telling class with the habit formed of suppressing in his reading appreciation of excellence or of beauty. Two students talking together outside of class may do the natural thing; if describing beauty—loveliness of nature, human loveliness, goodness, heroism—they show pleasure in it by smiling lip and softly shining eye; "beauty," as Wordsworth has it, "makes them glad." But nine times out of ten the beginner in story-telling who has prepared the story from a book allows no appreciation of beauty to get into voice or self as he tells, for example, "In olden times, when wishing was having, there lived a king who had beautiful daughters, but the youngest was so lovely that even the sun himself, who has seen so much, marveled whenever he shone in her face." He is not of course to magnify this phrase unduly; he must keep it in proper perspective.
It is astonishing how imperfectly we talk and tell. As indicated before, words as they are uttered represent to the young listener, and, so lively is language, in great degree to the adult also, exactly what the speaker puts into them. If he utters bright dully, he contradicts truth; if he pronounces loved coldly, he robs it of the human warmth of itself; if he mumbles lovely, he dwarfs beauty. To correct wrong habit in speaking, the student of
