A WOMAN'S FARM JOURNAL - University of Illinois

T. WISH I could dip my pen into some
/.j. 'kind of magic ink bottle today so that
: V||-- the women who read this article might
> ¦• ¦ find in it, not merelya more or less interesting
discussion of story telling, but a
truly-personal message to them. That is
what I do wish it.to be: a personal word
spoken to all women whose eyes may fall
here but especially to those of you who
are the best and closest friends that children
own—their mothers and teachers.
.
In the minds of many, I fear story telling
has been given an insignificant place. We
Save been apt to think of a story as a rather
trivial thing, intended principally for the
entertainment of children and of little children
at' that.
'. That it might be instead a thing so beautiful
and important as to assume for us the
proportions of a real duty to our children—
such an idea has not once occurred to us.
But- have we ever stopped to think how
old story telling is? And that there must
be some wonderful power in it to have
kept it popular through all the centuries.
. Ever since primitive men ., crouched
around their savage camp fires and. told
their children their uncouth tales of beasts
and monsters; ever since Homer trod the
happy isles of Greece; ever since Christ
taught the multitudes, and "without a
parable spake not unto them," the story
has been in vogue.
I would rather have been a saga man
in Norway, or a bard in old Ireland, than
any king on his throne.
Story telling, to speak truly, is an art,
and one of the oldest and greatest and
most human of all the arts.
It is this last quality that we feel in
story telling today, as we see it in America.
Story ,telling is playing a very important
part in the training of our children and
young people.
Teachers are waking up to the power of
the story in the school room. Stanley
Hall, perhaps the greatest of modern educators,
has this to say about story telling:
"Of all the things a successful teacher must
know how to do, the most important,
without any exception, is to tell a good
story."
And: he lays this responsibility most
heavily on the shoulders of those teachers
who dealjwith older or high school students.
Obviously we must not tell the adventure-loving
lad of twelve the same kind
of story that we offer to his five-year-old
sister but well chosen stories told to boys
and girls in their teens may have a greater
effect than we dare to hope.
' Think of all the places where the story
is being warmly welcomed today by listening
boys and girls: In Sunday Schools,
for the most advanced students of Sunday
School methods find in the story their
most valuable ally; in play grounds, for
since, the; superintendent of a big New
york play ground discovered in 1910 that
he could calm restlessness and check quarrels
hy_the telling of a story, story telling
has, made its way into most of the playgrounds
of the country; in libraries, where
the stony hel ps to advertise the books; in
settlements and . hospitals and children's
Homes, (the sad kind with a capital H)
and in many other places.
. Truly, if the value of a story has once
had a chance to assert itself, it can never
again be questioned. No one can doubt
tHe;responsiveness of children to a good
story; then how can we doubt the power
in that very responsiveness—power that
may be-turned into any of a hundred directions?
* ¦
. The question that is often asked, What
tah a story do?us a very hard one to answer,
because some of the most significant
•results are the most intangible. We cannot
attach a barometer to a story- and
measure the. immediate and obvious results
thereof; and if we could , it would be
•as much of an outrage as to try to weigh
•th'e 'dewon the petal of a rose. Yet . it is
part of the story teller's creed to believe
:that, if we give the sto'ry. its own place in
.the heart'and mind of childhood , we are
furnishing the stuff out of which character
,is ma'de. , ' • • . • ¦- -.. - •
¦ There.are, of course, certain 'practical
: and easily recognized results. To mention
just a few of the most apparent: >v
The story can equip a child with facts—
'-'•ts about anything you please—and it
"DO TELL USA STORY" -
Mother, the Artist, Can Paint the Loveliest Pictures on Little Minds
can do this vividly, permanently, and directly.
¦
It can and does help to shape .thought
and language. Beyond question, stories
told in good and simple English remain in
the rriinds of children, often intact as to
phrasing, and have a decidedly curative
effect on their own speech.
An interesting story often stimulates to
reading, through sheer force of curiosity.
It prepares and leads to an appreciation
of the classics; without a background of
myth and legend our loveliest poetry and
prose is shorn of half its beauty. And we
cannot afford' to do without beautiful
things in life—cannot send our children
out so unequi pped with appreciation of
beauty that they will be swallowed up" by
the prosaic and practical.
On the ethical side, the influence of the
story may be a wonderfully potent thing.
