down the flue into the fire, and died a victim to his disobedience.
The person who told the story thought it necessary to embellish it
from his own imagination. 'That's not right,' said the child at the
first change which was made, 'the mother said this and did that.' His
cousin, not remembering the story word for word, was obliged to have
recourse to invention to fill up gaps. But the child could not stand
it. He slid down from his cousin's knees, and with tears in his eyes,
and indignant gestures, exclaimed, 'It's not true! The little bird
said, coui, coui, coui, coui, before he fell into the fire, to make
his mother hear; but the mother did not hear him, and he burnt his
wings, his claws, and his beak, and he died, poor little bird.' And
the child ran away, crying as if he had been beaten. He had been worse
than beaten; he had been deceived, or at least he thought so; his
story had been spoiled by being altered." So seriously do children for
a long time take fiction for reality.

If you find the attention of the children wandering, you can
frequently win it gently back by showing some object illustrative of
your story, by drawing a hasty sketch on a blackboard, or by questions
to the children. You sometimes receive more answers than you bargained
for; sometimes these answers will be confounded with the real facts;
and sometimes they will fall very wide of the mark.

I was once telling the exciting tale of the Shepherd's Child lost in
the mountains, and of the sagacious dog who finally found him. When I
reached the thrilling episode of the search, I followed the dog as he
started from the shepherd's hut with the bit of breakfast for his
little master. The shepherd sees the faithful creature, and seized by
a sudden inspiration follows in his path. Up, up the mountain sides
they climb, the father full of hope, the mother trembling with fear.