etition; each time that the fisherman came to
the water's edge his chagrin and unwillingness were greater, and his
summons to the magic fish mirrored his feeling. The jingle _is_ foolish;
that is a part of the charm. But if the person who tells it _feels_
foolish, there is no charm at all! It is the same principle which
applies to any assemblage: if the speaker has the air of finding what he
has to say absurd or unworthy of effort, the audience naturally tends to
follow his lead, and find it not worth listening to.

Let me urge, then, take your story seriously.

Next, "take your time." This suggestion needs explaining, perhaps. It
does not mean license[A] to dawdle. Nothing is much more annoying in a
speaker than too great deliberateness[A] or than hesitation of speech.
But it means a quiet[A] realisation of the fact that the floor is yours,
everybody wants to hear you, there is time[A] enough for every point and
shade of meaning, and no one will think the story too long. This mental
attitude must underlie proper control of speed. Never hurry. A
business-like leisure is the true attitude of the story-teller.

And the result is best attained by concentrating one's attention on the
episodes of the story. Pass lightly, and comparatively swiftly, over the
portions between actual episodes, but take all the time you need for the
elaboration of those. And above all, do not _feel_ hurried.

The next suggestion is eminently plain and practical, if not an all too
obvious one. It is this: if all your preparation and confidence fails
you at the crucial moment, and memory plays the part of traitor in some
particular,--if, in short, you blunder on a detail of the story, _never
admit it_. If it was an unimportant detail which you misstated, pass
right on, accepting whatever you said, and continuing with it; if you
have been so unfortunate as to omit a fact which was a necessary link in
the chain, put it in, later, as skilfully as you can, and with as
deceptive an appearance of its being in the intended order; but never
take the children behind the scenes, and let them hear the creaking of
your mental machinery. You must be infallible. You must be in the secret
of the mystery, and admit your audience on somewhat unequal terms; they
should have no creeping doubts as to your complete initiation into the
secrets of the happenings you relate.

Plainly, there can be lapses of memory so complete, so all-embracing,
that frank failure is t