inning to take on adult modes of thought and to appreciate and
understand the peculiar language which adults use no matter how young a
child they address! So much for the content of children's stories. And
at best the content is but half.

FORM

If content is but half, form is the other half of stories and not the
easier half, either. Every story, to be worthy of the name, must have
a pattern, a pattern which is both pleasing and comprehensible. This
design, this composition, this pattern, whether it be of a story as
a whole or of a sentence or a phrase, is as essential to a piece of
writing as is the design or composition to a picture. It satisfies the
emotional need of the child which is as essential in real education as
is the intellectual. Without this design, language remains on the
utilitarian level,--where, to be sure, we usually find it in modern
days.

Now what kind of pattern is adapted to a small child,--say a
three-year-old? What kind does he like? More, what kind can he perceive?
Herein the expression as fatally as in the content has the adult shaped
the mould to his own liking. Or rather, the case is even worse. The
adult more often than not has presented his stories and verse to
children in forms which the children could not like because they
literally could not hear them! The pattern, as such, did not exist for
them. But what have we to guide us in creating suitable patterns for
these little children who can help us neither by analysis nor by
articulate remonstrance? We have two sources of help and both of
them come straight from the children. The first are the children's own
spontaneous art forms; the second are the story and verse patterns which
make an almost universal appeal to little children. Even a superficial
study of these two sources,--and where shall we find a thorough
study?--suggests two fundamental principles. They sound obvious and
perhaps they are. But how often is the obvious ignored in the treatment
of children! The first is that the individual units whether ideas,
sentences or phrases must be simple. The second is that these simple
units must be put close together.

As the quickest and most eloquent exemplification of both these
principles I give four stories. The first was told by a little girl of
twenty-two months, a singularly articulate little person,--as she looked
at the blank wall where had hung a picture of a baby (she supposed her
little brother), a cow and a donkey. Th