In “The Choice of Books” Frederic Harrison has said: “The most useful help to reading is to know what we shall not read, ... what we shall keep from that small cleared spot in the overgrown jungle of information which we can call our ordered patch of fruit-bearing knowledge.”[24]
Now, the same statement applies to our stories, and, having busied myself, during the last chapter, with “clearing my small spot” by cutting away a mass of unfruitful growth, I am now going to suggest what would be the best kind of seed to sow in the patch which I have “reclaimed from the Jungle.”
Again I repeat that I have no wish to be dogmatic, and that in offering suggestions as to the stories to be told, I am only catering1 for a group of normal school-children. My list of subjects does not pretend to cover the whole ground of children's needs, and just as I exclude the abnormal or unusual child from the scope of my warning in subjects to avoid, so do I also exclude that child from the limitation in choice of subjects to be sought, because you can offer almost any subject to the unusual child, especially if you stand in close relation to him and know his powers of apprehension3. In this matter, age has very little to say: it is a question of the stage of development.
Experience has taught me that for the group of
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normal children, almost irrespective of age, the first kind of story suitable will contain an appeal to conditions to which they are accustomed. The reason of this is obvious: the child, having limited experience, can only be reached by this experience, until his imagination is awakened4 and he is enabled to grasp through this faculty5 what he has not actually passed through. Before this awakening6 has taken place he enters the realm of fiction (represented in the story) by comparison with his personal experience. Every story and every point in the story mean more as that experience widens, and the interest varies, of course, with temperament7, quickness of perception, power of visualising and of concentration.
In “The Marsh8 King's Daughter,” H. C. Andersen says:
“The Storks9 have a great many stories which they tell their little ones, all about the bogs10 and marshes11. They suit them to their age and capacity. The young ones are quite satisfied with Kribble, Krabble, or some such nonsense, and find it charming; but the elder ones want something with more meaning.”
One of the most interesting experiments to be made in connection with this subject is to tell the same story at intervals12 of a year or six months to some individual child.[25] The different incidents in the story which appeal to it (and you must watch it closely, to be sure the interest is real, and not artificially stimulated13 by any suggestion on your part) will mark its mental development and the gradual awakening of its imagination. This experiment is a very delicate one, and will not be infallible, because children are secretive and the appreciation14 is often (unconsciously) simulated,
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or concealed15 through shyness or want of articulation16. But it is, in spite of this, a deeply interesting and helpful experiment.
To take a concrete example: let us suppose the story of Andersen's Tin Soldier told to a child of five or six years. At the first recital17, the point which will interest the child most will be the setting up of the tin soldiers on the table, because he can understand this by means of his own experience, in his own nursery: it is an appeal to conditions to which he is accustomed and for which no exercise of the imagination is needed, unless we take the effect of memory to be, according to Queyrat, retrospective imagination.
The next incident that appeals is the unfamiliar18 behaviour of the toys, but still in familiar surroundings; that is to say, the unusual activities are carried on in the safe precincts of the nursery—in the usual atmosphere of the child.
I quote from the text:
“Late in the evening the other soldiers were put in their box, and the people of the house went to bed. Now was the time for the toys to play; they amused themselves with paying visits, fighting battles and giving balls. The tin soldiers rustled19 about in their box, for they wanted to join the games, but they could not get the lid off. The nut-crackers turned somersaults, and the pencil scribbled20 nonsense on the slate21.”
Now, from this point onwards in the story, the events will be quite outside the personal experience of the child, and there will have to be a real stretch of imagination to appreciate the thrilling and blood-curdling adventures of the little tin soldier, namely, the terrible sailing down the gutter22 under the bridge, the meeting with the fierce rat who demands the soldier's passport, the horrible sensation in the fish's body, etc.
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Last of all, perhaps, will come the appreciation of the best qualities of the hero: his modesty23, his dignity, his reticence24, his courage and his constancy: he seems to combine all the qualities of the best soldier with those of the best civilian25, without the more obvious qualities which generally attract first. As for the love-story, we must not expect any child to see its tenderness and beauty, though the individual child may intuitively appreciate these qualities, but it is not what we wish for or work for at this period of child-life.
This method could be applied26 to various stories. I have chosen the Tin Soldier because of its dramatic qualities and because it is marked off (probably quite unconsciously on the part of Andersen) into periods which correspond to the child's development.
In Eugene Field's exquisite27 little poem of “The Dinkey Bird” we find the objects familiar to the child in unusual places, so that some imagination is needed to realise that “big red sugar-plums are clinging to the cliffs beside that sea”; but the introduction of the fantastic bird and the soothing28 sound of the Amfalula Tree are new and delightful29 sensations, quite out of the child's personal experience.
Another such instance is to be found in Mrs. W. K. Clifford's story of Master Willie. The abnormal behaviour of familiar objects, such as a doll, leads from the ordinary routine to the paths of adventure. This story is to be found in a little book called “Very Short Stories,” a most interesting collection for teachers and children.
We now come to the second element we should seek in material—namely, the element of the unusual, which we have already anticipated in the story of the Tin Soldier.
