lines; it follows the clear concept and sincerity in imparting it, and is
a natural consequence of the visualising imagination.

It is inextricably bound up, also, with the causes and results of the
quality which finds place in my final injunction, to tell your story _with
zest_. It might almost be assumed that the final suggestion renders the
preceding one superfluous, so direct is the effect of a lively interest on
the dramatic quality of a narration; but it would not of itself be
adequate; the necessity of visualising imagination is paramount. Zest is,
however, a close second to this clearness of mental vision. It is entirely
necessary to be interested in your own story, to enjoy it as you tell it.
If you are bored and tired, the children will soon be bored and tired,
too. If you are not interested your manner cannot get that vitalised
spontaneity which makes dramatic power possible. Nothing else will give
that relish on the lips, that gusto, which communicates its joy to the
audience and makes it receptive to every impression. I used to say to
teachers, "Tell your story with all your might," but I found that this by
a natural misconception was often interpreted to mean "laboriously." And
of course nothing is more injurious to the enjoyment of an audience than
obvious effort on the part of the entertainer. True zest can be--often
is--extremely quiet, but it gives a savour nothing else can impart.

"But how, at the end of a hard morning's work, can I be interested in a
story I have told twenty times before?" asks the kindergarten or primary
teacher, not without reason.

There are two things to be said. The first is a reminder of the wisdom of
choosing stories in which you originally have interest; and of having a
store large enough to permit variety. The second applies to those
inevitable times of weariness which attack the most interested and