Before a child can read he develops a passion for stories, and nothing delights him more than an interesting tale from the loving lips of father or mother. In good kindergartens and primary schools, there are teachers who tell stories to the little ones and do it well, but parents will not wish to delegate it entirely to teachers, for story-telling is the best way of getting at the hearts of children and planting those germs which later grow into refined taste in reading as well as ripen into real character. On the other hand, the teachers may neglect to tell stories to their pupils or are not skilled either in selection or in manner of telling. Parents who are interested in the welfare of their small boys and girls will wish to know what is being done and how it is accomplished, but may have little idea of the material it is wise to use or where to find good subjects for their tales.

Proper selection is highly important, for taste and appetite for certain kinds of literature may be created long before the child can read for himself. Strong-minded, courageous little boys will love to hear of giants and ogres, and will revel in adventures that may terrify their more delicate sisters. George hates the fierce foes that Jack the Giant-Killer meets, and dreams of the time when he can overpower and slay his own ogres. Alice listens tremblingly, and when she goes to her little bed at night lies in fear and trembling, while hideous faces leer at her from out the shadowed recesses. George never wearies of our oldest poem, Beowulf, while Alice wants only Cinderella, or at most Bluebeard. It is nothing less than cruelty to fill the imaginations of sensitive children with deeds of violence and tales of sadness and woe. Yet it is no less true that some young folks are the better for their giants, their knights and their battles. On the whole, it is wiser to keep the giants, the ogres and the suffering people in the background, or to dwell upon them only when there seems a demand for them; later, lead the young imaginations into the realms of history and real life where giants are very real and ogres yet remain to be subdued. Do not tell sad or exciting stories in the evening. Keep the quiet, peaceful things for bed-time stories.

Here, then, is the great opportunity for the parent. The teacher has thirty or more children of as many different temperaments from homes as varied in culture as the children are different in appearance, and to them she must tell her story as to one. The parent has but his own little flock, whom he has known every day of their lives, and whose souls are as transparent as glass to his watchful and sympathetic eye. How certain may he feel in his selection of material, how powerful in his recital!

Perhaps, however, he may find the pleasant task an unaccustomed one, may have forgotten what he knew as a boy, and may not know where to turn for material. Here these books come to his assistance with material for every taste and suited to every occasion. In the beginning of the first volume are the nursery rhymes which children have enjoyed for ages, which are read, or far better told, to infants who rejoice in the pictures. Between the nursery rhymes and the literature that follows is quite a gap, intentionally left by the editor. There are no pretty little tales in words of one syllable for beginners to read, but there are good fables and stories to be told while the children are learning to read, and later, to be read by the young people themselves. No parent can go astray in selection if he knows his own children.

Do not be afraid to tell the story—reading it aloud will not be half so effective. Select a fable or a short story first. Read it carefully, and then shut the book and think about it. Be sure you have the plot in your mind, make the hero and the other characters seem very real to yourself, picture the scenes vividly in your mind’s eye, and you are ready to begin.

1. Use Your Own Words. Simple words, graphic, commonplace words, are the best. The older children will be just as much entertained, and the younger ones can understand better. On the other hand, do not talk down to their level; they will resent the idea and laugh at you. Keep on their level. That means that you must be sure you know your audience before you begin to talk.

2. Talk Naturally. Forget that you are telling a story for the effect it will produce. Forget yourself. Tell the story as you would tell them an incident you have just seen.

3. Look Your Children in the Eyes. Find the responsive eyes and get your inspiration from them; seek out the dull and uninterested eyes and talk to them till they brighten up and respond to your enthusiasm. Let every child know that many times you have looked him square in the face and make everyone feel you are talking straight at him.

4. Supply Many Details. Children love them; their lives are made up of little things. Don’t think you are ignoring the real story by your additions. The details you give are probably the very ones the author of the original story intended you to supply from your own imagination as you read. Under this head comes the giving of names to characters; descriptions of clothes, of facts, of feelings; the addition of new incidents.

The recital of a bare plot is not an interesting story. For instance: “A boy on his way to school found a yellowbird’s nest with four little birds in it,” is the recitation of a bare plot. Is it interesting? Would the story appeal to children? What do you think of the form following?

