a number of tests, made
when one is thoroughly rested, at ease, and alone. Find out where your
voice lies when it is left to itself, under favorable conditions, by
reading something aloud or by listening to yourself as you talk to an
intimate friend. Then practise keeping it in that general range,
unless it prove to have a distinct fault, such as a nervous sharpness,
or hoarseness. A quiet voice is good; a hushed voice is abnormal. A
clear tone is restful, but a loud one is wearying.

Perhaps the common-sense way of setting a standard for one's own voice
is to remember that the purpose of a speaking voice is to communicate
with others; their ears and minds are the receivers of our tones. For
this purpose, evidently, a voice should be, first of all, easy to hear;
next, pleasant to hear; next, susceptible of sufficient variation to
express a wide range of meaning; and finally, indicative of personality.

Is it too quixotic to urge teachers who tell stories to little children
to bear these thoughts, and better ones of their own, in mind? Not, I
think, if it be fully accepted that the story hour, as a play hour, is
a time peculiarly open to influences affecting the imitative faculty;
that this faculty is especially valuable in forming fine habits of
speech; and that an increasingly high and general standard of English
speech is one of our greatest needs and our most instant opportunities
in the American schools of to-day.

And now we come to the stories!

STORIES TO TELL TO CHILDREN

TWO LITTLE RIDDLES IN RHYME[1]

[1] These riddles were taken from the Gaelic, and are charming
examples of the naive beauty of the old Irish, and of Dr. Hyde's
accurate and sympathetic modern rendering. From "Beside the Fire"
(David Nutt, London).

There's a garden that I ken,
Full of little gentlemen;
Little caps of blue they wear,
And green ribbons, very fair.
(Flax.)

From house to house he goes,
A messenger small and slight,
And whether it rains or snows,
He sleeps outside in the night.
(The path.)

THE LITTLE PINK ROSE

Once there was a little pink Rosebud, and she lived down in a little
dark house under the ground. One day she was sitting there, all by
herself, and it was very still. Suddenly, she heard a little TAP, TAP,
TAP, at the door.

"Who is that?" she said.

"It's the Rain, and I want to come in;" said a soft, sad, little voice.

"No, you can't come in," the little Roseb