This element is necessary in response to the demand
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of the child who expressed the needs of his fellow-playmates when he said: “I want to go to the place where the shadows are real.” This is the true definition of “Faerie” lands, and is the first sign of real mental development in the child when he is no longer content with the stories of his own little deeds and experiences, when his ear begins to appreciate sounds different from the words in his own everyday language, and when he begins to separate his own personality from the action of the story.
George Goschen says[26]:
“What I want for the young are books and stories which do not simply deal with our daily life. I like the fancy (even) of little children to have some larger food than images of their own little lives, and I confess I am sorry for the children whose imaginations are not sometimes stimulated by beautiful Fairy Tales which carry them to worlds different from those in which their future will be passed.... I hold that what removes them more or less from their daily life is better than what reminds them of it at every step.”
It is because of the great value of leading children to something beyond the limited circle of their own lives that I deplore30 the twaddling boarding-school stories written for girls and the artificially-prepared Public School stories for boys. Why not give them the dramatic interest of a larger stage? No account of a cricket match, or a football triumph, could present a finer appeal to boys and girls than the description of the Peacestead in the “Heroes of Asgaard”:
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“This was the playground of the Æsir, where they practised trials of skill one with another and held tournaments and sham31 fights. These last were always conducted in the gentlest and most honourable32 manner; for the strongest law of the Peacestead was, that no angry blow should be struck, or spiteful word spoken upon the sacred field.”
For my part, I would unhesitatingly give to boys and girls an element of strong romance in the stories which are told them even before they are twelve. Miss Sewell says:
“The system that keeps girls in the schoolroom reading simple stories, without reading Scott and Shakespeare and Spenser, and then hands them over to the unexplored recesses33 of the Circulating Library, has been shown to be the most frivolizing that can be devised.” She sets forward the result of her experience that a good novel, especially a romantic one, read at twelve or fourteen, is really a beneficial thing.
At present many of the children from the elementary schools get their first idea of love (if one can give it such a name) from vulgar pictures displayed in the shop windows, or jokes on marriage culled34 from the lowest type of paper, or the proceedings35 of a divorce-court.
What an antidote37 to such representation might be found in the story of
Hector and Andromache,
Siegfreid and Brunhild,
Dido and Æneas,
Orpheus and Eurydice,
St. Francis and St. Clare.
One of the strongest elements we should introduce into our stories for children of all ages is that which calls forth38 love of beauty. And the beauty should stand out, not necessarily only in delineation39 of noble qualities in our heroes and heroines, but in beauty and strength of language and form.
In this latter respect the Bible stories are of such
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inestimable value—all the greater because a child is familiar with the subject, and the stories gain fresh significance from the spoken or winged word as compared with the mere40 reading. Whether we should keep to the actual text is a matter of individual experience. Professor R. G. Moulton, whose interpretations41 of the Bible Stories are so well known both in England and the States, does not always confine himself to the actual text, but draws the dramatic elements together, rejecting what seems to him to break the narrative42, but introducing the actual language where it is the most effective. Those who have heard him will realise the success of his method.
There is one Bible story which can be told with scarcely any deviation43, and that is the story of Nebuchadnezzar and the Golden Image. Thus, I think it wise, if the children are to succeed in partially44 visualizing45 the story, that they should have some idea of the dimensions of the Golden Image as it would stand out in a vast plain. It might be well to compare those dimensions with some building with which the child is familiar. In London the matter is easy, as the height will compare, roughly speaking, with that of Westminster Abbey. The only change in the text I should adopt is to avoid the constant enumeration46 of the list of rulers and the musical instruments. In doing this, I am aware that I am sacrificing something of beauty in the rhythm,—on the other hand, for narrative purpose, the interest is not broken. The first time the announcement is made, that is, by the Herald47, it should be in a perfectly48 loud, clear and toneless voice, such as you would naturally use when shouting through a trumpet49 to a vast concourse of people scattered50 over a wide plain; reserving all the dramatic tone of voice for the passage where Nebuchadnezzar is
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making the announcement to the three men by themselves. I can remember Professor Moulton saying that all the dramatic interest of the story is summed up in the words “But if Not....” This suggestion is a very helpful one, for it enables us to work up gradually to this point, and then, as it were, unwind, until we reach the words of Nebuchadnezzar's dramatic recantation.
In this connection, it is a good plan occasionally during the story hour to introduce really good poetry which, delivered in a dramatic manner (far removed, of course, from the melodramatic), might give children their first love of beautiful form in verse. And I do not think it necessary to wait for this. Even the normal child of seven (though there is nothing arbitrary in the suggestion of this age) will appreciate the effect—if only on the ear—of beautiful lines well spoken. Mahomet has said, in his teaching advice: “Teach your children poetry: it opens the mind, lends grace to wisdom and makes heroic virtues51 hereditary52.”
To begin with the youngest children of all, here is a poem which contains a thread of story, just enough to give a human interest:
MILKING-TIME.
When the cows come home, the milk is coming,
Honey's made when the bees are humming.
Duck, Drake on the rushy lake,
And the deer live safe in the breezy brake,
And timid, funny, pert little bunny
Winks53 his nose, and sits all sunny.
Christina Rossetti.