“John told me an interesting story this morning. As he was coming to school today he saw a little yellowbird fly from the bushes by the big tree at the corner of Mr. Brown’s yard. He parted the leaves and looked into the bush, but for quite a while he could see nothing. At last, however, he spied a pretty little nest in the fork of a limb and so low that he could look right down into it. John must have made some noise, because when he looked in he saw four little, wide-open red mouths, and that was about all. Of course, there were little half-naked bodies under the gaping mouths, but he couldn’t see them, for each little bird was shaking his head about, stretching it up higher and higher and opening his mouth wider and wider. You see, to each little bird a rustling sound meant that the mother bird had come back with a bit of tasty breakfast in her mouth. When the wee babies found that they had made a mistake they closed their mouths, drew down their heads and packed themselves away so tightly that I’m sure they can’t be cold while their mother is away.”

5. Be Intimate and Personal with Your Audience. Express your opinion now and then as your own; interrupt the story occasionally (not often enough to spoil the interest) by asking for the ideas of the children. Let them guess, sometimes, at the outcome of the story. Make them feel that they are an important part of the exercise. Sometimes they will help you wonderfully.

6. Use Direct Discourse Wherever Possible. Make your characters speak in their own words. Say, “John said, ‘I saw the nest,’” rather than, “John said that he saw the nest.”

7. Keep the Climax Out of Sight as Long as Possible. Curiosity is a large factor in interest, and if the children know “how the story is coming out” you are liable to lose their attention. However, you will find that some stories will prove such favorites to young children that they will call for the tales again and again. Occasionally small children are very particular about the way in which a story is repeated—there must be no deviations from the way in which it was first told. You may congratulate yourself on having told the story well, if the children ask for its repetition; and if they criticise your second telling you may know you did very well in your first attempt.8. Be Enthusiastic; Be Dramatic. Throw yourself into the tale; see what you are describing; feel what your characters feel, and enjoy the story itself. Speak distinctly; use clear, sympathetic tones; speak slowly or rapidly as the action demands, and use pauses effectively. Don’t be in a hurry. See that your face expresses your feelings, that your attitudes are easy and your gestures appropriate and graceful. Act your part.

9. Do not Preach. Tell the story so the moral, if there is any, may be seen and felt without your striving to point it out.

10. Talk the Story Over Freely with Your Children. Try to get their ideas, rather than to give your own. You can tell whether you have succeeded and what your faults in narration have been.

The Fairies of the Caldon-Low

The difference between poetry and prose may be shown in rather a startling manner with such a selection as The Fairies of the Caldon-Low (Volume II, page 395). Children like Mary Howitt’s little narrative, but what does it really say? Let us put it in plain prose and see!

“Where have you been, Mary?”

“I’ve been to the top of Caldon-Low to see the midsummer night.”

“What did you see?”

“I saw the sunshine come down and the winds blow.”

“What did you hear?”

“I heard the water-drops made and the ears of corn fill.”

“Tell me everything, Mary, for you must have seen the fairies.”

“Then take me on your knee, mother, and listen. Last night a hundred fairies danced on lively feet to the merry music of nine harpers, but the merriest thing was the sound of the fairy talk.”

“What did you hear them say?”

“I’ll tell you, but let me do it in my own way. Some rolled water down the hill and said, ‘this will turn the poor old miller’s wheel, and a busy man he will be by morning. There has been no rain since the first of May, and how the jolly old miller will laugh till the tears fill his eyes when he sees the water rise in the milldam.’ And some seized the winds and put horns to their mouths and blew sharply. ‘And there!’ said they shrilly, ‘the merry winds go from every horn to clear the damp mildew from the blind old widow’s corn. Though she has been blind for a long time she’ll be merry enough when the corn stands up stiff and strong without any mildew!’ Then some brought flax seed and flung it down, saying, ‘by sunrise this will be growing in the weaver’s field, and how the poor lame fellow will laugh when he sees his vacant field filled with blue flax flowers in a single day.’ Then a brownie with a long beard spoke, ‘I have spun all the tow and I want more. I have spun a linen sheet for Mary’s bed and an apron for her mother.’ I couldn’t help but laugh out loud, and then I was alone. On the top of Caldon-Low, the mists were cold and gray and I could see nothing but mossy stones lying about me. But as I came down I heard the jolly miller laughing and his wheel going merrily. I peeped into the widow’s cornfield and, sure enough, the golden corn was free from mildew, and at the gate of the croft stood the weaver, whose eye told the good news about his flax field. Now that’s all I heard and all I saw, so please make my bed, mother, for I’m as tired as I can be.”

