elaboration of those. And above all, do not _feel_ hurried.

The next suggestion is eminently plain and practical, if not an all too
obvious one. It is this: if all your preparation and confidence fails
you at the crucial moment, and memory plays the part of traitor in some
particular,--if, in short, you blunder on a detail of the story, _never
admit it_. If it was an unimportant detail which you misstated, pass
right on, accepting whatever you said, and continuing with it; if you
have been so unfortunate as to omit a fact which was a necessary link in
the chain, put it in, later, as skilfully as you can, and with as
deceptive an appearance of its being in the intended order; but never
take the children behind the scenes, and let them hear the creaking of
your mental machinery. You must be infallible. You must be in the secret
of the mystery, and admit your audience on somewhat unequal terms; they
should have no creeping doubts as to your complete initiation into the
secrets of the happenings you relate.

Plainly, there can be lapses of memory so complete, so all-embracing,
that frank failure is the only outcome; but these are so few as not to
need consideration, when dealing with so simple material as that of
children's stories. There are times, too, before an adult audience, when
a speaker can afford to let his hearers be amused with him over a chance
mistake. But with children it is most unwise to break the spell of the
entertainment in that way. Consider, in the matter of a detail of action
or description, how absolutely unimportant the mere accuracy is,
compared with the effect of smoothness and the enjoyment of the hearers.
They will not remember the detail, for good or evil, half so long as
they will remember the fact that you did not know it. So, for their
sakes, as well as for the success of your story, cover your slips of
memory, and let them be as if they were not.