Now, in comparing this poem with some of the
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doggerel verse offered to small children, one is struck with the literary superiority in the choice of words. Here, in spite of the simplicity54 of the poem, there is not the ordinary limited vocabulary, nor the forced rhyme, nor the application of a moral, by which the artist falls from grace.
Again, in Eugene Field's “Hushaby Lady,” the language of which is most simple, the child is carried away by the beauty of the sound.
I remember hearing some poetry repeated by the children in one of the elementary schools in Sheffield which made me feel that they had realised romantic possibilities which would prevent their lives from ever becoming quite prosaic55 again, and I wish that this practice were more usual. There is little difficulty with the children. I can remember, in my own experience as a teacher in London, making the experiment of reading or repeating passages from Milton and Shakespeare to children from nine to eleven years of age, and the enthusiastic way they responded by learning those passages by heart. I have taken, with several sets of children, such passages from Milton as “Echo Song,” “Sabrina,” “By the rushy fringed Bank,” “Back, shepherds, back,” from Comus, “May Morning,” “Ode to Shakespeare,” “Samson on his blindness,” etc. I even ventured on several passages from Paradise Lost, and found “Now came still evening on” a particular favourite with the children.
It seemed even easier to interest them in Shakespeare, and they learned quite readily and easily many passages from “As You Like It,” “Merchant of Venice,” “Julius Cæsar”; from “Richard II,” “Henry IV,” and “Henry V.”
The method I should recommend in the introduction
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of both poets occasionally into the Story-hour would be threefold.
First, to choose passages which appeal for beauty of sound or beauty of mental vision called up by those sounds: such as, “Tell me where is Fancy bred,” Titania's Lullaby, “How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank.”
Secondly56, passages for sheer interest of content, such as the Trial Scene from “The Merchant of Venice,” or the Forest Scene in “As You Like It.”
Thirdly, for dramatic and historical interest, such as, “Men at some time are masters of their fates,” the whole of Mark Antony's speech, and the scene with Imogen and her foster-brothers in the Forest.
It may not be wholly out of place to add here that the children learned and repeated these passages themselves, and that I offered them the same advice as I do to all Story-tellers. I discussed quite openly with them the method I considered best, trying to make them see that simplicity of delivery was not only the most beautiful but the most effective means to use; and, by the end of a few months, when they had been allowed to experiment and express themselves, they began to see that mere ranting57 was not force, and that a sense of reserve power is infinitely58 more impressive and inspiring than mere external presentation.
I encouraged them to criticise59 each other for the common good, and sometimes I read a few lines with over-emphasis and too much gesture, which they were at liberty to point out, so that they might avoid the same error.
A very good collection of poems for this purpose of narrative is to be found in:
Mrs. P. A. Barnett's series of Song and Story,
Published by A. and C. Black.
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And for older children:
The Call of the Homeland, Anthology.
Edited by Dr. Scott and Miss Katharine Wallas, Published by Blackie and Son.
Also in a collection published (I believe) in Boston by Miss Agnes Repplier.
Golden Numbers.
(K. D. Wiggin and N. A. Smith).
It will be realised from the scanty60 number of examples offered in this section that it is only a side issue, a mere suggestion of an occasional alternative for the Story-hour, as likely to develop the imagination.
I think it is well to have a good number of stories illustrating61 the importance of common sense and resourcefulness. For this reason I consider that stories treating of the ultimate success of the youngest son are very admirable for the purpose, because the youngest child, who begins by being considered inferior to the elder ones, triumphs in the end, either from resourcefulness, or from common sense, or from some high quality, such as kindness to animals, courage in overcoming difficulties, etc.[27]
Thus we have the story of Cinderella. The cynic might imagine that it was the diminutive62 size of her foot that ensured her success: the child does not realise any advantage in this, but, though the matter need not be pressed, the story leaves us with the impression that Cinderella had been patient and industrious63, forbearing with her sisters. We know that she was strictly64 obedient to her godmother, and in order to be this she
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makes her dramatic exit from the ball which is the beginning of her triumph. There are many who might say that these qualities do not meet with reward in life and that they end in establishing a habit of drudgery65, but, after all, we must have poetic66 justice in a Fairy Story, occasionally, at any rate.
Another such story is “Jesper and the Hares.” Here, however, it is not at first resourcefulness that helps the hero, but sheer kindness of heart, which prompts him first to help the ants, and then to show civility to the old woman, without for a moment expecting any material benefit from such actions. At the end, he does win by his own ingenuity68 and resourcefulness, and if we regret that his trickery has such wonderful results, we must remember that the aim was to win the princess for herself, and that there was little choice left him. I consider the end of this story to be one of the most remarkable69 I have found in my long years of browsing70 among Fairy Tales. I should suggest stopping at the words: “The Tub is full,” as any addition seems to destroy the subtlety71 of the story.[28]
Another story of this kind, admirable for children from six years and upwards72, is “What the Old Man does is always Right.” Here, perhaps, the entire lack of common sense on the part of the hero would serve rather as a warning than a stimulating73 example, but the conduct of the wife in excusing the errors of her foolish husband is a model of resourcefulness.