Rather a pretty story, even in plain prose, is it not? It is re-written just about as it would be told to a little child for the first time, a child interested in the good fairies who do good things for the poor and the suffering. Then a little later, when the child reads for himself he can see how much better Mary Howitt tells the story in verse. Nevertheless, some children will prefer it in prose and often may ask to have other poems “told in prose.” There is no reason for refusing. Story first, poem afterward, is a good rule to follow if you want to create a taste for poetry. Sometimes just a remark, “Let us see how this sounds in poetry,” will create enough interest to enable the parent to begin reading aloud to an attentive audience. Most children will not learn to like poetry if left to their own devices. It must be read aloud to them and its beauties pointed out occasionally to create a love for so artificial a thing as metrical composition.

Parents will find in the General Index at the end of this volume not only reference to the contents of Journeys by title and author, but also a classification of subject matter, so that it will be easy to find different examples of poetry,—lyric, ballad, sonnet,—and of prose,—fiction, adventure, history, etc., offering a wide range of selection for story-telling purposes.

Little Giffin of Tennessee

This little narrative poem (Volume IV, page 461), is intensely dramatic. Too abrupt in style for easy reading and filled with words the children may not understand, it is not well adapted to the very young. But there’s a story in it of courage and deep patriotism that will be an inspiration to every child who can hear it. What better subject can a parent find for his son’s encouragement than a tale told in his own words or read in the following?

Little Giffin of Tennessee was only a boy, only a boy of sixteen, not bigger nor stronger than Charlie, Thomas or George Jones whom you see going by to school every day. Yet he wasn’t running along bareheaded carrying a bat or swinging his books by a strap. Little Giffin was a poor wounded soldier boy who had been already in eighteen battles; more than one, you see, for every year of his short life.

In the last terrible charge, a grape shot had struck him in the leg and arm and torn the flesh from his broken bones. Over him his comrades swept up to the face of the enemy’s guns, and little Giffin was left to fight his battle with cold, and rain and hunger. All night long he lay moaning on the ground, and it was late in the forenoon of the next day when he was found and taken to the hospital.

There they laid his mangled body among the hundreds of others who had met with a fate as hard as his own. It was hours before the surgeons could come to him, and then so hurried were they by other calls upon them that only a hasty dressing of his poisoned wound was possible.

Some kindly visitors found him there, his fair young face flushed with the deadly fever, and begged the surgeons to do something for him.

“We can do nothing,” they said. “Our hands are full. His case is hopeless. We must help where it will do some good.”

“But may we take him with us? May we see what we can do for him? Perhaps we can find a doctor who can cure him.”

“Take him and welcome,” the surgeon replied. “But you can find no doctor who can save the dead. Little Giffin can never get well.”

But the good people lifted the broken form and carried it out from the hospital’s deadly air, into the golden sunshine and away to a clean little cot in a humble home where a good doctor treated him and a kind motherly nurse hung over him and soothed his feverish brain for many a weary hour. For days it seemed that every breath would be his last and for months his sufferings wrung the hearts of his friends.

But at last there came a day when he could sit up a little, and then for weeks he hobbled about, an almost helpless cripple with a rude crutch for his only support.

But his new friends had known that he would get well, for even during the days of burning fever and the weeks of weary recovery his heart had been filled with courage and his steel blue eye had glinted with a dauntless spirit that would not die.

The crippled right arm and mangled fingers were slow in healing and nearly useless when the wounds were closed and only ugly scars remained. In spite of all, though, he learned again to write, and you can imagine that the first letter, in its scraggly writing, began, “My Dearest Mother,” and the next, “Dear Captain.”

Mother’s answer came first and brought warmth and love to the heart of the brave little cripple who dreamed now only of home—home, which he had not dared hope to see again. But then the Captain’s letter came:

“Dear Giffin:

“Your letter reached me tonight. God bless you, my boy. I thought you were gone with the others. Of the eighty-five who made that fatal charge only you and I are now alive. They say that Johnston is hard pressed and needs every man——”

Little Giffin never finished reading the letter. He was up and ready to start away to the front, to his Captain and to Johnston.

“Johnston needs every man,” he said, as the first tears he had shed came to his brave blue eyes. “He needs every man and I’ll be some help. I’ll write to you, if I’m spared. Good bye. God bless you, kindest of friends.”

