picture the scenes for themselves. One element of the dual consciousness
of the tale-teller remains always the observer, the reporter, the quiet
outsider.

I like to think of the story-teller as a good fellow standing at a great
window overlooking a busy street or a picturesque square, and reporting
with gusto to the comrade in the rear of the room what of mirth or sadness
he sees; he hints at the policeman's strut, the organ-grinder's shrug, the
schoolgirl's gaiety, with a gesture or two which is born of an
irresistible impulse to imitate; but he never leaves his fascinating post
to carry the imitation further than a hint.

The verity of this figure lies in the fact that the dramatic quality of
story-telling depends closely upon the _clearness and power with which the
story-teller visualises the events and characters he describes_. You must
hold the image before the mind's eye, using your imagination to embody to
yourself every act, incident and appearance. You must, indeed, stand at
the window of your consciousness and watch what happens.

This is a point so vital that I am tempted to put it in ornate type. You
must _see_ what you _say_!

It is not too much, even, to say, "You must see more than you say." True
vividness is lent by a background of picture realised by the listener
beyond what you tell him. Children see, as a rule, no image you do not
see; they see most clearly what you see most largely. Draw, then, from a
full well, not from a supply so low that the pumps wheeze at every pull.

Dramatic power of the reasonably quiet and suggestive type demanded for
telling a story will come pretty surely in the train of effort along these