In the story of “Hereafter—this”[29] we have just the converse74: a perfectly foolish wife shielded by a most patient and forbearing husband, whose tolerance75 and common sense save the situation.
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One of the most important elements to seek in our choice of stories is that which tends to develop, eventually, a fine sense of humour in a child. I purposely use the word “eventually,” because I realise first that humour has various stages, and that seldom, if ever, can you expect an appreciation of fine humour from a normal child, that is, from an elemental mind. It seems as if the rough-and-tumble element were almost a necessary stage through which children must pass—a stage, moreover, which is normal and healthy; but up to now we have quite unnecessarily extended the period of elephantine fun, and though we cannot control the manner in which children are catered76 for along this line in their homes, we can restrict the folly77 of appealing too strongly or too long to this elemental faculty in our schools. Of course, the temptation is strong, because the appeal is so easy. But there is a tacit recognition that horse-play and practical jokes are no longer considered an essential part of a child's education. We note this in the changed attitude in the schools, taken by more advanced educationists, towards bullying78, fagging, hazing79, etc. As a reaction, then, from more obvious fun, there should be a certain number of stories which make appeal to a more subtle element, and in the chapter on the questions put to me by teachers on various occasions, I speak more in detail about the educational value of a finer humour in our stories.
At some period there ought to be presented in our stories the superstitions80 connected with the primitive81 history of the race, dealing82 with the Fairy (proper), giants, dwarfs83, gnomes84, nixies, brownies and other elemental beings. Andrew Lang says:
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“Without our savage85 ancestors we should have had no poetry. Conceive the human race born into the world in its present advanced condition, weighing, analysing, examining everything. Such a race would have been destitute86 of poetry and flattened87 by common sense. Barbarians88 did the dreaming of the world.”
But it is a question of much debate among educationists what should be the period of the child's life in which these stories are to be presented. I myself was formerly89 of opinion that they belonged to the very primitive age of the individual, just as they belong to the primitive age of the race, but experience in telling stories has taught me to compromise.
Some people maintain that little children, who take things with brutal90 logic91, ought not to be allowed the Fairy Tale in its more limited form of the Supernatural; whereas, if presented to older children, this material can be criticised, catalogued and (alas92!) rejected as worthless, or retained with flippant toleration.
Now, whilst recognising a certain value in this point of view, I am bound to admit that if we regulate our stories entirely93 on this basis, we lose the real value of the Fairy Tale element—it is the one element which causes little children to wonder, simply because no scientific analysis of the story can be presented to them. It is somewhat heartrending to feel that Jack94 and the Bean-Stalk and stories of that ilk are to be handed over to the critical youth who will condemn95 the quick growth of the tree as being contrary to the order of nature, and wonder why Jack was not playing football in the school team instead of climbing trees in search of imaginary adventures.
A wonderful plea for the telling of early superstitions to children is to be found in an old Indian Allegory called “The Blazing Mansion96.”
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“An old man owned a large, rambling97 mansion—the pillars were rotten, the galleries tumbling down, the thatch98 dry and combustible99, and there was only one door. Suddenly, one day, there was a smell of fire: the old man rushed out. To his horror he saw that the thatch was aflame, the rotten pillars were catching100 fire one by one, and the rafters were burning like tinder. But inside, the children went on amusing themselves quite happily. The distracted father said: ‘I will run in and save my children. I will seize them in my strong arms, I will bear them harmless through the falling rafters and the blazing beams.’ Then the sad thought came to him that the children were romping101 and ignorant. ‘If I say the house is on fire, they will not understand me. If I try to seize them, they will romp67 about and try to escape. Alas! not a moment to be lost!’ Suddenly a bright thought flashed across the old man's mind. ‘My children are ignorant,’ he said; ‘they love toys and glittering playthings. I will promise them playthings of unheard-of beauty. Then they will listen.’
So the old man shouted: ‘Children, come out of the house and see these beautiful toys! Chariots with white oxen, all gold and tinsel. See these exquisite little antelopes103. Whoever saw such goats as these? Children, children, come quickly, or they will all be gone!’
Forth from the blazing ruin the children came in hot haste. The word ‘plaything’ was almost the only word they could understand.
Then the Father, rejoiced that his offspring was freed from peril104, procured105 for them one of the most beautiful chariots ever seen: the chariot had a canopy106 like a pagoda107: it had tiny rails and balustrades and rows of jingling108 bells. Milk-white oxen drew the
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chariot. The children were astonished when they were placed inside.”
(From the “Thabagata.”)
Perhaps, as a compromise, one might give the gentler superstitions to very small children, and leave such a blood-curdling story as Bluebeard to a more robust109 age.
There is one modern method which has always seemed to me much to be condemned110, and that is the habit of changing the end of a story, for fear of alarming the child. This is quite indefensible. In doing this we are tampering111 with folk-lore and confusing stages of development.
Now, I know that there are individual children that, at a tender age, might be alarmed at such a story, for instance, as Little Red Riding-Hood; in which case, it is better to sacrifice the “wonder stage” and present the story later on.
I live in dread112 of finding one day a bowdlerized form of “Bluebeard” (prepared for a junior standard), in which, to produce a satisfactory finale, all the wives come to life again, and “live happily for ever after” with Bluebeard and each other!
