guiding the movement of the little drama, suggesting side issues and
polishing the details, always keeping a careful eye on the Beetle,
that he might "gang his ain gait" and preserve to the full his own
individuality.

There is a tendency in preparing stories to begin with detail work,
often a gesture or side issue which one has remembered from hearing a
story told, but if this is done before the contemplative period, only
scrappy, jerky and ineffective results are obtained, on which one
cannot count for dramatic effects. This kind of preparation reminds
one of a young peasant woman who was taken to see a performance of
"Wilhelm Tell," and when questioned as to the plot could only sum it
up saying, "I know some fruit was shot at."[10]

I realize the extreme difficulty teachers have to devote the necessary
time to perfecting the stories they tell in school, because this is
only one of the subjects they have to teach in an already over-crowded
curriculum. To them I would offer this practical advice: Do not be
afraid to repeat your stories.[11] If you do not undertake more than
seven stories a year, chosen with infinite care, and if you repeated
these stories six times during the year of forty-two weeks, you would
be able to do artistic and, therefore, lasting work; you would also be
able to avoid the direct moral application, for each time a child
hears a story artistically told, a little more of the meaning
underlying the simple story will come to him without any explanation
on your part. The habit of doing one's best instead of one's second-
best means, in the long run, that one has no interest except in the
preparation of the best, and the stories, few in number, polished and
finished in style, will have an effect of which one can scarcely
overstate the importance.