A few members of the class had prepared
the story of "The Fisherman and
his Wife." The first girl called on was
evidently inclined to feel that it was rather
a foolish story. She tried to tell it well,
but there were parts of it which produced
in her the touch of shamefacedness to
which I have referred.
When she came to the rhyme,--
"O man of the sea, come, listen to me,
For Alice, my wife, the plague of my life,
Has sent me to beg a boon of thee,"
she said it rather rapidly. At the first
repetition she said it still more rapidly; the
next time she came to the jingle she said it
so fast and so low that it was unintelligible;
and the next recurrence was too much for
her. With a blush and a hesitating smile
she said, "And he said that same thing,
you know!" Of course everybody laughed,
and of course the thread of interest and
illusion was hopelessly broken for everybody.
Now, any one who chanced to hear Miss
Shedlock tell that same story will remember
that the absurd rhyme gave great opportunity
for expression, in its very repetition;
each time that the fisherman came to the
water's edge his chagrin and unwillingness
was greater, and his summons to the magic
fish mirrored his feeling. The jingle IS
foolish; that is a part of the charm. But if
the person who tells it FEELS foolish, there
is no charm at all! It is the same principle
which applies to any address to any
assemblage: if the speaker has the air of
finding what he has to say absurd or
unworthy of effort, the audience naturally
tends to follow his lead, and find it not
worth listening to.
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