back; and as she jumped she struck at the snake with her strong hind claws so that they tore his skin. He hissed with rage, but he did not let go.
Hop! hop! she went again, and this time she hurt him so that he twisted and turned; but he held on to Raggylug.
Once more the mother rabbit hopped, and once more she struck and tore the snake's back with her sharp claws. Zzz! How she hurt! The snake dropped Raggy to strike at her, and Raggy rolled on to his feet and ran.
"Run, Raggylug, run!" said his mother, keeping the snake busy with her jumps; and you may believe Raggylug ran! Just as soon as he was out of the way his mother came too, and showed him where to go. When she ran, there was a little white patch that showed under her tail; that was for Raggy to follow,—he followed it now.
Far, far away she led him, through the long grass, to a place where the big snake could not find him, and there she made a new nest. And this time, when she told Raggylug to lie low you'd better believe he minded!
THE GOLDEN COBWEBS[1]
A STORY TO TELL BY THE CHRISTMAS TREE
[1] This story was told me in the mother-tongue of a German friend, at the kindly instance of a common friend of both; the narrator had heard it at home from the lips of a father of story-loving children for whom he often invented such little tales. The present adaptation has passed by hearsay through so many minds that it is perhaps little like the original, but I venture to hope it has a touch of the original fancy, at least.
I am going to tell you a story about something wonderful that happened to a Christmas Tree like this, ever and ever so long ago, when it was once upon a time.
It was before Christmas, and the tree was trimmed with bright spangled threads and many-coloured candles and (name the trimmings of the tree before you), and it stood safely out of sight in a room where the doors were locked, so that the children should not see it before the proper time. But ever so many other little house-people had seen it. The big black pussy saw it with her great green eyes; the little grey kitty saw it with her little blue eyes; the kind house-dog saw it with his steady brown eyes; the yellow canary saw it with his wise, bright eyes. Even the wee, wee mice that were so afraid of the cat had peeped one peep when no one was by.
But there was someone who hadn't seen the Christmas tree. It was the little grey spider!
You see, the spiders lived in the corners,—the warm corners of the sunny attic and the dark corners of the nice cellar. And they were expecting to see the Christmas Tree as much as anybody. But just before Christmas a great cleaning-up began in the house. The house-mother came sweeping and dusting and wiping and scrubbing, to make everything grand and clean for the Christ-child's birthday. Her broom went into all the corners, poke, poke,—and of course the spiders had to run. Dear, dear, how the spiders had to run! Not one could stay in the house while the Christmas cleanness lasted. So, you see, they couldn't see the Christmas Tree.
Spiders like to know all about everything, and see all there is to see, and these were very sad. So at last they went to the Christ-child and told him about it.
"All the others see the Christmas Tree, dear Christ-child," they said; "but we, who are so domestic and so fond of beautiful things, we are cleaned up! We cannot see it, at all."
The Christ-child was sorry for the little spiders when he heard this, and he said they should see the Christmas Tree.
The day before Christmas, when nobody was noticing, he let them all go in, to look as long as ever they liked.
They came creepy, creepy, down the attic stairs, creepy, creepy, up the cellar stairs, creepy, creepy, along the halls,—and into the beautiful room. The fat mother spiders and the old papa spiders were there, and all the little teeny, tiny, curly spiders, the baby ones. And then they looked! Round and round the tree they crawled, and looked and looked and looked. Oh, what a good time they had! They thought it was perfectly beautiful. And when they had looked at everything they could see from the floor, they started up the tree to see more. All over the tree they ran, creepy, crawly, looking at every single thing. Up and down, in and out, over every branch and twig, the little spiders ran, and saw every one of the pretty things right up close.
They stayed till they had seen all there was to see, you may be sure, and then they went away at last, quite happy.
Then, in the still, dark night before Christmas Day, the dear Christ-child came, to bless the tree for the children. But when he looked at it—what do you suppose?—it was covered with cobwebs! Everywhere the little spiders had been they had left a spider-web; and you know they had been everywhere. So the tree was covered from its trunk to its tip with spider-webs, all hanging from the branches and looped round the twigs; it was a strange sight.
What could the Christ-child do? He knew that house-mothers do not like cobwebs; it would never, never do to have a Christmas Tree covered with those. No, indeed.
So the dear Christ-child touched the spider's webs, and turned them all to gold! Wasn't that a lovely trimming? They shone and shone, all over the beautiful tree. And that is the way the Christmas Tree came to have golden cobwebs on it.
WHY THE MORNING-GLORY CLIMBS[1]
[1] This story was given me by Miss Elisabeth McCracken, who wrote it some years ago in a larger form, and who told it to me in the way she had told it to many children of her acquaintance.
Once the Morning-Glory was flat on the ground. She grew that way, and she had never climbed at all. Up in the top of a tree near her lived Mrs Jennie Wren and her little baby Wren. The little Wren was lame; he had a broken wing and couldn't fly. He stayed in the nest all day. But the mother Wren told him all about what she saw in the world, when she came flying home at night. She used to tell him about the beautiful Morning-Glory she saw on the ground. She told him about the Morning-Glory every day, until the little Wren was filled with a desire to see her for himself.
"How I wish I could see the Morning-Glory!" he said.
The Morning-Glory heard this, and she longed to let the little Wren see her face. She pulled herself along the ground, a little at a time, until she was at the foot of the tree where the little Wren lived. But she could not get any farther, because she did not know how to climb. At last she wanted to go up so much, that she caught hold of the bark of the tree, and pulled herself up a little. And little by little, before she knew it, she was climbing.
And she climbed right up the tree to the little Wren's nest, and put her sweet face over the edge of the nest, where the little Wren could see.
That was how the Morning-Glory came to climb.
THE STORY OF LITTLE TAVWOTS[1]
[1] Adapted from The Basket Woman, by Mary Austin.
This is the story an Indian woman told a little white boy who lived with his father and mother near the Indians' country; and Tavwots is the name of the little rabbit.
But once, long ago, Tavwots was not little,—he was the largest of all four-footed things, and a mighty hunter. He used to hunt every day; as soon as it was day, and light enough to see, he used to get up, and go to his hunting. But every day he saw the track of a great foot on the trail, before him. This troubled him, for his pride was as big as his body.
"Who is this," he cried, "that goes before me to the hunting, and makes so great a stride? Does he think to put me to shame?"
"T'-sst!" said his mother, "there is none greater than thou."
"Still, there are the footprints in the trail,' said Tavwots.
And the next morning he got up earlier; but still the great footprints and the mighty stride were before him. The next morning he got up still earlier; but there were the mighty foot-tracks and the long, long stride.
"Now I will set me a trap for this impudent fellow," said Tavwots, for he was very cunning. So he made a snare of his bowstring and set it in the trail overnight.
And when in the morning he went to look, behold, he had caught the sun in his snare! All that part of the earth was beginning to smoke with the heat of it.
"Is it you who made the tracks in my trail?" cried Tavwots.
"It is I," said the sun; "come and set me free, before the whole earth is afire."
Then Tavwots saw what he had to do, and he drew his sharp hunting-knife and ran to cut the bowstring. But the heat was so great that he ran back before he had done it; and when he ran back he was melted down to half his size! Then the earth began to burn, and the smoke curled up against the sky.
"Come again, Tavwots," cried the sun.
And Tavwots ran again to cut the bowstring. But the heat was so great that he ran back before he had done it, and be was melted down to a quarter of his size!
"Come again, Tavwots, and quickly," cried the sun, "or all the world will be burnt up."
And Tavwots ran again; this time he cut the bowstring and set the sun free. But when he got back he was melted down to the size he is now! Only one thing is left of all his greatness: you may still see by the print of his feet as he leaps in the trail, how great his stride was when he caught the sun in his snare.
THE PIG BROTHER[1]
[1] From The Golden Windows, by Laura E. Richards. (H.R. Allenson Ltd. 2s. 6d. net.)
There was once a child who was untidy. He left his books on the floor, and his muddy shoes on the table; he put his fingers in the jam pots, and spilled ink on his best pinafore; there was really no end to his untidiness.
One day the Tidy Angel came into his nursery.
"This will never do!" said the Angel. "This is really shocking. You must go out and stay with your brother while I set things to rights here."
"I have no brother!" said the child.
"Yes, you have," said the Angel. "You may not know him, but he will know you. Go out in the garden and watch for him, and he will soon come."
"I don't know what you mean!" said the child; but he went out into the garden and waited.
Presently a squirrel came along, whisking his tail.
"Are you my brother?" asked the child.
The squirrel looked him over carefully.
"Well, I should hope not!" he said. "My fur is neat and smooth, my nest is handsomely made, and in perfect order, and my young ones are properly brought up. Why do you insult me by asking such a question?"
He whisked off, and the child waited.
Presently a wren came hopping by.
"Are you my brother?" asked the child.
"No, indeed!" said the wren. "What impertinence! You will find no tidier person than I in the whole garden. Not a feather is out of place, and my eggs are the wonder of all for smoothness and beauty. Brother, indeed!" He hopped off, ruffling his feathers, and the child waited.
By-and-by a large Tommy Cat came along.
"Are you my brother?" asked the child.
"Go and look at yourself in the glass," said the Tommy Cat haughtily, "and you will have your answer. I have been washing myself in the sun all the morning, while it is clear that no water has come near you for a long time. There are no such creatures as you in my family, I am humbly thankful to say."
He walked on, waving his tail, and the child waited.
Presently a pig came trotting along.
The child did not wish to ask the pig if he were his brother, but the pig did not wait to be asked.
"Hallo, brother!" he grunted.
"I am not your brother!" said the child.
"Oh yes, you are!" said the pig. "I confess I am not proud of you, but there is no mistaking the members of our family. Come along, and have a good roll in the barnyard! There is some lovely black mud there."
"I don't like to roll in mud!" said the child.
"Tell that to the hens!" said the Pig Brother. "Look at your hands and your shoes, and your pinafore! Come along, I say! You may have some of the pig-wash for supper, if there is more than I want."
"I don't want pig-wash!" said the child; and he began to cry.
Just then the Tidy Angel came out.
"I have set everything to rights," she said, "and so it must stay. Now, will you go with the Pig Brother, or will you come back with me, and be a tidy child?"
"With you, with you!" cried the child; and he clung to the Angel's dress.
"Small loss!" he said. "There will be all the more wash for me!" And he trotted off.