And from this point it seems an easy transition to the subject of legends of different kinds. Some of the old country legends in connection with flowers are very charming for children, and as long as we do not tread on the sacred ground of the Nature Students, we may indulge in a moderate use of such stories, of which a few will be found in the Story Lists.
With regard to the introduction of legends connected with saints into the school curriculum, my chief plea is the element of the unusual which they contain, and an appeal to a sense of mysticism and wonder which
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is a wise antidote to the prosaic and commercial tendencies of to-day. Though many of the actions of the saints may be the result of a morbid113 strain of self-sacrifice, at least none of them were engaged in the sole occupation of becoming rich: their ideals were often lofty and unselfish; their courage high, and their deeds noble. We must be careful, in the choice of our legends, to show up the virile114 qualities rather than to dwell on the elements of horror in details of martyrdom, or on the too-constantly recurring115 miracles, lest we should defeat our own ends. For the children might think lightly of the dangers to which the saints were exposed if they find them too often preserved at the last moment from the punishment they were brave enough to undergo. For one or other of these reasons, I should avoid the detailed116 history of St. Juliana, St. Vincent, St. Quintin, St. Eustace, St. Winifred, St. Theodore, St. James the More, St. Katharine, St. Cuthbert, St. Alphage, St. Peter of Milan, St. Quirine and Juliet, St. Alban and others.
The danger of telling children stories connected with sudden conversions117 is that they are apt to place too much emphasis on the process, rather than the goal to be reached. We should always insist on the splendid deeds performed after a real conversion118—not the details of the conversion itself; as, for instance, the beautiful and poetical119 work done by St. Christopher when he realised what work he could do most effectively.
On the other hand, there are many stories of the saints dealing with actions and motives120 which would appeal to the imagination and are not only worthy121 of imitation, but are not wholly outside the life and experience even of the child.[30]
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Having protested against the elephantine joke and the too-frequent use of exaggerated fun, I now endeavour to restore the balance by suggesting the introduction into the school curriculum of a few purely122 grotesque123 stories which serve as an antidote to sentimentality or utilitarianism. But they must be presented as nonsense, so that the children may use them for what they are intended, as pure relaxation125. Such a story is that of “The Wolf and the Kids.” I have had serious objections offered to this story by several educational people, because of the revenge taken by the goat on the wolf, but I am inclined to think that if the story is to be taken as anything but sheer nonsense, it is surely sentimental124 to extend our sympathy towards a caller who has devoured126 six of his hostess' children. With regard to the wolf being cut open, there is not the slightest need to accentuate127 the physical side. Children accept the deed as they accept the cutting off of a giant's head, because they do not associate it with pain, especially if the deed is presented half-humorously. The moment in the story where their sympathy is aroused is the swallowing of the kids, because the children do realise the possibility of being disposed of in the mother's absence. (Needless to say, I never point out the moral of the kids' disobedience to the mother in opening the door.) I have always noticed a moment of breathlessness even in a grown-up audience when the wolf swallows the kids, and that the recovery of them “all safe and sound, all huddled128 together” is quite as much appreciated by the adult audience as by the children, and is worth the tremor129 caused by the wolf's summary action.
I have not always been able to impress upon the teachers that this story must be taken lightly. A very earnest young student came to me once after I had
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told it, and said in an awestruck voice: “Do you Correlate?” Having recovered from the effect of this word, which she carefully explained, I said that as a rule I preferred to keep the story apart from the other lessons, just an undivided whole, because it had effects of its own which were best brought about by not being connected with other lessons.[31] She frowned her disapproval130 and said: “I am sorry, because I thought I would take The Goat for my Nature Study lesson, and then tell your story at the end.” I thought of the terrible struggle in the child's mind between his conscientious131 wish to be accurate and his dramatic enjoyment132 of the abnormal habits of a goat who went out with scissors, needle and thread; but I have been most careful since to repudiate133 any connection with Nature Study in this and a few other stories in my répertoire.
One might occasionally introduce one of Edward Lear's “Book of Nonsense.” For instance:
There was an Old Man of Cape102 Horn,
Who wished he had never been born;
So he sat in a chair till he died of despair,
That dolorous134 Man of Cape Horn.
Now, except in case of very young children, this could not possibly be taken seriously. The least observant normal boy or girl would recognise the hollowness of the pessimism135 that prevents a man from at least an attempt to rise from his chair.
The following I have chosen as repeated with
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intense appreciation and much dramatic vigour136 by a little boy just five years old:
There was an Old Man who said, “Hush!
I perceive a young bird in this bush!”
When they said, “Is it small?” he replied, “Not at all!
It is four times as big as the bush!”[32]
One of the most desirable of all elements to introduce into our stories is that which encourages kinship with animals. With very young children this is easy, because in those early years when the mind is not clogged137 with knowledge, the sympathetic imagination enables them to enter into the feelings of animals. Andersen has an illustration of this point in his “Ice Maiden”:
“Children who cannot talk yet can understand the language of fowls138 and ducks quite well, and cats and dogs speak to them quite as plainly as Father and Mother; but that is only when the children are very small, and then even Grandpapa's stick will become a perfect horse to them that can neigh and, in their eyes, is furnished with legs and a tail. With some children this period ends later than with others, and of such we are accustomed to say that they are very backward, and that they have remained children for a long time. People are in the habit of saying strange things.”
