Selection, and, if necessary, adaptation--these are the preliminaries to
the act of telling. That, after all, is the real test of one's power. That
is the real joy, when achieved; the real bugbear, when dreaded. And that
is the subject of this chapter, "How to tell a story."

How to tell a story: it is a short question which demands a long answer.
The right beginning of the answer depends on a right conception of the
thing the question is about; and that naturally reverts to an earlier
discussion of the real nature of a story. In that discussion it was stated
that a story is a work of art,--a message, as all works of art are.

To tell a story, then, is to pass on the message, to share the work of
art. The message may be merely one of humour,--of nonsense, even; works of
art range all the way from the "Victory" to a "Dresden Shepherdess," from
an "Assumption" to a "Broken Pitcher," and farther. Each has its own
place. But whatever its quality, the story-teller is the passer-on, the
interpreter, the transmitter. He comes bringing a gift. Always he gives;
always he bears a message.

This granted, the first demand of the story-teller is not far to seek. No
one can repeat a message he has not heard, or interpret what he does not
understand. You cannot give, unless you first possess. The first demand of
the story-teller is that he possess. He must _feel_ the story. Whatever
the particular quality and appeal of the work of art, from the lightest to
the grandest emotion or thought, he must have responded to it, grasped it,
felt it intimately, before he can give it out again. Listen, humbly, for
the message.

I realise that this has an incongruous sound, when applied to such stories
as that of the little pig at the stile or of the greedy cat who ate up man