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 halfnaked 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 and intimate part of the exercise. Sometimes they will help you wonderfully.

6.

Make

Use Direct Discourse Whenever Possible. 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.

g.

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.

A

The Bell of Atri

CAPITAL story may be told from one of Longfellow's poems. The incident itself is full of the characteristics which have been mentioned above as necessary for

a good story, and it can be made quite dramatic. If the teller has some humorous power it can be made very amusing. It is not supposed that any person will use the story exactly as it is told here. This is merely an intimation of what may be done. The mere fact of putting it in print makes it too formal, and the restrictions of space prevent indulging in many of the details which suggest themselves to a person who is talking. Moreover, the speaker is able to watch his audience and to tell whether he is pleasing them or not. When he finds a part of the story in which they seem interested, he will naturally enlarge upon that, and when they appear restless or less interested he will hasten his progress to something else. The age and character of the audience make so much difference in the nature of the story which will please them that we can only hope that the following version may assist someone to tell a better tale:

In Italy is a queer little town that rests on a hillside, where it looks very much as though it had

tried to climb up the hill but had struggled along, tired itself out and finally sat down to say, "No matter what happens, I won't climb any farther up this old hill.'

Old King John built a low tower in the marketplace, and on its top, beneath a roof, he hung a loud-sounding bell, and to the bell attached a rope, which hung down to the ground where any man or child might reach it. That was a long time ago so long that nobody remembers anything else the king did or who he really was. But that one act nobody can forget. After his bell was nicely hung and he had tried it to see that it could be rung easily by man or child, the king rode through the town with a long train of knights and servants following him. In front of him there rode a stately herald, who flourished his trumpet from side to side and every few moments sounded upon it a loud and stirring blast. Immediately after, he would cry out in his big, strong voice:

"If any man at any time suffers wrong, let him go into the marketplace and ring the big alarm bell. Forthwith shall the judge come to the marketplace and hear the case, and if he find it just, straightway will he punish the wrongdoers. Thus saith the great King John!"

Now, I can't tell you about the wrongs that were righted, for nobody remembers many of them. But all of Atri remembered the purpose of the bell, and I know it must have been used many, many times, for finally the strands were worn and wasted away, until a man could scarcely touch the rope with the tips of his fingers.

Just about this time there was a miserly old knight living in Atri. Once he had been a gay young man, then a brave warrior and a great hunter with many horses. Now that he was old he had just one passion: he loved gold better than anything else in this world, and was willing to trade everything for it. He sold his houses and his lands, his cattle and all his salable property. The money that he got from these he hid away, spending upon himself only what was necessary to keep him alive. His clothes were of the shabbiest, and no one would think, to look at him, that he was wealthy. He never gave a penny away in charity, but many times, I have no doubt, he envied the beggar the coin that some other person threw to him. He had kept one old horse, principally because it had grown too old to be valuable. Once, though, it had been his favorite, a fine hunter, a noble steed that had carried its master in battle. Now it was nothing but a poor old worn-out nag, entirely useless, but worthy to be cared for the rest of its life because of what it had been. However, the heartless old knight, begrudging even the little food that kept life in the faithful old beast, cruelly turned it out into the street to get a living as best it might. The old horse browsed about, but food was scarce in the village streets, and it was too feeble to go far out into the country. So every day the noble old charger grew weaker and thinner and looked more like the scarecrows that the peasants put in their vineyards.

One morning a villager passing through the