Felix Adler says: “Perhaps the chief attraction of Fairy Tales is due to their representing the child as living in brotherly friendship with nature and all creatures. Trees, flowers, animals, wild and tame, even the stars are represented as comrades of children. That animals are only human beings in disguise is an axiom in the Fairy Tales. Animals are humanised, that is,
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the kinship between animal and human life is still keenly felt; and this reminds us of those early animistic interpretations of nature which subsequently led to doctrines139 of metempsychosis.”[33]
I think that beyond question the finest animal stories are to be found in the Indian Collections, of which I furnish a list in the Appendix.
With regard to the development of the love of nature through the telling of the stories, we are confronted with a great difficult in the elementary schools, because so many of the children have never been out of the towns, have never seen a daisy, a blade of grass and scarcely a tree, so that in giving, in form of a story, a beautiful description of scenery, you can make no appeal to the retrospective imagination, and only the rarely gifted child will be able to make pictures whilst listening to a style which is beyond his everyday use. Nevertheless, once in a way, when the children are in a quiet mood, not eager for action but able to give themselves up to the pure joy of sound, then it is possible to give them a beautiful piece of writing in praise of Nature, such as the following, taken from The Divine Adventure, by Fiona Macleod:
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“Then he remembered the ancient wisdom of the Gael and came out of the Forest Chapel140 and went into the woods. He put his lip to the earth, and lifted a green leaf to his brow, and held a branch to his ear, and because he was no longer heavy with the sweet clay of mortality, though yet of human clan141 he heard that which we do not hear, and saw that which we do not see, and knew that which we do not know. All the green life was his. In that new world, he saw the lives of trees, now pale green, now of woodsmoke blue, now of amethyst142; the gray lives of stone; breaths of the grass and reed, creatures of the air, delicate and wild as fawns143, or swift and fierce and terrible, tigers, of that undiscovered wilderness144, with birds almost invisible but for their luminous145 wings, and opalescent146 crests147.”
The value of this particular passage is the mystery pervading148 the whole picture, which forms so beautiful an antidote to the eternal explaining of things. I think it of the highest importance for children to realise that the best and most beautiful things cannot be expressed in everyday language and that they must content themselves with a flash here and there of the beauty which may come later. One does not enhance the beauty of the mountain by pulling to pieces some of the earthy clogs149: one does not increase the impression of a vast ocean by analysing the single drops of water. But at a reverent150 distance one gets a clear impression of the whole, and can afford to leave the details in the shadow.
In presenting such passages (and it must be done very sparingly) experience has taught me that we should take the children into our confidence by telling them frankly151 that nothing exciting is going to happen, so that they will be free to listen to the mere words. A very interesting experiment might occasionally be made by asking the children some weeks afterwards to tell you in their own words what pictures were made on their minds. This is a very different thing from allowing the children to reproduce the passage at once, the danger of which proceeding36 I speak of later in detail. (See Chapter on Questions.)
We now come to the question as to what proportion of Dramatic Excitement we should present in the stories for a normal group of children. Personally, I
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should like, while the child is very young (I mean in mind, not in years) to exclude the element of dramatic excitement, but though this may be possible for the individual child, it is quite Utopian to hope we can keep the average child free from what is in the atmosphere. Children crave152 for excitement, and unless we give it to them in legitimate153 form, they will take it in any riotous154 form it presents itself, and if from our experience we can control their mental digestion155 by a moderate supply of what they demand, we may save them from devouring156 too eagerly the raw material they can so easily find for themselves.
There is a humorous passage bearing on this question in the story of the small Scotch157 boy, when he asks leave of his parents to present the pious158 little book—a gift to himself from his Aunt—to a little sick friend, hoping probably that the friend's chastened condition will make him more lenient159 towards this mawkish160 form of literature. The parents expostulate, pointing out to their son how ungrateful he is, and how ungracious it would be to part with his Aunt's gift. Then the boy can contain himself no longer. He bursts out, unconsciously expressing the normal attitude of children at a certain stage of development: “It's a daft book ony way; there's naebody gets kilt en't. I like stories about folk getting their heids cut off, or stabbit through and through, wi' swords an' spears. An' there's nae wile161 beasts. I like Stories about black men gettin' ate up, an' white men killin' lions and tigers an' bears an'——”
Then, again, we have the passage from George Eliot's “Mill on the Floss”:
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“Oh, dear! I wish they would not fight at your school, Tom. Didn't it hurt you?”
“Hurt me? No,” said Tom, putting up the hooks again, taking out a large pocket-knife, and slowly opening the largest blade, which he looked at meditatively162 as he rubbed his finger along it. Then he added:
“I gave Spooner a black eye—that's what he got for wanting to leather me. I wasn't going to go halves because anybody leathered me.”
“Oh! how brave you are, Tom. I think you are like Samson. If there came a lion roaring at me, I think you'd fight him, wouldn't you, Tom?”
