certainly undisciplined.

The first story took ten minutes. When I began a second, a very short one,
the initial work had to be done all over again, for the slight comparative
quiet I had won had been totally lost in the resulting manifestation of
approval.

At the end of the second story, the room was really orderly to the
superficial view, but where I stood I could see the small boy who
deliberately made a hideous face at me each time my eyes met his, the two
girls who talked with their backs turned, the squirms of a figure here
and there. It seemed so disheartening a record of failure that I hesitated
much to yield to the uproarious request for a third story, but finally I
did begin again, on a very long story which for its own sake I wanted them
to hear.

This time the little audience settled to attention almost at the opening
words. After about five minutes I was suddenly conscious of a sense of
ease and relief, a familiar restful feeling in the atmosphere; and then,
at last, I knew that my audience was "with me," that they and I were
interacting without obstruction. Absolutely quiet, entirely unconscious of
themselves, the boys and girls were responding to every turn of the
narrative as easily and readily as any group of story-bred kindergarten
children. From then on we had a good time together.

The process which took place in that small audience was a condensed
example of what one may expect in habitual story-telling to a group of
children. Once having had the attention chained by crude force of
interest, the children begin to expect something interesting from the
teacher, and to wait for it. And having been led step by step from one