e profitable to take up the story of a period and connect it with
a group of interesting persons whose lives affected it or were affected by
it, telling the stories of their lives, or of the events in which they
were concerned, as "true stories." These biographical stories must,
usually, be adapted for use. But besides these there is a certain number
of pure stories--works of art--which already exist for us, and which
illuminate facts and epochs almost without need of sidelights. Such may
stand by themselves, or be used with only enough explanation to give
background. Probably the best story of this kind known to lovers of modern
literature is Daudet's famous _La Derniere Classe_.[1]

[Footnote 1: See _The Last Lesson_, page 238.]

The historical story, to recapitulate, gives a sense of the reality and
humanness of past events, is a valuable aid in patriotic training, and
stirs the desire of emulating goodness and wisdom.

CHAPTER II

SELECTION OF STORIES TO TELL

There is one picture which I can always review, in my own collection of
past scenes, though many a more highly coloured one has been irrevocably
curtained by the folds of forgetfulness. It is the picture of a little
girl, standing by an old-fashioned marble-topped dressing-table in a pink,
sunny room. I can never see the little girl's face, because, somehow, I am
always looking down at her short skirts or twisting my head round against
the hand which patiently combs her stubborn curls. But I can see the
brushes and combs on the marble table quite plainly, and the pinker
streaks of sun on the pink walls. And I can hear. I can hear a low,
wonder-working voice which goes smoothly on and on, as the fingers run up
the little girl's locks or stroke the hair into place on her forehead. The
voice says, "And little Goldilocks came to a little bit of a house. And
she opened the door and went in. It was the house where three Bears lived;
there was a great Bear, a little Bear, and a middle-sized Bear; and they
had gone out for a walk. Goldilocks went in, and she saw"--the little
girl is very still; she would not disturb that story by so much as a loud
breath; but presently the comb comes to a tangle, pulls,--and the little
girl begins to squirm. Instantly the voice becomes impressive, mysterious:
"she went up to the table, and there were _three plates of porridge_. She
tasted the first one"--the little girl swallows the breath she was going
to whimper with, an