“How can a lion come roaring at you, you silly thing? There's no lions only in the shows.”
“No, but if we were in the lion countries—I mean in Africa where it's very hot, the lions eat people there. I can show it you in the book where I read it.”
“Well, I should get a gun and shoot him.”
“But if you hadn't got a gun?—we might have gone out, you know, not thinking, just as we go out fishing, and then a great lion might come towards us roaring, and we could not get away from him. What should you do, Tom?”
Tom paused, and at last turned away contemptuously, saying: “But the lion isn't coming. What's the use of talking?”
This passage illustrates163 also the difference between the highly-developed imagination of the one and the stodgy164 prosaical temperament of the other. Tom could enter into the elementary question of giving his school-fellow a black eye, but could not possibly enter into the drama of the imaginary arrival of a lion. He was sorely in need of Fairy Stories.
It is for this element we have to cater2, and we cannot shirk our responsibilities.
William James says: “Living things, moving things or things that savour of danger or blood, that
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have a dramatic quality, these are the things natively interesting to childhood, to the exclusion165 of almost everything else, and the teacher of young children (until more artificial interests have grown up) will keep in touch with his pupils by constant appeal to such matters as those.”[34]
Of course the savour of danger and blood is only one of the things to which we should appeal, but I give the whole passage to make the point clearer.
This is one of the most difficult parts of our selection, namely, how to present enough excitement for the child and yet include enough constructive166 element which will satisfy him when the thirst for “blugginess” is slaked167.
And here I should like to say that, whilst wishing to encourage in children great admiration168 and reverence169 for the courage and other fine qualities which have been displayed in times of war, and which have mitigated170 its horrors, I think we should show that some of the finest moments in these heroes' lives had nothing to do with their profession as soldiers. Thus we have the well-known story of Sir Philip Sidney and the soldier; the wonderful scene where Roland drags the bodies of his dead friends to receive the blessing171 of the archbishop after the battle of Roncevalles[35]; and of Napoleon sending the sailor back to England. There is a moment in the story of Gunnar when he pauses in the midst of the slaughter172 of his enemies, and says, “I wonder if I am less brave than others, because I kill men less willingly than they.”
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And in the “Njal's Burning” from Andrew Lang's “Book of Romance” we have the words of the boy Thord when his grandmother, Bergthora, urges him to go out of the burning house.
“You promised me when I was little, grandmother, that I never should go from you till I wished it of myself. And I would rather die with you than live after you.”
Here the moral courage is so splendidly shown; none of these heroes feared to die in battle or in open single fight, but to face a death by fire for higher considerations is a point of view worth presenting to the child.
In spite of all the dramatic excitement roused by the conduct of our soldiers and sailors,[36] should we not try to offer also in our stories the romance and excitement of saving as well as taking life?
I would have quite a collection dealing with the thrilling adventures of the Life-Boat and the Fire Brigade, of which I hope to present examples in the final Story List.
Finally, we ought to include a certain number of stories dealing with Death, especially with children who are of an age to realise that it must come to all, and that this is not a calamity173 but a perfectly natural and simple thing. At present the child in the street invariably connects death with sordid174 accidents. I think they should have stories of Death coming in heroic form, as when a man or woman dies for a great cause, in which he has opportunity of admiring courage, devotion and unselfishness; or of Death coming as a result of treachery, such as we find in the death of Baldur, of Siegfried, and of others, so that children may learn to abhor175 such deeds; but also a fair proportion of stories dealing with death that
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comes naturally, when our work is done and our strength gone, which has no more tragedy than the falling of a leaf from the tree. In this way we can give children the first idea that the individual is so much less than the whole.
Quite small children often take Death very naturally. A boy of five met two of his older companions at the school door. They said sadly and solemnly: “We have just seen a dead man!” “Well,” said the little philosopher, “that's all right. We've all got to die when our work's done.”
In one of the Buddha176 stories which I reproduce at the end of this book, the little Hare (who is, I think, a symbol of nervous Individualism) constantly says: “Suppose the Earth were to fall in, what would become of me?”
As an antidote to the ordinary attitude towards death, I commend an episode from a German folk-lore story called “Unlucky John,” which is included in the list of stories recommended at the end of this book.
The following sums up in poetic form some of the material necessary for the wants of a child:
THE CHILD.
The little new soul has come to Earth,
He has taken his staff for the Pilgrim's way.
His sandals are girt on his tender feet,
And he carries his scrip for what gifts he may.
What will you give to him, Fate Divine?
What for his scrip on the winding177 road?
A crown for his head, or a laurel wreath?
A sword to wield178, or is gold his load?
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What will you give him for weal or woe179?
What for the journey through day and night?
Give or withhold180 from him power and fame,
But give to him love of the earth's delight.
Let him be lover of wind and sun
And of falling rain; and the friend of trees;
With a singing heart for the pride of noon,
And a tender heart for what twilight181 sees.
Let him be lover of you and yours—
The Child and Mary; but also Pan,
And the sylvan182 gods of the woods and hills,
And the god that is hid in his fellow-man.
Love and a song and the joy of earth,
These be the gifts for his scrip to keep
Till, the journey ended, he stands at last
In the gathering183 dark, at the gate of sleep.
