n aim or end. That the narrator
should clothe his living story in words expressive of its atmosphere,
and that the listener should in this way gain such power over language,
that he, too, can fitly express himself is quite another matter.

First, then, we tell stories because we love to tell them and because
the children love to listen. We choose stories that appeal to our
audience. It is something beautiful, humorous, heroic or witty that we
have found, and being social animals we want to share it. As educators
with an aim before us, we deliberately tell stories in order to place
before our children ideals of unselfishness, courage and truth. We know
from our own experience, not only in childhood, but all through life how
the story reaches our feelings as no sermon or moralising ever does, and
we have learned that "out of the heart are the issues of life." Unguided
feelings may be a danger, but the story does more than rouse
feelings--it gives opportunity for the exercise of moral judgement, for
the exercise of judgement upon questions of right and wrong. Feeling is
aroused, but it is not usually a personal feeling, so judgement is
likely to be unbiassed. It may, however, be biassed by the tone absorbed
from the environment even in childhood, as when the mother makes more of
table etiquette than of kindness, and the child, instead of condemning
Jacob's refusal to feed his hungry brother with the red pottage, as all
natural children do condemn, says: "No, Esau shouldn't have got it,
'cause he asked for it."

As a rule, the children's standard is correct enough, and approval or
condemnation is justly bestowed, provided that the story has been chosen
to suit the child's stage of development. One little girl objected
strongly to Macaulay's ideal Roman, who "in Rome's quarrel, spared
neither land nor gold, nor son nor wife." "That wasn't right," she said
stoutly, "he ought to think of his own wife and children first." She was
satisfied, however, when it was explained to her that Horatius might be
able to save many fathers to many wives and children. In my earliest
teaching days, having found certain history stories successful with
children of seven, I tried the same with children of six, but only once.
Edmund of East Anglia dying for his faith fell very flat. "What was the
good of that?" said one little fellow, "'cause if you're dead you can't
do anything! But if you're alive, you can get more soldiers and win a
victory."