He was gone. Long his friends waited for word from Giffin, little Giffin of Tennessee. But there came only the news of a terrible battle with Johnston, where indeed every man was needed.

And little Giffin? Little Giffin never wrote.

But I’d rather have one loyal Giffin, in a nameless grave on a southern battle field, than all the cowardly men who would fawn around me if I were a king.Now I’ll read you a little poem which tells better than I can the story of brave little Giffin of Tennessee.

The Ballad of Agincourt

By telling the story and giving some explanation of difficult terms, we are often able to create an interest in poems that would otherwise remain unread. The best of old English ballads are so full of martial spirit that they may well prove an inspiration to many a boy in these days when war has so recently rent the whole world and proved the courage of our own young men. Back of the action that brought bloodshed and suffering is a spirit of loyalty, a genuine patriotism that is as much needed now as when it animated the souls of the British soldiery in those days of long ago. It is part of our inheritance, and may not be forgotten. It is to be hoped that we may never need it again amid the smoke and carnage of the battlefield, or in the silent horror of the trenches, but we have each for himself conflicts to wage with foes more insidious than the armed forces of rival nations, and we can win them only by the same spirit of devotion that brought victory at Agincourt. The Ballad of Agincourt (Volume V, page 95), is followed by notes that make clear its historical setting, but a few comments may help to a better appreciation of the inspirational value of the selection.

It is natural that in verses written about three hundred years ago there should be found some crudities in style, some lapses in syntax, and not a few words strange to us or having a meaning somewhat different from their present significance. Among such lapses in syntax we find the slight confusion of tenses in the first stanza, caused in the poet’s mind by the necessity of making a rhyme for France, though this might have been obviated by writing “stands” for “stood” and using the present tense throughout. The necessities of rhyme troubled Drayton not a little: he must pronounce “Agincourt” as it is written to rhyme with “sort,” which, by the way, is not a perfect rhyme for “fort” in the sixth stanza, and “great” does not rhyme with “seat” nor “feat”; in the seventh, “rear,” “there” and “were” do not rhyme; other instances are easily found. Of words not now familiar, or used in an unfamiliar sense, the following are examples: We do not frequently speak of the wind “standing” in a certain direction; we do not often “advance” our sails nor “prove” our chance; “vaward” and “bilboes” are old words; “ding” in the sense used here has long been forgotten; of “archery” except as a sport we know nothing; “Spanish yew” is no longer valuable for bows, and few can tell how long a “clothyard” (the English ell, 45 inches long) is, or whether it differs from any other “yard” as a measure of length.

If the things just mentioned are defects they are of little moment and add to the quaintness of the verses without detracting from their force. Anyone who reads for inspiration and for his own betterment puts aside the critical spirit, places himself in the position of the writer, harmonizes thoughts and reads for the message without much concern for the medium. But there are force, action, rhythm, clearness and beauty in this old ballad. Let us see what we can find without carrying analysis to the point where it destroys the spirit. All we need is an understanding of the meaning of the sentences and an expressive reading aloud. The former, we can supply here, the latter the reader must contribute. Poetry must be read aloud to be appreciated by any but those who can listen to their thoughts and hear the words their eyes garner from the printed page. Such readers are few.

Here is the paraphrase that makes the meaning clear.

With a wind blowing straight for France the English soldiery spread their sails to try one more campaign against their ancient enemies. Crossing the open sea they landed at the mouth of the Seine river, following King Henry and his noble courtiers.

There was fighting all the way, and many a strongly garrisoned fort was taken, to the joy of all the English. Every day had its skirmish with the French, who stoutly defended the way to Agincourt where lay their commander with all his great army of fifty thousand men. Here the Frenchman sent to King Henry the sarcastic message: “You are going to your doom. Better get your ransom ready before you advance further.” To this insult the English king made no answer, but an angry smile that foreshadowed the fall of his vile opponents flashed from his eyes.

Turning to his men, however, the brave king spoke: “Don’t be alarmed if they do outnumber us ten to one. We have begun nobly. Battles so bravely won as these we have fought, have always been lauded to the skies. Your fame shall never die. And as for myself, this is my task. I shall not ask England to mourn for me nor to praise me. If I am not victor here, or if I am slain, never shall she be asked for one penny to redeem me. From the great battles of Poitiers and Cressy we learn that when the French were the most swollen with pride they fell beneath our swords. Our skill is none the less than that of those who fought under our great grandsire when he defeated the French and cut their national emblems to the ground.”