Ethel Clifford.
And so our stories should contain all the essentials for the child's scrip on the road of life, providing the essentials and holding or withholding184 the non-essentials. But, above all, let us fill the scrip with gifts that the child need never reject, even when he passes through “the gate of sleep.”
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1
catering
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| n. 给养 | |
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cater
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| vi.(for/to)满足，迎合；(for)提供饮食及服务 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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storks
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| n.鹳( stork的名词复数 ) | |
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bogs
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| n.沼泽，泥塘( bog的名词复数 )；厕所v.（使）陷入泥沼， （使）陷入困境( bog的第三人称单数 )；妨碍，阻碍 | |
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marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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articulation
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| n.（清楚的）发音；清晰度，咬合 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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culled
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| v.挑选，剔除( cull的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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antidote
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| n.解毒药，解毒剂 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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delineation
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| n.记述；描写 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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interpretations
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| n.解释( interpretation的名词复数 )；表演；演绎；理解 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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deviation
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| n.背离，偏离；偏差，偏向；离题 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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visualizing
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| 肉眼观察 | |
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enumeration
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| n.计数，列举；细目；详表；点查 | |
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herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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winks
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| v.使眼色( wink的第三人称单数 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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ranting
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| v.夸夸其谈( rant的现在分词 )；大叫大嚷地以…说教；气愤地)大叫大嚷；不停地大声抱怨 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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illustrating
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的现在分词 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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romp
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| n.欢闹；v.嬉闹玩笑 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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browsing
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| v.吃草( browse的现在分词 )；随意翻阅；（在商店里）随便看看；（在计算机上）浏览信息 | |
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subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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catered
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| 提供饮食及服务( cater的过去式和过去分词 )； 满足需要，适合 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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bullying
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| v.恐吓，威逼( bully的现在分词 )；豪；跋扈 | |
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hazing
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| n.受辱，被欺侮v.（使）笼罩在薄雾中( haze的现在分词 )；戏弄，欺凌（新生等，有时作为加入美国大学生联谊会的条件） | |
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superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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83
dwarfs
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| n.侏儒，矮子（dwarf的复数形式）vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的第三人称单数形式） | |
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84
gnomes
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| n.矮子( gnome的名词复数 )；侏儒；（尤指金融市场上搞投机的）银行家；守护神 | |
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85
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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86
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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87
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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88
barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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89
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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90
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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91
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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92
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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93
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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94
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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95
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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96
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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97
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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98
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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99
combustible
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| a. 易燃的,可燃的; n. 易燃物,可燃物 | |
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100
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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101
romping
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| adj.嬉戏喧闹的，乱蹦乱闹的v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的现在分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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102
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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103
antelopes
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| 羚羊( antelope的名词复数 )； 羚羊皮革 | |
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104
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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105
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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106
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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107
pagoda
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| n.宝塔（尤指印度和远东的多层宝塔），（印度教或佛教的）塔式庙宇 | |
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108
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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109
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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110
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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111
tampering
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| v.窜改( tamper的现在分词 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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112
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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113
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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114
virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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115
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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116
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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117
conversions
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| 变换( conversion的名词复数 )； （宗教、信仰等）彻底改变； （尤指为居住而）改建的房屋； 橄榄球（触地得分后再把球射中球门的）附加得分 | |
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118
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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119
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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120
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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121
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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122
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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123
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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124
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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125
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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126
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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127
accentuate
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| v.着重，强调 | |
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128
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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129
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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130
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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131
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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132
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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133
repudiate
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| v.拒绝，拒付，拒绝履行 | |
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134
dolorous
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| adj.悲伤的；忧愁的 | |
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135
pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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136
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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137
clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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138
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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139
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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140
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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141
clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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142
amethyst
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| n.紫水晶 | |
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143
fawns
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| n.（未满一岁的）幼鹿( fawn的名词复数 )；浅黄褐色；乞怜者；奉承者v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的第三人称单数 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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144
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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145
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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146
opalescent
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| adj.乳色的，乳白的 | |
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147
crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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148
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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149
clogs
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| 木屐； 木底鞋，木屐( clog的名词复数 ) | |
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150
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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151
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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152
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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153
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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154
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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155
digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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156
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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157
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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158
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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159
lenient
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| adj.宽大的，仁慈的 | |
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160
mawkish
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| adj.多愁善感的的；无味的 | |
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161
wile
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| v.诡计，引诱；n.欺骗，欺诈 | |
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162
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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163
illustrates
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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164
stodgy
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| adj.易饱的；笨重的；滞涩的；古板的 | |
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165
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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166
constructive
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| adj.建设的，建设性的 | |
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167
slaked
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| v.满足( slake的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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168
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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169
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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170
mitigated
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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171
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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172
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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173
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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174
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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175
abhor
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| v.憎恶；痛恨 | |
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176
Buddha
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| n.佛；佛像；佛陀 | |
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177
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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178
wield
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| vt.行使，运用，支配；挥，使用(武器等) | |
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179
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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180
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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181
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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182
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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183
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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184
withholding
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| 扣缴税款 | |
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