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walkit was such slow work and； besides； he
might meet some big wretched animal that could
run faster than himself。 However； he was
beginning to think that there was no help for it；
when； on a sudden； there before him was the
toadstool； with Sleepy…head snug and dry underneath！
There was room for another little fellow；
thought the elf； and ere long he had safely
bestowed himself under the other half of the
toadstool； which was just like an umbrella。
Sleepy…head slept on； warm and comfortable
in his furry coat； and the elf began to feel
annoyed with him for being so happy。 He
was always a great mischief； and he could not
bear to sit still for long at a time。 Presently
he laughed a queer little laugh。 He had got
an idea！ Putting his two small arms round
the stem of the toadstool he tugged and he
pulled until； of a sudden； snap！ He had broken
the stem； and a moment later was soaring in air
safely sheltered under the toadstool； which he
held upright by its stem as he flew。
Sleepy…head had been dreaming； oh； so cosy
a dream！ It seemed to him that he had
discovered a storehouse filled with golden grain
and soft juicy nuts with little bunches of sweet…
smelling hay； where tired mousies might sleep
dull hours away。 He thought that he was
settled in the sweetest bunch of all； with
nothing in the world to disturb his nap； when
gradually he became aware that something had
happened。 He shook himself in his sleep and
settled down again； but the dream had altered。
He opened his eyes。 Rain was falling； pit…a…pat；
and he was without cover on a wet patch of
grass。 What could be the matter？ Sleepy…
head was now wide awake。 Said he；
〃DEAR ME； WHERE IS MY TOADSTOOL？〃
From these four instances we may； perhaps；
deduce certain general principles of adaptation
which have at least proved valuable to those
using them。
These are suggestions which the practised
story…teller will find trite。 But to others they
may prove a fair foundation on which to build
a personal method to be developed by experience。
I have given them a tabular arrangement below。
The preliminary step in all cases is
Analysis of the Story。
The aim； then； is
to REDUCE a long story or to AMPLIFY a short one。
For the first； the need is
ELIMINATION of secondary threads of narrative；
extra personages；
description；
irrelevant events。
For the second； the great need is of
Realising Imagination。
For both； it is desirable to keep
Close Logical Sequence；
Single Point of View；
Simple Language；
The Point at the End
CHAPTER IV
HOW TO TELL THE STORY
Selection； and； if necessary； adaptationthese
are the preliminaries to the act of telling。 That；
after all； is the real test of one's power。 That
is the real joy； when achieved； the real bugbear；
when dreaded。 And that is the subject of this
chapter； 〃How to tell a story。〃
How to tell a story： it is a short question
which demands a long answer。 The right
beginning of the answer depends on a right
conception of the thing the question is about； and
that naturally reverts to an earlier discussion of
the real nature of a story。 In that discussion it
was stated that a story is a work of art；a message；
as all works of art are。
To tell a story； then； is to pass on the message；
to share the work of art。 The message may be
merely one of humour；of nonsense； even；
works of art range all the way from the 〃Victory〃
to a 〃Dresden Shepherdess；〃 from an
〃Assumption〃 to a 〃Broken Pitcher；〃 and
farther。 Each has its own place。 But whatever
its quality； the story…teller is the passer…on； the
interpreter； the transmitter。 He comes bringing
a gift。 Always he gives； always he bears a
message。
This granted； the first demand of the story…
teller is not far to seek。 No one can repeat a
message he has not heard； or interpret what he
does not understand。 You cannot give； unless
you first possess。 The first demand of the story…
teller is that he possess。 He must FEEL the
story。 Whatever the particular quality and
appeal of the work of art； from the lightest to
the grandest emotion or thought； he must have
responded to it； grasped it； felt it intimately；
before he can give it out again。 Listen； humbly；
for the message。
I realise that this has an incongruous sound；
when applied to such stories as that of the little
pig at the stile or of the greedy cat who ate up
man and beast。 But； believe me； it does
apply even to those。 For the transmittable
thing in a story is the identifying essence； the
characterising savour； the peculiar quality and
point of view of the humour； pathos； or interest。
Every tale which claims a place in good fiction
has this identifying savour and quality； each
different from every other。 The laugh which
echoes one of Seumas McManus's rigmaroles is
not the chuckle which follows one of Joel
Chandler Harris's anecdotes； the gentle sadness
of an Andersen allegory is not the heart
searching tragedy of a tale from the Greek； nor
is any one story of an author just like any other
of the same making。 Each has its personal
likeness； its facial expression； as it were。
And the mind must be sensitised to these
differences。 No one can tell stories well who
has not a keen and just feeling of such emotional
values。
A positive and a negative injunction depend on
this premise；the positive； cultivate your feeling；
striving toward increasingly just appreciation；
the negative； never tell a story you do not feel。
Fortunately； the number and range of stories
one can appreciate grow with cultivation； but
it is the part of wisdom not to step outside the
range at any stage of its growth。
I feel the more inclined to emphasise this
caution because I once had a rather embarrassing
and pointed proof of its desirability；which I
relate for the enlightening of the reader。
There is a certain nonsense tale which a
friend used to tell with such effect that her
hearers became helpless with laughter； but which
for some reason never seemed funny to me。 I
could not laugh at it。 But my friend constantly
urged me to use it； quoting her own success。
At last； with much curiosity and some trepidation；
I included it in a programme before people
with whom I was so closely in sympathy that
no chill was likely to emanate from their side。
I told the story as well as I knew how； putting
into it more genuine effort than most stories
can claim。 The audience smiled politely；
laughed gently once or twice； relapsed into the
mildest of amusement。 The most one could
say was that the story was not a hopeless failure；
I tried it again； after study； and yet again； but
the audiences were all alike。 And in my heart
I should have been startled if they had behaved
otherwise； for all the time I was telling it I was
conscious in my soul that it was a stupid story！
At last I owned my defeat to myself； and put
the thing out of mind。
Some time afterward； I happened to take out
the notes of the story； and idly looked them
over； and suddenly； I do not know how； I got
the point of view！ The salt of the humour was
all at once on my lips； I felt the tickle of the
pure folly of it； it WAS funny。
The next afternoon I told the story to a
hundred or so children and as many mothers；
and the battle was won。 Chuckles punctuated
my periods； helpless laughter ran like an under…
current below my narrative； it was a struggle
for me to keep sober； myself。 The nonsense
tale had found its own atmosphere。
Now of course I had known all along that
the humour of the story emanated from its very
exaggeration； its absurdly illogical smoothness。
But I had not FELT it。 I did not really 〃see the
joke。〃 And that was why I could not tell the
st