From the people in his fairy tales the child
FLORENCE 10NGLEY FOSBROKE
will learn of obedience and kindness; his
heroes will show him the way to bravery.
I have heard of a phlegmatic lad being
made over by the story of the "Message
to Garcia." I well remember how in my
own childhood my mother would be fairly
appalled and greatly mystified by my
goodness for days at a time, but, had she
only known it, the kind and industrious
Brownies of a certain beloved fairy tale
were the prompters in my happy little
play and were behind my every action.
But now I come to my warmest belief
about story telling: that it is, after all, the
mothers and teachers who have by far the
greatest opportunity. 1 am so sorry for
the women who, with their audience ready
at their knee, delegate their story telling
privilege to another, for I know of no lovelier-comradeship
than that the story teller
enjoys with her audience.
One says, "But I can't tell stories, I
ROSE-FRAGRANT MEMORIES
BLANCHE AVERIL STAI7FFER5
I ( A UNT Mary, why do you always have those old-fashioned Hundred
ZA Leaf roses in your room when there are so many so much more
beautiful? There.are Cecile Bruhers and the exquisite La France
Those old Hundred Leafs are homely in comparison with these beauties."
"Ah, but the Hundred Leafs bring memories of many things dear to me.
Their fragrance carries me to other days and scenes."
Margaret caught the dreamy far-away look on Aunt Mary's sweet old
face. "Make me see them!" she whispered. ¦
- "I wonder if I can!" said Aunt Mary. "Well, first is the vision of an old
homely farm, but the most beautiful place in all the world to the Two.
"The dusty yellow road wound down the hill past the lonely pine so
straight and tall, with its plumy tassel of green at the top—the Two called it
the Prince's Feather—then-crossed.the bridge which spanned the laughing
little stream, curved in past the-old grjey house with its drapery of wild cucumbers,
morning glories and nasturtiums.
"It was such an old, old house, built of great pine logs which sixty years
before had stood out there in the pasture in companjrwith the Prince's Feather
—such a comfortable roomy old house, with brown, beams overhead, great
stone fireplace'and many windows. In front are the tall lilac bushes and the
great bed of Hundred Leafs. They cover the knoll and ramble down the
hollow to the spearmint bed next to the drive, and to the clump of rosemary
on the other side near the row of cherry trees. Strangers passing would stop
to gaze, beg for a few blossoms and go away with an armful. Hundred Leafs
were sent with messages of cheer to the sick room, and to the house of sorrow
with tender words of sympathy, they attended funerals, they went to weddings,
and, as corsage bouquets worn by girls of the neighborhood, went to
every country dance. And to the old farm came all these calls for roses—nowhere
else did they grow so large, so fragrant and so pink.
"Let'sfollowtheroadonoutpastthe vegetable garden, past the strawberry
bed, under the drooping branches of the elm. How the orioles love that tree!
Their hanging nests swing from its high branches and lower down, every summer
a cheery robin builds her nest.
"Here we are at the old barn. Isn't it cool and roomy? There are the
gentle horses, Jack and Jim, fat and comfortable. This is Maude, the carriage
horse, and Ruby her frisky colt. Smell the new hay piled in the great bay on
this side of the broad barn floor. Stand in this wide back door and get the
view down across the pasture. See the little brook, gurgling and rollicking
over the stones or deep and still, with minnows flashing their silvery sides up
to the sun. Tall elms, maples and butternuts stand guard along its banks
and love it so that they dip their branches to touch the clear water.
"See where that wild grape has climbed to the top of the thorn bush,,
reached over to the neighbor wild plum tree and made a little arbor between
them. The cattle love the cool spot, trooping up from the pasture on hot
afternoons to stand knee deep in the brook in the shade of the trees.
"The hill pasture is fenced with stumps, remains of the logs of which the
house is built. Woodbine, grape vines and wild buckwheat have twined and
draped themselves about the unsightly old roots and here the birds nest,
"You should see the old bam at night when Scot, the collie, brings the cows
up from the pasture—Bowers, Old Blutcher, Jersey and Bess walking sedately
to the-milking places.
"Then come the sheep, bells tinkling, lambs racing to see which will reach
the barn first. They all sleep out here at the back of the barn. Old Woots,
with her squealing family of pigs is fed, and with many satisfied grunts settles
down for the night. The geese come gabbling Up from the streamin the pasture
to cuddle with sleepy talk under their shelter at the side of the barn.
