may or may not have added a fact to the content of their minds; she
has inevitably added something to the vital powers of their souls. She has
given a wholesome exercise to the emotional muscles of the spirit, has
opened up new windows to the imagination, and added some line or colour to
the ideal of life and art which is always taking form in the heart of a
child. She has, in short, accomplished the one greatest aim of
story-telling,--to enlarge and enrich the child's spiritual experience,
and stimulate healthy reaction upon it.

Of course this result cannot be seen and proved as easily and early as can
the apprehension of a fact. The most one can hope to recognise is its
promise, and this is found in the tokens of that genuine pleasure which is
itself the means of accomplishment. It is, then, the signs of right
pleasure which the story-teller must look to for her guide, and which it
must be her immediate aim to evoke. As for the recognition of the
signs,--no one who has ever seen the delight of a real child over a real
story can fail to know the signals when given, or flatter himself into
belief in them when absent.

Intimately connected with the enjoyment given are two very practically
beneficial results which the story-teller may hope to obtain, and at least
one of which will be a kind of reward to herself. The first is a
relaxation of the tense schoolroom atmosphere, valuable for its refreshing
recreative power. The second result, or aim, is not so obvious, but is
even more desirable; it is this: story-telling is at once one of the
simplest and quickest ways of establishing a happy relation between
teacher and children, and one of the most effective methods of forming the
habit of fixed attention in the latter.

If you have never seen an indifferent child aroused or a hostile one
conquered to affection by a beguiling tale, you can hardly appreciate the
truth of the first statement; but nothing is more familiar in the
story-teller's experience. An amusing, but--to me--touching experience
recently reaffirmed in my mind this power of the story to establish
friendly relations.

My three-year-old niece, who had not seen me since her babyhood, being
told that Aunt Sara was coming to visit her, somehow confused the expected
guest with a more familiar aunt, my sister. At sight of me, her rush of
welcome relapsed into a puzzled and hurt withdrawal, which yielded to no
explanations or proffers of affection. All the first