d. But beyond this the language should be the teller's own, and
probably never twice the same. Sureness, ease, freedom, and the effect of
personal reminiscence come only from complete mastery. I repeat, with
emphasis: Know your story.

The next suggestion is a purely practical one concerning the preparation
of physical conditions. See that the children are seated in close and
direct range of your eye; the familiar half-circle is the best arrangement
for small groups of children, but the teacher should be at a point
_opposite_ the centre of the arc, _not in_ its centre: thus
[Illustration], not thus [Illustration]; it is important also not to have
the ends too far at the side, and to have no child directly behind
another, or in such a position that he has not an easy view of the
teacher's full face. Little children have to be physically close in order
to be mentally close. It is, of course, desirable to obtain a hushed quiet
before beginning; but it is not so important as to preserve your own mood
of holiday, and theirs. If the fates and the atmosphere of the day are
against you, it is wiser to trust to the drawing power of the tale itself,
and abate the irritation of didactic methods. And never break into that
magic tale, once begun, with an admonition to Ethel or Tommy to stop
squirming, or a rebuke to "that little girl over there who is not
listening." Make her listen! It is probably your fault if she is not. If
you are telling a good story, and telling it well, she can't help
listening,--unless she is an abnormal child; and if she is abnormal you
ought not to spoil the mood of the others to attend to her.

I say "never" interrupt your story; perhaps it is only fair to amend that,
after the fashion of dear little Marjorie Fleming, and say "never--if you
can help it." For, of course, there are exceptional occasions, and
exceptional children; some latitude must be left for the decisions of
good common sense acting on the issue of the moment.

The children ready, your own mood must be ready. It is desirable that the
spirit of the story should be imposed upon the room from the beginning,
and this result hangs on the clearness and intensity of the teller's
initiatory mood. An act of memory and of will is the requisite. The
story-teller must call up--it comes with the swiftness of thought--the
essential emotion of the story as he felt it first. A single volition puts
him in touch with the characters and the movement of the