What a battle array it was! The vanguard was led by the dread Duke of York; the king himself in the midst of his brave guards sped in the center with the main body of the troops, while the valiant rearguard was captained by Excester, courageous as any man in the great army.

And now the fight begins! Armour on armour shines; drum now to drum does groan,—to hear is wonder; that, with the cries they make, shakes the very earth; trumpet to trumpet speaks, thunder to thunder.

From the ambuscade of our hidden forces the noble Erpingham gives the signal for the English archers to fire. Now like a storm the cloth-yard-long arrows sped by the strong bows of Spanish yew strike the French horses, stinging them like serpents through the withers. Every bowman stands to his place, not one deserting; every true English heart rejoices in the slaughter.

Down go the bows when the arrows are shot, out spring the great swords, as the English fly on the French, not one laggard in the company; straight from their shoulders spring the blows that cleave the heads of the French peasants and drop them in the dust of trampling feet.

Meantime the noble king, brandishing his broad-sword, dashes along the French line as though to overwhelm it with his mighty blows, while many a wound sheds blood on his arms and many a cruel dint sinks into his helmet.

The good duke Glo’ster, next of the royal blood, fights side by side with his brave brother, and the youthful Clarence in this almost the first of his battles fights as furiously as any experienced knight; Warwick wades in blood, and Oxford adds to the cruel slaughter of the foe. Suffolk plies his axe manfully while Beaumont, Willoughby, Ferrers and Fanhope, names for the English to conjure with, bear themselves as bravely.

Let us take, as a final example, Browning’s poem HervÉ Riel (Volume VIII, page 168). We will set about the preparation of it together. First we will read the note and then the poem. * * * It is a stirring thing, a noble monument to a noble man. It is worth the telling. We will read through it again and mark the passages that contain the incidents that make the story, so that we may not have to hesitate for ideas after we begin to talk. * * * Really, the plot is more simple than we thought. It is merely this: “The French fleet, defeated by the English, arrives off the harbor of Saint Halo. They call for pilots, but none will try to conduct the big ships through the dangerous channel, and the captains decide to wreck and burn their ships, so the English may not capture them. Just at this time a simple Breton sailor offers to pilot the vessels through, under penalty of death. The commander puts him in charge of the fleet and he takes them safely into the harbor. The English arrive just too late to do any damage, and the French commander, grateful to his deliverer, offers him any reward he may wish. The Breton laughs and asks for one day’s leave to go and visit his wife who lives near by.”

Let us consider the persons. Evidently HervÉ Riel is the only one we need mention by name. We could give him a simpler name, but if the story is true, everyone ought to remember him. We must try to make him seem alive. We must make his deed seem great and must make a point of his patriotic devotion and of his beautiful love for his wife.

Now we are ready to talk, as soon as we have thought a little and assured ourselves that we are in the right spirit. So, facing our audience of small children, we begin:

I’ve just been reading HervÉ Riel, a story that I like so much I must tell it to you. A long time ago, before there was a (name your town), really before there was a United States, there was a long war across the ocean between the great nations, England and France. There had been a bloody battle between their navies, and the French had been beaten. Still twenty-two of their ships escaped, sailed to their own country and arrived outside the harbor of Saint Malo. But they were not safe, by any means. The English were close behind and could soon overtake and capture or destroy all the French vessels, and put to death many of their crews. Inside the harbor the French knew they would be safe, for no English vessel could get through the long, crooked channels without a pilot, and no Frenchman would lead the English.

Without even waiting to anchor, the captains made signals for pilots and many skilled ones came off to the ships. When the pilots heard that the French were crippled and must get into the harbor they laughed at the captains.

“Go through there now?” they said. “Why, you can’t do it. Don’t you see it’s low tide and the rocks are showing everywhere? The channel is crooked and very dangerous at high water and now you could not get your smallest ship through safely, let alone such a large ship as the Formidable here, with her ninety-two big guns. It can’t be done.”

Nothing could change the minds of the pilots. They knew their business thoroughly. So the captains met to decide what they should do. The commander addressed them, saying:

“The English are at our heels. What shall we do? Do you want them to tow us all, one behind the other, back to their country to become their prizes? Not I. Better run all the ships aground, set fire to them, and escape ourselves if we can.”