• "Scot drives in a stray chicken which persists in perching on the rttil pile
instead.of in the comfortable quarters provided for it, ' " ' .
''Th e horses-are turned outand go trotting down the lane. ¦
. "Then\he Two carry the niilk to the house, and when the- cats, Bruiser,
Tramp 'andTJixie, with Scot, have Kid their warm milk, the chores are finished
arid, the Two sit together ih,the twilight on the little porch.
"':." '¦ "-'At last the Two go in at the kitchen door-and then to the roomy, homey
olcl'living room. ; Such a friendly room as this is, especially in winter: .-Suchroaring
fires in the stone fire place, such pop corn, nuts and apples,'' books^to'
read aloud and friends "to gather in the glow of the fire-light, such -stone's arid
visits! Oh, child, do ybti wonder at my loving the old Hundred Leaf roses?"
..*
i
_
don't know how—and I don't know any
to tell."
¦
And another says,. "And the time—oh!
dear, I haven't the time—no time at all
for such things." \
Then a teacher says, "I should love to
do it, you know but I have to teach half
a dozen things already and I really cannot
add anything' else to the list."
Will you let me answer these objections?
For they can all be answered.
In the first place, I will not for a moment
deny that to tell stories well does mean
time and study. Just to choose the right
story means some time, and to learn to
tell it as well as we can means more. But
I hardly know how time could be fetter
spent. I should unreserved ly rate storytelling
as one of the essential home industries.
And , if you will take my word as
a story teller of fifteen years' experience,
story telling riot only means educa tion
and development for those who hear, but
it also means growth and training for
those who tell the tales. Everything that
the story teller can hope to do for the children
about her, she does even more fully
for herself. I have known women who
found freedom from self consciousness and
embarrassment for the first time through
story telling, who learned in this way the
spontaneousness and self forgetfulness that
make for popularity and friendship.
And now as to ability: to be sure, we
cannot all of us be professional story tellers
—we do not want to—but we can be trained
story tellers. The distinction is an Important
one. . ...
The simple human equipment of the
average person is all that is necessary—-a
certain Background of education and good
taste, to be sure; but add to that sincerity,
sympathy, imagination , a fairl y good memory
and , most important of all,[the willingness
to'do some persistent wWk, and
we can so far master the art as to give
great pleasure and profit both to ourselves
and to others.
In this month comes the birthday of
the Greatest Story Teller That Ever Was.
His own birthday story is perhaps the
most beautiful the world has ever heard ;
and around that birthday cluster many
of our most charming legends and tales.
I wish that some who read this might
be prompted to organize a story telling
club among yourselves. There are . illuminating
books to be studied and discussed
; and stories could be told by members,
with much helpful criticism arid
discussion.
Perhaps too, as the members grew more
proficient , they might take charge of a
weekly or monthly story for the children
of the community, as well as telling stories
to their very own.
Do you know the beautiful tribute paid
by Denton Snyder to his story telling
mother? He said of her:
"She would begin with a glow in her eye
and would tell me their stories;
¦
- . ' "' \
All of their legends she knew: by the htwidreds
and hundreds she knew them,£
Tales of the beings divine.
.¦>
And mark: what I as a child picked lip,
the old man still plays with— < .
Images fair of the world and marvellous
• legends aforetime;
All of them living in me as they fell from
the lips of my mother."
In direct contrast to such a gracious
memory are the rather pathetic words of
Edmund Gosse, who tells in his autobiography
of his bleak childhood without
stories. .
"Never in all my life ," he says, ."did
any one address to me the affecting preamble,
'Once upon a time.'. I never knew
the rapture of the child who sits, well
wrapped up, at the niirsery fire, and delays
the hour.of bed time by cajoling one
more story out.of nurse or mother.". . And
he goes on to regret a childhood' wherein
his. parents undoubtedl y tried very hard
to. make him good; but very little to make
¦him happv. . ¦ ' , . . . ' ; ' I
tf we, parents and- teachers., do-not
know the storied- path: or if , .having otlcc
kri'qwn it, we -have somehow lost our way,
let iis try to set our feet upon it agamic
discover, 'for our children 's sake, as .$411
as for our own-,. - . . .., . - . - . ., ;-ij.|
"How short the road to Fairy Lana} 4
Across the purple hill."