The brave captains all looked at their commander. Every man shut his teeth together, set his brows, and with flashing eyes said, “Speak the word; we will obey.”

But the commander never gave his order! Right into the excited group stepped a man; not a captain, not even a second mate; just a plain, simple sailor who lived near Saint Malo. He had not even joined the fleet of his own will, but had been seized and carried on board long before the battle, because the navy was short of sailors. You might think he would want revenge for being taken away from his home and his fishing. Did he? At first he was too much excited to speak, but in a moment he stormed out:

“What’s the matter with you pilots? Are you mad, or fools, or cowards, or have the English bought you body and soul? Don’t talk to me of rock and shallow places and crooked channels! Haven’t I sailed these waters for years, and don’t I know every shallow place, every dangerous turn, every inch of the way? You cowards! There’s a way through, I tell you.”

Then HervÉ Riel turned to the commander and shouted, “Put me in charge of this ship, the biggest, this Formidable, and I’ll steer her through. Make the others follow me closely. They’ll all come safely in. Try me; I’ll do it. I haven’t much to offer for the chance, but if this ship so much as touches her keel on a hidden rock, you may cut off my head. Let me try, sir.”

The commander replied, “We have not a second to spare. You’re admiral here! Take the helm and lead us through!”

HervÉ Riel was as prompt as the commander, and seizing the tiller, he soon had the great ship sailing along under perfect control. She went into the narrow channel, with the great rocks high on both sides. The waves beat up angrily and the breakers threw their spray high over the decks. With eyes fixed on the channel and both hands on the helm, he guided the staunch vessel on the winding course. Time and again it seemed as though she must be wrecked, but just at the moment of greatest danger HervÉ Riel shifted the helm, and the stately ship moved safely on. With hearts beating high, the officers watched the wonderful deed, and the frightened sailors clung speechless to the rail. Finally, between two great rocks that seemed to block the channel completely, the ship sailed majestically into the harbor, and HervÉ Riel had kept his promise. Not once had the great Formidable touched her keel to a rock; not a scratch, except the battle scars, marred her fair sides.

After her, one by one, came the other ships of the squadron, till all were anchored safely in the harbor. Just as the last ship came to anchor, the English fleet, coming up in helpless anger, began to throw shells across the passage. The French, however, were out of range and could laugh at the fruitless attempts of their enemy. With one voice the captains and sailors of the rescued fleet shouted, “HervÉ Riel! HervÉ Riel! Now, let the king of France reward the man who has saved his fleet!”

And what of the brave sailor? He stood calm and quiet without a gleam of pride in his frank blue eyes. Just the same man as he was before his gallant deed, he answered the commander’s call and stood before him.

“My friend,” began the commander, “I can scarcely speak, but you know praise comes from the heart and not from the lips. You have saved the fleet from certain destruction and have preserved the lives of many of your countrymen. No reward is too great for you. Ask what you will and it shall be granted.”

HervÉ Riel’s blue eyes danced with merriment as he said, “Now that my work is over I would like, if I may have it, one whole day to visit my wife, whom I call ‘Beautiful Aurora,’ and who lives just a little way from Saint Malo. That is all I want. May I go?”

You can imagine whether or not his request was granted.

Now, do you know, that brave act was forgotten; HervÉ Riel was forgotten for many centuries. No monument was erected to his memory; there seemed nothing to keep the patriotic man alive in the hearts of his countrymen. But one day, not so many years ago, Robert Browning, the great English poet, heard the story, and he was so moved by the heroic deed and the quiet humor of the man, that he wrote a fine, manly poem and called it HervÉ Riel, so that it should remain as a monument to the patriotism and character of the simple French sailor.

If the children are older and studying history, we would give more of an idea of the place, and of the occasion and show what the effect of saving the ship really was. The poem is an excellent one, but most children do not care for it till they have heard the story and have studied the text. Then they are delighted with it and will read it again and again. It has been many years since the writer of this first read HervÉ Riel, but he has never wearied of it and cannot read it now without a thrill of admiration for the hero and for Browning’s monument.

When you tell the story, do not try to tell it as this has been told. Use your words, select for emphasis the parts that appeal to you and give the children just the ideas that you have conceived.

Other classics that will make just as good subjects for story telling are in every volume of Journeys. The following list contains only a few of them. By adapting them to the age of the young listeners, almost any of them may be made suitable for almost any age: