Outside of a
therapeutic
setting, when four-, five-, and six-year-olds
are asked to tell a story, their choice may well be a traditional folktale.
are asked to tell a story, their choice may well be a traditional folktale.
Childens - Folklore
" See
Hullum 1972-73 and Brown 1973.
14. Though children learn most of their riddles from other children and, to a
lesser extent, from adults, important popular-culture riddle resources include books,
magazines, television programs, and artifactual material such as bubble gum wrap-
pers and "Dixie" riddle cups.
15. McDowell (1979, 33-37, 59-66) uses "descriptive routine" as a catch term
for a variety of spontaneously generated routines. I restrict the term to routines based
on the technique of description only, or primarily such.
16. Between 1973 and 1976, the University of Texas Children's Folklore Project
collected and investigated a range of folkloric forms used by Anglo, Mexican Ameri-
can, and black five- through eight-year-olds in Austin, Texas. Work produced by project
members is reviewed in Bauman 1977b, 1982.
17. Description phrased in the first person is sometimes found in true riddles.
Such riddles were occasionally used by the older children in Weiner's sample:
The strongest man in the world can't hold me long,
yet I am lighter than a feather. What am I?
-breath. (collected from a nine-year-old, as reported in Weiner 1970,
25; see also Taylor 1951, 667)
Though Weiner does not discuss the possibility, it may be suggested that the
younger children borrowed this technique from hearing the older children tell "true"
riddles.
18. As their interest in traditional riddles increases, children's concern with
made-up routines declines. During riddle sessions, though, older children do occasion-
ally fall back on made-up routines when they exhaust their ready supply of traditional
riddles (McDowell 1979).
19. For a discussion of culturally based relationships between riddling (includ-
ing that of children) and values of dialogism and polyphony in Madagascar; see Haring
1985.
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? ? 9
TALES AND LEGENDS
Elizabeth Tucker
Children are natural storytellers, and collectors of folklore can get a great
deal of enjoyment from recording their tales and legends. On playgrounds,
at parties, and around campfires-especially on dark, spooky nights-the
stories children tell are amazing in their variety. They range from brief, hastily
mumbled renditions to impressively long tales with artistic sound effects:
clicks, thumps, screams, and carefully timed pauses. Some children take a
lot of pride in their storytelling abilities, while others give little thought to
the tales they are telling. But in every case, children's folktales and legends
teach us about the narrators' personalities, enthusiasms, and anxieties. They
reveal community standards and cultural trends, as well as cross-cultural
similarities; multinational studies of children's stories have revealed some
striking parallel texts. Classifying the stories' origins and migrations can be
an absorbing task, but delving into their deeper meanings is a process that
has interested psychologists, sociologists, and linguists as well as folklorists.
For the collector setting out to gather children's stories, a number of
options are available. Children can be interviewed singly or in groups, in
their classrooms during school hours or in the midst of their free play and
recreational activities. Each type of collecting yields a somewhat different
kind of story. All alone with an adult researcher, a boy may be careful to
give plenty of details but hesitant to broach taboo subjects; in the middle of
her Scout group, a girl may laugh, shout, and skip from one subject to an-
other as her peers' reactions change. Single-sex groups have different reper-
toires than mixed groups, and classroom gatherings tend to have different
atmospheres from get-togethers in less formal circumstances. In general, I
have found that the more natural the setting is, the better storytelling is likely
to be. Young people tend to relax in places they know well, and their sto-
ries flow better with minimal adult interference. Even though unregulated
gatherings get raucous at times, with children clamoring for turns to tell their
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? ? stories, the results are much more interesting than those from carefully timed
and disciplined sessions. Each collector must choose the type of collecting
situation that she or he wants, taking all of these variables into account.
Once the stories have been gathered and the process of analysis be-
gins, it is easy to start categorizing the tellers as representatives of their age,
sex, and socioeconomic groups. It can be useful to think about "the adoles-
cent boy," "the middle-class girl," or "the disadvantaged pre-schooler," but
such abstractions should not interfere with attention to individual narrators.
Each child has his or her own temperament, interests, moods, and idiosyn-
crasies; all of these individual factors are relevant to the process of
storytelling. Of course, it isn't always feasible to get to know every child
informant in depth-but the further the acquaintance goes, the more reward-
ing collecting is likely to be for both the storyteller and the researcher. Chil-
dren cease to be mere representatives of categories when they are present,
with all their quirks and challenges, over long periods of time. While their
stories may fall into developmental patterns that have already been estab-
lished, there are always surprises and deviations from the familiar trends.
In this chapter I will maintain a rough developmental sequence, be-
ginning with very young children's stories and ending with the legends told
by boys and girls on the brink of adolescence. Some clarification of the terms
"tale," "legend," and "story" is necessary at the outset. The tale, or folktale,
as it is more properly called, is a story with traditional content that has a
certain kind of plot structure. This structure is clearly recognizable, from the
"once upon a time" beginning to the "happily ever after" ending. While
folktale heroines such as Cinderella and Red Riding Hood may suffer many
misfortunes, we know that they will find happiness in the end. In the leg-
end, on the other hand, disastrous conclusions are quite common; heroines
and heroes have no guarantee of a happy ending. Often told as true stories,
legends may be long and elaborate or brief and unadorned. They may be
attributed to a definite place or person: "This happened in California," for
example. If we hear of a poodle exploding in a microwave oven in San Fran-
cisco, our sense of geographic authenticity is heightened.
Legends and tales make up many of the narratives told by children,
but not all; the rest can simply be called stories. "Story" is a general term
that indicates a verbal account with some sequential development; one event
follows another, and characters experience major or minor changes. Among
the youngest narrators, "story" is often the best term to use. All legends and
tales are stories, but not all stories lend themselves to classification by tra-
ditional folkloristic categories.
I will discuss story types that I have found to be typical of three age
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? ? groups-two to five, six to nine, and ten to twelve-with quite a lot of at-
tention to individual storytellers. I have thoroughly enjoyed gathering sto-
ries from children and supervising my students in their collecting projects;
it has been difficult to choose among so many entertaining texts. I hope this
sample will reflect some of the pleasure that comes from getting to know
young narrators and hearing their favorite tales.
VERY YOUNG CHILDREN: TWO TO FIVE
When we think of children telling stories, we are likely to picture kids who
are old enough to go to school, camp, and slumber parties-not tiny chil-
dren whose ability to speak is still on the shaky side. It can seem strange to
learn that two-, three-, four-, and five-year-olds are among the most candid
and enterprising of storytellers. Their tales tend to be quite short, for obvi-
ous reasons of skill and attention span, but some four- and five-year-olds'
stories go on at surprising length. Dreams, fantasies, and facts of everyday
life merge in young children's narratives to form fascinating combinations
that have their own inner logic. Folklorists have sometimes neglected this
age group in favor of older children who can participate more fully in the
"childhood underground" (Knapp and Knapp 1976), but psychologists have
seemed more interested in tales told by the very young than stories circu-
lated by groups of older children on the playground. Psychologists' collec-
tions from the 1950s up to the present have provided us with a valuable body
of material; more recently, folklorists' collections have also proliferated.
The first systematic collection of young children's stories to be pub-
lished was Evelyn Pitcher's and Ernst Prelinger's Children Tell Stories (1963).
Based upon texts collected from boys and girls between 1955 and 1958, this
study analyzes the psychodynamics of early childhood fantasy. The two au-
thors tabulate frequent occurrences of settings, themes, and characters in
order to show how fantasy tales differ by age and sex. All of their youngest
narrators are preoccupied with falling down and breaking things, while the
four- and five-year-olds are interested in a wider range of actions-very natu-
ral, when we consider how often two- and three-year-olds do fall down and
hurt themselves! While the boys' stories differ from the girls' in some note-
worthy ways (the boys', for example, having a wider spatial range and less
domestic emphasis), all of the stories contain an intriguing blend of charac-
ters. Folktale personages such as Red Riding Hood, the Three Bears, and
the generic "princess" intermingle with television figures like cowboys, In-
dians, space cadets, and pirates; even Bucky Beaver of the Ipana toothpaste
commercial and the "eensy weensy spider" of nursery school songfests are
part of this cast of characters. Of course parents, animals, and familiar ob-
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? ? jects are important inclusions too, and such seasonal figures as Santa Claus
and the Halloween witch are given some prominence. All of this blending
shows how rich the young child's fantasy life is and how close the linkage
between fantasy and reality can be. While the differences between boys and
girls make up a major portion of Pitcher's and Prelinger's analysis, we should
keep their results in perspective; the role models and expectations for chil-
dren of both sexes have undergone some significant changes since the mid-
1950s.
A later study, Louise B. Ames's "Children's Stories" (1966), presents
New Haven nursery school children's tales in an analytical framework de-
rived from the Pitcher and Prelinger model. Ames differs in her approach,
however, by focusing on the kinds of stories told at different ages rather than
on the process of fantasy itself. Her results show a really remarkable preoc-
cupation with violence at all ages from two to five; moving up in age, the
form taken by violence changes from spanking to falling down and finally
killing or dying. There are some fascinating minor points, such as the fact
that only four-year-old girls tell stories about being thrown into the garbage
(1966, 342). Folktale characters such as Red Riding Hood become major
protagonists among the four- and five-year-olds, though there is still a lot
of shifting from folktale contents to reality-based events in that age range.
The best collection of young children's stories by a folklorist is Brian
Sutton-Smith's The Folkstories of Children (1981b). Sutton-Smith organizes
the narratives of two- to four-year-olds under the heading of "verse stories,"
as opposed to the "plot stories" of older children up to the age of ten. These
early verse narratives are rhythmic, repetitive, and often based upon a few
key words; they tend to stress beginnings and endings rather than midstory
development (1981b, 3-7). Among the stories chosen as examples, Sutton-
Smith points out significant stylistic features that show individual differences.
This is one of the important lessons of story analysis at the earliest age level:
that very young children do have their own narrative styles, and that their
stylistic proclivities come from both cognitive development and individual
artistry.
In Sutton-Smith's study the older children's stories are best suited for
structural analysis, the method used for identifying plot elements since the
publication of Vladimir Propp's Morphology of the Folktale (1958). Never-
theless, children in the younger age group tell some stories with enough plot
elements to make this kind of analysis worthwhile. Gilbert Botvin's scheme
for fantasy narrative analysis includes such sequential categories as threat,
deception, disequilibrium, alliance, defense, escape, rescue, and defeat
(Sutton-Smith 1981b, 3-5; Botvin 1976). The youngest children's stories
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? ? often stop at the disequilibrium stage, instead of moving on to a more posi-
tive and definitive resolution. Why this happens, and what we can learn from
this tendency to leave characters in disarray, are problems that remain to
be more fully explored.
What happens to the characters in young children's stories can be put
in perspective by using a system developed by Elli Kbngiis-Maranda and
Pierre Maranda (1970). This system has four levels of confrontation that
involve some sort of conflict between the central figure and the antagonist.
At level one the antagonist completely vanquishes the weaker character; at
level two the weaker one tries to respond, but fails; at level three there is a
successful response to the antagonist's threat; and at level four the original
threatening situation is so thoroughly changed that there is no further dan-
ger to worry about. Sutton-Smith applies this scheme to stories in his sample,
finding that five-year-olds tell stories at a much lower response level than
ten-year-olds, but noting that five-year-olds do occasionally tell stories at the
fourth level (1981b, 20-24). Analysis by this four-level system can be very
helpful in determining how the child narrator feels about himself: whether
he feels secure and powerful, or whether he feels overwhelmed by adverse
circumstances. Some of this response to threat seems linked to cognitive de-
velopment, but the individuals' feelings of security are certainly relevant.
Recent research has focused on young children's storytelling within
the framework of conversation. In her work with preschool children, Jean
Umiker-Sebeok notes that there is a substantial difference between the
intraconversational narratives children tell to adults and the narratives they
tell to other children. When an adult is listening, stories grow longer and
more complex (Umiker-Sebeok 1979, 106). This study and others indicate
that children's intraconversational narratives reach their fullest development
in familiar settings; unfamiliar surroundings or circumstances result in texts
that do not fairly represent children's capabilities as narrators.
Further insight into young children's storytelling patterns comes from
Judith Haut, who analyzes her son Bryan's stories between the ages of three
and four. Haut states that, like other children, her son uses stories to enter-
tain, influence conversations, and gain prestige. By narrating, Bryan is able
to go beyond the kind of conversation adults expect from him and shift roles
to gain the interest of his listeners (1922, 33-45). As collections and analy-
ses of young children's stories have proliferated (see Preece 1987 and Paley
1990), it has been possible to understand narratives within a complex web
of psychological and social motivations.
With all of these analytical alternatives, a look at a two-year-old's
story can become quite a time-consuming venture-but it is sufficient here
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? ? to give a brief analysis linked to knowledge of the child's personality. Here
is a short narrative from two-and-a-half-year-old Janet, the daughter of well-
educated parents in Binghamton, New York:
Daddy cuts floor.
Daddy gets boo-boo.
Daddy go to doctor.
Daddy get a band-aid. '
This story has the rhythmic, line-to-line structure characteristic of very young
children's stories; the key word "Daddy" forms the basis of its development.
While there are no definite indicators of time passing, such as the words
"then" or "later," it is clear that some events precede others. Janet's father
had just been repairing the bathroom floor and had gone to the doctor to
get a bandage; all of these occurrences are retained in their proper sequence
in the story.
Even from such a brief and factual narrative, we can see that Janet is
an observant, sensitive child. She is concerned about her father's welfare and
eager to understand what has happened to him; her story puts his frighten-
ing accident into a comprehensible framework. Just before telling her story,
Janet spent some time alone in her crib. The collector overheard her saying
to herself:
Daddy play hockey? Yes!
Mommy play hockey? No!
This is part of a monologue rather than a story, but it shows Janet's interest
in all that characterizes and differentiates her parents. Since the publication
of Ruth Weir's Language in the Crib (1962), bedtime monologues have been
recognized as an important source of knowledge.
While real-life events provide a lot of material for stories, dreams fur-
nish some of the most significant themes and plot elements. Young children
may identify their narratives as dreams or, more commonly, tell what hap-
pened without mentioning that a dream was the source. Sometimes the dream
may be about an experience the child has had recently; then the reason for
its importance may be clearer.
Looking closely at young children's stories is sometimes just one facet
of an evaluation and treatment process. Individual case studies by psycholo-
gists have drawn some important conclusions about children's self-expres-
sion, partly by analyzing narratives that emerge in a therapeutic setting. In
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? ? one especially thorough study of stories told in a therapeutic environment,
Richard A. Gardner used a technique of eliciting stories from his patients
while telling stories of his own (1971). Therapy begins with a story told by
the doctor; then, as treatment progresses, the doctor's stories develop from
narrative material supplied by the patient. As the boy or girl grows more
confident about telling stories and dreams, the doctor can use stories to fo-
cus on key aspects of the patient's feelings, convey messages about positive
development, and bring about changes in behavior. When the child begins
to tell stories that sound happier, more serene in their conclusions, the doc-
tor knows that therapy can successfully come to an end.
Outside of a therapeutic setting, when four-, five-, and six-year-olds
are asked to tell a story, their choice may well be a traditional folktale.
"Hansel and Gretel," "Snow White," "Little Red Riding Hood," and
"Cinderella" are all among the stories that I have found to be especially
popular among young children. The reasons for this popularity are clear
enough: Parents read the tales to their children, bookstores sell them in at-
tractively bound volumes, and librarians include them in regular story hours.
The term "fairy tale" is often used for these traditional folk narratives, al-
though it most correctly applies to British tales about the small creatures
known as fairies.
Many scholars have assessed the appeal and value of folktales for
child readers and listeners, for example, Betsy Hearne (1989). In The Uses
of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales (1976), Bruno
Bettelheim analyzes how folktales help children cope with psychological
problems in order to move toward adulthood. "Hansel and Gretel," accord-
ing to Bettelheim, provides children with a better understanding of starva-
tion, anxiety, and desertion fears (pages 159-66). Critics of Bettelheim's
psychoanalytical approach question the accuracy and appropriateness of this
form of analysis. Jack Zipes, author of Breaking the Magic Spell: Radical
Theories of Folk and Fairy Tales (1979), chastises Bettelheim for trying to
put together "static literary models to be internalized for therapeutic con-
sumption" (page 177). Alan Dundes questions Bettelheim's "uses of enchant-
ment and misuses of scholarship" (1991) while Kay F. Stone explores con-
troversies over the impact of fairy tales (1985). The most thorough assess-
ment of these issues is Maria Tatar's recent work Off With Their Heads!
Fairytales and the Culture of Childhood (1992). Criticizing Bettelheim for
his "male developmental model" that "defines the self through separation
and mastery" (pages 78-79), Tatar probes reworkings of traditional tales
to reveal their hidden messages for children. Perrault, the Grimms, and oth-
ers, Tatar says, have altered traditional stories so that they become lessons
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? ? about the evils of disobedience, laziness, untruthfulness, and other behav-
ioral traits perceived as dangerous by society. Close examinaton of reworked
folktales can uncover substantial didactic content that has little to do with
children's own priorities (see also Zipes 1983).
One fairly typical example of folktale retelling is a lively rendition of
"The Three Bears" told by David, a boy who was almost six. David, who
lived in Rochester, New York, at the time of collection, was thrilled to tell
his story for the tape recorder. He laughed, hesitated a few times, and then
began a long story that included the following: "This girl came along named
Goldilocks. Okee, okeeee, okee, okee, okee. And, then Goldilocks came along
and tried Papa-bear's porridge. That was too hooooooo-o-o-ot! She tried
Mama-bear's porridge. That was too cold. She tried Baby-bear's porridge.
That was ju-u-ust right. She ate it all up. Yum-yum-yum. "2 David is quite a
creative narrator, especially with regard to sound effects. A few words are
shouted, some vowels are extended for dramatic emphasis, and certain syl-
lables are repeated to show intensified feeling, while some chains of syllables
sound like speech play for the sheer pleasure of rhyming. In general, his ver-
sion of "The Three Bears" shows a special sensitivity to the experimental
possibilities that language offers him.
Perhaps the most practical reason why young children are so fond of
telling tales like "The Three Bears" is that the structure of these stories lends
itself so well to formulaic narration. There are so many repetitious lines,
verses, and episodes that the child who is just learning to put together a story
has a good chance of getting the sequence right. "Cinderella," "The Three
Billy Goats Gruff," and "Snow White" all have numerous repetitions that
ease recollection. Add to this feeling of competence the joy that the very
young take in repeating actions and words-in speech play and games, for
example-and you can see why folktale retellings are so popular. They of-
fer a good chance to have fun with a story, develop narrative skills, and per-
haps throw in a few original effects as well.
EARLY SCHOOL YEARS: Six TO NINE
As children get a little older, they may care more about making fairy tales
their own stories. Slightly different characters, a new setting, or a different
ending can satisfy this need for personal manipulation. Kristin Wardetzsky
(1990), drawing upon a data sample from the German Democratic Repub-
lic, suggests that children's own folktales differ markedly from the Grimms'.
Their concepts of villainy go beyond the conventional witches and stepmoth-
ers, and their happiest ending is the return to a harmonious home (pages
157-76). I have also found in my own fieldwork that children's oral and
2. OO TALES AND LEGENDS
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? ? dramatized versions of folktales teach us a great deal about the narrators'
interests, needs, and storytelling skills (Tucker 1980a). One interesting text
is eight-year-old Krystal's version of "Little Red Riding Hood. " Krystal, a
serious girl with a taste for sad stories, was attending day camp in southern
Indiana when she told her story about a little girl going to her grandmother's
house. Although the story's beginning made several listeners whisper "Red
Riding Hood! " it soon became clear that Krystal valued her own ingenuity
above traditional identification. Her villain was a "killer," not a wolf, and
the only violent act that occurred was his removal of the little girl's hair with
a knife. The story ended with the killer's threat: "'Every time I come to your
grandmother's house, I'm gonna cut, I'm going to cut off your head and a
finger, and a ear, and a nose, and a eye and a tooth,' and so she never came
back to the house again. The end. " This conclusion is reminiscent of some
of the dialogue in the original "Red Riding Hood": "Why, Grandmama,
what big eyes you have! . . . What a big nose you have! . . . What big teeth
you have! " Besides containing these familiar terms of emphasis, Krystal's
story follows the basic plot line of "Red Riding Hood" (type 333, The Glut-
ton, in Aarne and Thompson 1961). Krystal must have known this narra-
tive structure since her early childhood; it is straightforward and exciting, a
good framework to use for creative story-building.
The most important question about Krystal's story is why she changed
the ending so much. What motivated her to let the little girl get away so eas-
ily? One deceptively simple answer is that she needs to express her original-
ity; this has to be her own story, so that she can feel proud of her work as a
narrator. What seems especially significant in her story, however, is the sen-
sitivity shown toward modern living conditions and dangers. In today's cit-
ies we measure a walk in blocks, not vaguely defined stretches, and we hardly
need to feel worried about attacks from wolves. Burglars, rapists, murder-
ers, and maniacs are far more threatening to us, and Krystal has chosen one
of these frightening figures to use in her narrative. Her choice demonstrates
Marianne Rumpf's point that the assailant in "Red Riding Hood" can be
human or animal, supernatural or realistic; the story has adapted to differ-
ent social requirements for many years, and its flexibility shows every sign
of continuing (Rumpf 1955, 4).
Within the flexible network of children's storytelling, it has become
increasingly common for children to build creative tales upon frameworks
offered by movies and videotapes. Sylvia Grider's term "media narraform"
is used to indicate a story based on a movie that the narrator has seen (Grider
1981). In my own research, I found that children about age six or seven en-
joy using movie versions of tales like "Aladdin" and "Beauty and the Beast"
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? ? as points of departure for their own imaginative stories. For example, the
heroine of "Cinderella" becomes "Cinderella vampire" or "Cinderella tiger,"
as young narrators shift the frame to suit their fancy (Tucker 1992).
Another form of storytelling that has flourished in recent years has
been the composition of a computer story. Teachers have encouraged their
pupils to write and to print out their own stories with the help of a wide
range of computer software. Programs such as Kidwriter and Explore-A-
Story make it possible for young writers to create their own printed story
texts, taking great pride in the creation process (Eltgroth 1988, 1989). Some
computer programs combine art with writing, making story composition
a delightfully multifaceted process (Summers 1988). In schools where
children's creative stories and artwork are published, the researcher can dis-
cover narratives that reflect children's story-sharing as well as individual
creativity.
In addition to stories based on folktale models, tales from oral tradi-
tion that begin frighteningly and end happily are very popular among chil-
dren in the early years of elementary school. These tales differ from those
of folktale origin in that they are generally transmitted from child to child,
rather than from parent or teacher to child. The first and second grades are
years of discovery in many forms, and one of these is storytelling apart from
adult influence. At recess, after school, and at parties, boys and girls share
the stories they have recently learned--often from somewhat older friends
or siblings. In this manner a story like "The Golden Arm" or "One Black
Eye" can remain fresh from one generation of schoolchildren to the next,
constantly being rediscovered and passed on to new recruits.
My favorite term for traditional tales that end happily, in spite of a
worrisome start, is "funny-scary story. " Many of the second- and third- graders
with whom I worked in the summer of 1976 used this term; it seemed to re-
assure their listening friends that a story would be "not really scary. " I found
that these youngsters, new to the sharing of stories, found it very hard to lis-
ten to frightening tales that didn't end with some kind of happy resolution.
They were beginning to experiment with fear, just starting to understand the
pleasure of "a good scare," and constant reassurance was necessary.
One especially venerable funny-scary story is the tried-and-true "It
Floats"; I heard it myself at camp in the late 1950s. Seven-year-old Stacy,
one of the quieter girls at the camp in southern Indiana where I worked, told
the story with much enthusiasm: "I got a funny-scary story. One time this
boy and girl were walking home from their uncle's house, 'cause they stayed
too late, and they were walking past this house and people say it was
haunted. And then they stopped to look at it and they heard something say,
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? ? 'It floats! It floats! ' And then the little girl was real scared, she said, 'What
floats? What floats? ' And he said, 'Ivory soap floats'" (Tucker 1977, 122-
123). From the reaction of the other children to Stacy's story, it seemed that
"It Floats" had lost some of its topical appeal since the time of my own camp-
ing experiences. There was not much laughter, and some of the children were
downright confused about the punchline; what did it matter if the soap
floated? In the 1950s and early 1960s, when the manufacturers of Ivory Soap
put the slogan "It floats" into a lot of their commercials, the story had much
more appeal. Today Ivory Soap is known for its purity and its history of being
passed down from mother to daughter (according to the television commer-
cials). As advertising changes, storytelling may undergo adaptations.
One noteworthy aspect of Stacy's story is the fact that the girl, not the
boy, has the courage to ask the disembodied voice, "What floats? " Even
though she is "real scared," she takes the risk of confronting the voice and
thus wins reassurance. We can see a close identification of the narrator with
the protagonist in this story and other variants, such as the one collected from
Jim, a ten-year-old boy, by John Vlach. In Jim's story three boys discover a
haunted house in the country; two of them get killed, and the third asks the
voice what floats (Vlach 1971, 101-02). Another contrast between Jim's story
and Stacy's is the absence of any real expression of fear in the former com-
pared to the fright in the latter. Since Jim is three years older than Stacy, he
can reel off a funny-scary story without any trepidations; and besides, admit-
ting to being scared seems less common in boys' funny-scary stories.
"It Floats" is just one of the many stories that belongs to the Aarne-
Thompson tale type 326, The Youth Who Wanted to Learn What Fear Is.
The essence of this plot structure is a confrontation with a spooky, often
disembodied apparition; it may be a voice or some other kind of peculiar
noise, like rapping from a cupboard. The Grimms' tale that gives type 326
its name is about setting out to learn fear, with a silly conclusion to the quest:
The hero learns to shiver by having some slippery minnows poured down
his back (Magoun and Krappe 1960, 12-20). Not all variants of type 326
end with a shiver, but they all have to do with encountering the unknown
and getting control of one's own feelings. This process is exactly what the
funny-scary story is all about; the form of the ghost matters very little.
"Bloody Fingers," another very popular variant of type 326, some-
times has a victorious baby as its central character. Young narrators enjoy
identifying with this small hero, who responds to a ghost more bravely than
adults do. Sometimes the one who answers the ghost is a hippie, and other
times it is a teenager, a man, or a woman. As in "It Floats," the only noise
made by the ghost is a monotonously repeated phrase. The ominous wail
zo3
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? ? "Bloody Fingers! " may come from a bathroom, a basement, an attic, or a
telephone, depending on the whim of the storyteller. The punchline also has
many forms, from the polite "May I have a band-aid? " spoken by the ghost
himself in eight-and-a-half-year-old Jennifer's version (Tucker 1977, 268) to
the more cocky "Cool, man, cool. Go get a band-aid! " in the tale told by
ten-year-old Kenny (Vlach 1971, 100). All of these versions are united by a
simple goal: to have the ghost verbally put in its place by a person-usually
a very young person-who has complete control of the situation.
Perhaps the oldest and most beloved funny-scary story is "The Golden
Arm," a camp and slumber party classic. Samuel Langhorne Clemens wrote
an essay about the delicacy of delivering this story's punchline at exactly the
right moment (Clemens 1897), and many other people have raved about its
shocking "jump ending" during the past century. When the story is told well,
the narrator grabs whoever is closest to him and shouts, "YOU GOT IT! "
"I GOTCHA! " or some such fitting phrase to make the climax complete. A
thorough bibliography of "Golden Arm" variants can be found in Sylvia
Grider's dissertation, "The Supernatural Narratives of Children" (Grider
1976, 557-83).
While "The Golden Arm" still flourishes as a frequently told story,
its climax is often mangled or misunderstood by child narrators. The main
development of the story is usually much the same, with a severed arm, a
golden replacement, and a ghost's walk to reclaim the arm after death. Ten-
year-old Patricia's version is characteristic: "Okay, this one about a golden
arm. There was this man and this woman, they got in a automobile acci-
dent, and this lady, they had to go to the hospital, and, um, they had to chop
her arm off, 'cause it looked like a, you could see her bones and everything,
they had to chop her arm off and they gave her a golden arm, and then when
they, when they went home, she died of some disease, and the man took the
arm off to remember her by. And every night she'd come back and say, 'I
want my golden arm, I want my golden arm,' and um, he got real scared. "
So far, so good, but Patricia finishes the story off with the surprising words
"he found her golden arm hanging up by a rope in the, um, garage" (Tucker
1977, 491-92). I have heard other children in the first few years of elemen-
tary school say a soft "I gotcha" without a grab, give a lame answer to the
ghost such as "I took it because I was gettin' poor," or simply give up in
despair: "I can't remember it! " This uncertainty may be attributable to weak
versions of the tale in circulation, or, more likely, to the difficulty that young
schoolchildren have with such an artful climax. Since "The Golden Arm"
is most popular among younger children, however, it can fall out of a child's
active repertoire before the punchline is ever properly mastered.
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? ? "The Golden Arm" ends differently from "Bloody Fingers" and the
others of that group, but it is still a bona fide funny-scary story. The jump
or grab at the end is not as immediately funny as a humorous retort, but it
is a splendid releaser of tension. The shout of "You got it! " defuses the sus-
pense generated by the story, and the foolish look on the face of the grabbed
victim is the stuff of which comedy is made. The story becomes a spoof rather
than a drama, and everyone present can enjoy being part of such a ridicu-
lous situation.
The tale type to which "The Golden Arm" belongs is Aarne-Thomp-
son 366, The Man from the Gallows.
Hullum 1972-73 and Brown 1973.
14. Though children learn most of their riddles from other children and, to a
lesser extent, from adults, important popular-culture riddle resources include books,
magazines, television programs, and artifactual material such as bubble gum wrap-
pers and "Dixie" riddle cups.
15. McDowell (1979, 33-37, 59-66) uses "descriptive routine" as a catch term
for a variety of spontaneously generated routines. I restrict the term to routines based
on the technique of description only, or primarily such.
16. Between 1973 and 1976, the University of Texas Children's Folklore Project
collected and investigated a range of folkloric forms used by Anglo, Mexican Ameri-
can, and black five- through eight-year-olds in Austin, Texas. Work produced by project
members is reviewed in Bauman 1977b, 1982.
17. Description phrased in the first person is sometimes found in true riddles.
Such riddles were occasionally used by the older children in Weiner's sample:
The strongest man in the world can't hold me long,
yet I am lighter than a feather. What am I?
-breath. (collected from a nine-year-old, as reported in Weiner 1970,
25; see also Taylor 1951, 667)
Though Weiner does not discuss the possibility, it may be suggested that the
younger children borrowed this technique from hearing the older children tell "true"
riddles.
18. As their interest in traditional riddles increases, children's concern with
made-up routines declines. During riddle sessions, though, older children do occasion-
ally fall back on made-up routines when they exhaust their ready supply of traditional
riddles (McDowell 1979).
19. For a discussion of culturally based relationships between riddling (includ-
ing that of children) and values of dialogism and polyphony in Madagascar; see Haring
1985.
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? ? 9
TALES AND LEGENDS
Elizabeth Tucker
Children are natural storytellers, and collectors of folklore can get a great
deal of enjoyment from recording their tales and legends. On playgrounds,
at parties, and around campfires-especially on dark, spooky nights-the
stories children tell are amazing in their variety. They range from brief, hastily
mumbled renditions to impressively long tales with artistic sound effects:
clicks, thumps, screams, and carefully timed pauses. Some children take a
lot of pride in their storytelling abilities, while others give little thought to
the tales they are telling. But in every case, children's folktales and legends
teach us about the narrators' personalities, enthusiasms, and anxieties. They
reveal community standards and cultural trends, as well as cross-cultural
similarities; multinational studies of children's stories have revealed some
striking parallel texts. Classifying the stories' origins and migrations can be
an absorbing task, but delving into their deeper meanings is a process that
has interested psychologists, sociologists, and linguists as well as folklorists.
For the collector setting out to gather children's stories, a number of
options are available. Children can be interviewed singly or in groups, in
their classrooms during school hours or in the midst of their free play and
recreational activities. Each type of collecting yields a somewhat different
kind of story. All alone with an adult researcher, a boy may be careful to
give plenty of details but hesitant to broach taboo subjects; in the middle of
her Scout group, a girl may laugh, shout, and skip from one subject to an-
other as her peers' reactions change. Single-sex groups have different reper-
toires than mixed groups, and classroom gatherings tend to have different
atmospheres from get-togethers in less formal circumstances. In general, I
have found that the more natural the setting is, the better storytelling is likely
to be. Young people tend to relax in places they know well, and their sto-
ries flow better with minimal adult interference. Even though unregulated
gatherings get raucous at times, with children clamoring for turns to tell their
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? ? stories, the results are much more interesting than those from carefully timed
and disciplined sessions. Each collector must choose the type of collecting
situation that she or he wants, taking all of these variables into account.
Once the stories have been gathered and the process of analysis be-
gins, it is easy to start categorizing the tellers as representatives of their age,
sex, and socioeconomic groups. It can be useful to think about "the adoles-
cent boy," "the middle-class girl," or "the disadvantaged pre-schooler," but
such abstractions should not interfere with attention to individual narrators.
Each child has his or her own temperament, interests, moods, and idiosyn-
crasies; all of these individual factors are relevant to the process of
storytelling. Of course, it isn't always feasible to get to know every child
informant in depth-but the further the acquaintance goes, the more reward-
ing collecting is likely to be for both the storyteller and the researcher. Chil-
dren cease to be mere representatives of categories when they are present,
with all their quirks and challenges, over long periods of time. While their
stories may fall into developmental patterns that have already been estab-
lished, there are always surprises and deviations from the familiar trends.
In this chapter I will maintain a rough developmental sequence, be-
ginning with very young children's stories and ending with the legends told
by boys and girls on the brink of adolescence. Some clarification of the terms
"tale," "legend," and "story" is necessary at the outset. The tale, or folktale,
as it is more properly called, is a story with traditional content that has a
certain kind of plot structure. This structure is clearly recognizable, from the
"once upon a time" beginning to the "happily ever after" ending. While
folktale heroines such as Cinderella and Red Riding Hood may suffer many
misfortunes, we know that they will find happiness in the end. In the leg-
end, on the other hand, disastrous conclusions are quite common; heroines
and heroes have no guarantee of a happy ending. Often told as true stories,
legends may be long and elaborate or brief and unadorned. They may be
attributed to a definite place or person: "This happened in California," for
example. If we hear of a poodle exploding in a microwave oven in San Fran-
cisco, our sense of geographic authenticity is heightened.
Legends and tales make up many of the narratives told by children,
but not all; the rest can simply be called stories. "Story" is a general term
that indicates a verbal account with some sequential development; one event
follows another, and characters experience major or minor changes. Among
the youngest narrators, "story" is often the best term to use. All legends and
tales are stories, but not all stories lend themselves to classification by tra-
ditional folkloristic categories.
I will discuss story types that I have found to be typical of three age
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? ? groups-two to five, six to nine, and ten to twelve-with quite a lot of at-
tention to individual storytellers. I have thoroughly enjoyed gathering sto-
ries from children and supervising my students in their collecting projects;
it has been difficult to choose among so many entertaining texts. I hope this
sample will reflect some of the pleasure that comes from getting to know
young narrators and hearing their favorite tales.
VERY YOUNG CHILDREN: TWO TO FIVE
When we think of children telling stories, we are likely to picture kids who
are old enough to go to school, camp, and slumber parties-not tiny chil-
dren whose ability to speak is still on the shaky side. It can seem strange to
learn that two-, three-, four-, and five-year-olds are among the most candid
and enterprising of storytellers. Their tales tend to be quite short, for obvi-
ous reasons of skill and attention span, but some four- and five-year-olds'
stories go on at surprising length. Dreams, fantasies, and facts of everyday
life merge in young children's narratives to form fascinating combinations
that have their own inner logic. Folklorists have sometimes neglected this
age group in favor of older children who can participate more fully in the
"childhood underground" (Knapp and Knapp 1976), but psychologists have
seemed more interested in tales told by the very young than stories circu-
lated by groups of older children on the playground. Psychologists' collec-
tions from the 1950s up to the present have provided us with a valuable body
of material; more recently, folklorists' collections have also proliferated.
The first systematic collection of young children's stories to be pub-
lished was Evelyn Pitcher's and Ernst Prelinger's Children Tell Stories (1963).
Based upon texts collected from boys and girls between 1955 and 1958, this
study analyzes the psychodynamics of early childhood fantasy. The two au-
thors tabulate frequent occurrences of settings, themes, and characters in
order to show how fantasy tales differ by age and sex. All of their youngest
narrators are preoccupied with falling down and breaking things, while the
four- and five-year-olds are interested in a wider range of actions-very natu-
ral, when we consider how often two- and three-year-olds do fall down and
hurt themselves! While the boys' stories differ from the girls' in some note-
worthy ways (the boys', for example, having a wider spatial range and less
domestic emphasis), all of the stories contain an intriguing blend of charac-
ters. Folktale personages such as Red Riding Hood, the Three Bears, and
the generic "princess" intermingle with television figures like cowboys, In-
dians, space cadets, and pirates; even Bucky Beaver of the Ipana toothpaste
commercial and the "eensy weensy spider" of nursery school songfests are
part of this cast of characters. Of course parents, animals, and familiar ob-
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? ? jects are important inclusions too, and such seasonal figures as Santa Claus
and the Halloween witch are given some prominence. All of this blending
shows how rich the young child's fantasy life is and how close the linkage
between fantasy and reality can be. While the differences between boys and
girls make up a major portion of Pitcher's and Prelinger's analysis, we should
keep their results in perspective; the role models and expectations for chil-
dren of both sexes have undergone some significant changes since the mid-
1950s.
A later study, Louise B. Ames's "Children's Stories" (1966), presents
New Haven nursery school children's tales in an analytical framework de-
rived from the Pitcher and Prelinger model. Ames differs in her approach,
however, by focusing on the kinds of stories told at different ages rather than
on the process of fantasy itself. Her results show a really remarkable preoc-
cupation with violence at all ages from two to five; moving up in age, the
form taken by violence changes from spanking to falling down and finally
killing or dying. There are some fascinating minor points, such as the fact
that only four-year-old girls tell stories about being thrown into the garbage
(1966, 342). Folktale characters such as Red Riding Hood become major
protagonists among the four- and five-year-olds, though there is still a lot
of shifting from folktale contents to reality-based events in that age range.
The best collection of young children's stories by a folklorist is Brian
Sutton-Smith's The Folkstories of Children (1981b). Sutton-Smith organizes
the narratives of two- to four-year-olds under the heading of "verse stories,"
as opposed to the "plot stories" of older children up to the age of ten. These
early verse narratives are rhythmic, repetitive, and often based upon a few
key words; they tend to stress beginnings and endings rather than midstory
development (1981b, 3-7). Among the stories chosen as examples, Sutton-
Smith points out significant stylistic features that show individual differences.
This is one of the important lessons of story analysis at the earliest age level:
that very young children do have their own narrative styles, and that their
stylistic proclivities come from both cognitive development and individual
artistry.
In Sutton-Smith's study the older children's stories are best suited for
structural analysis, the method used for identifying plot elements since the
publication of Vladimir Propp's Morphology of the Folktale (1958). Never-
theless, children in the younger age group tell some stories with enough plot
elements to make this kind of analysis worthwhile. Gilbert Botvin's scheme
for fantasy narrative analysis includes such sequential categories as threat,
deception, disequilibrium, alliance, defense, escape, rescue, and defeat
(Sutton-Smith 1981b, 3-5; Botvin 1976). The youngest children's stories
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? ? often stop at the disequilibrium stage, instead of moving on to a more posi-
tive and definitive resolution. Why this happens, and what we can learn from
this tendency to leave characters in disarray, are problems that remain to
be more fully explored.
What happens to the characters in young children's stories can be put
in perspective by using a system developed by Elli Kbngiis-Maranda and
Pierre Maranda (1970). This system has four levels of confrontation that
involve some sort of conflict between the central figure and the antagonist.
At level one the antagonist completely vanquishes the weaker character; at
level two the weaker one tries to respond, but fails; at level three there is a
successful response to the antagonist's threat; and at level four the original
threatening situation is so thoroughly changed that there is no further dan-
ger to worry about. Sutton-Smith applies this scheme to stories in his sample,
finding that five-year-olds tell stories at a much lower response level than
ten-year-olds, but noting that five-year-olds do occasionally tell stories at the
fourth level (1981b, 20-24). Analysis by this four-level system can be very
helpful in determining how the child narrator feels about himself: whether
he feels secure and powerful, or whether he feels overwhelmed by adverse
circumstances. Some of this response to threat seems linked to cognitive de-
velopment, but the individuals' feelings of security are certainly relevant.
Recent research has focused on young children's storytelling within
the framework of conversation. In her work with preschool children, Jean
Umiker-Sebeok notes that there is a substantial difference between the
intraconversational narratives children tell to adults and the narratives they
tell to other children. When an adult is listening, stories grow longer and
more complex (Umiker-Sebeok 1979, 106). This study and others indicate
that children's intraconversational narratives reach their fullest development
in familiar settings; unfamiliar surroundings or circumstances result in texts
that do not fairly represent children's capabilities as narrators.
Further insight into young children's storytelling patterns comes from
Judith Haut, who analyzes her son Bryan's stories between the ages of three
and four. Haut states that, like other children, her son uses stories to enter-
tain, influence conversations, and gain prestige. By narrating, Bryan is able
to go beyond the kind of conversation adults expect from him and shift roles
to gain the interest of his listeners (1922, 33-45). As collections and analy-
ses of young children's stories have proliferated (see Preece 1987 and Paley
1990), it has been possible to understand narratives within a complex web
of psychological and social motivations.
With all of these analytical alternatives, a look at a two-year-old's
story can become quite a time-consuming venture-but it is sufficient here
197
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? ? to give a brief analysis linked to knowledge of the child's personality. Here
is a short narrative from two-and-a-half-year-old Janet, the daughter of well-
educated parents in Binghamton, New York:
Daddy cuts floor.
Daddy gets boo-boo.
Daddy go to doctor.
Daddy get a band-aid. '
This story has the rhythmic, line-to-line structure characteristic of very young
children's stories; the key word "Daddy" forms the basis of its development.
While there are no definite indicators of time passing, such as the words
"then" or "later," it is clear that some events precede others. Janet's father
had just been repairing the bathroom floor and had gone to the doctor to
get a bandage; all of these occurrences are retained in their proper sequence
in the story.
Even from such a brief and factual narrative, we can see that Janet is
an observant, sensitive child. She is concerned about her father's welfare and
eager to understand what has happened to him; her story puts his frighten-
ing accident into a comprehensible framework. Just before telling her story,
Janet spent some time alone in her crib. The collector overheard her saying
to herself:
Daddy play hockey? Yes!
Mommy play hockey? No!
This is part of a monologue rather than a story, but it shows Janet's interest
in all that characterizes and differentiates her parents. Since the publication
of Ruth Weir's Language in the Crib (1962), bedtime monologues have been
recognized as an important source of knowledge.
While real-life events provide a lot of material for stories, dreams fur-
nish some of the most significant themes and plot elements. Young children
may identify their narratives as dreams or, more commonly, tell what hap-
pened without mentioning that a dream was the source. Sometimes the dream
may be about an experience the child has had recently; then the reason for
its importance may be clearer.
Looking closely at young children's stories is sometimes just one facet
of an evaluation and treatment process. Individual case studies by psycholo-
gists have drawn some important conclusions about children's self-expres-
sion, partly by analyzing narratives that emerge in a therapeutic setting. In
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? ? one especially thorough study of stories told in a therapeutic environment,
Richard A. Gardner used a technique of eliciting stories from his patients
while telling stories of his own (1971). Therapy begins with a story told by
the doctor; then, as treatment progresses, the doctor's stories develop from
narrative material supplied by the patient. As the boy or girl grows more
confident about telling stories and dreams, the doctor can use stories to fo-
cus on key aspects of the patient's feelings, convey messages about positive
development, and bring about changes in behavior. When the child begins
to tell stories that sound happier, more serene in their conclusions, the doc-
tor knows that therapy can successfully come to an end.
Outside of a therapeutic setting, when four-, five-, and six-year-olds
are asked to tell a story, their choice may well be a traditional folktale.
"Hansel and Gretel," "Snow White," "Little Red Riding Hood," and
"Cinderella" are all among the stories that I have found to be especially
popular among young children. The reasons for this popularity are clear
enough: Parents read the tales to their children, bookstores sell them in at-
tractively bound volumes, and librarians include them in regular story hours.
The term "fairy tale" is often used for these traditional folk narratives, al-
though it most correctly applies to British tales about the small creatures
known as fairies.
Many scholars have assessed the appeal and value of folktales for
child readers and listeners, for example, Betsy Hearne (1989). In The Uses
of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales (1976), Bruno
Bettelheim analyzes how folktales help children cope with psychological
problems in order to move toward adulthood. "Hansel and Gretel," accord-
ing to Bettelheim, provides children with a better understanding of starva-
tion, anxiety, and desertion fears (pages 159-66). Critics of Bettelheim's
psychoanalytical approach question the accuracy and appropriateness of this
form of analysis. Jack Zipes, author of Breaking the Magic Spell: Radical
Theories of Folk and Fairy Tales (1979), chastises Bettelheim for trying to
put together "static literary models to be internalized for therapeutic con-
sumption" (page 177). Alan Dundes questions Bettelheim's "uses of enchant-
ment and misuses of scholarship" (1991) while Kay F. Stone explores con-
troversies over the impact of fairy tales (1985). The most thorough assess-
ment of these issues is Maria Tatar's recent work Off With Their Heads!
Fairytales and the Culture of Childhood (1992). Criticizing Bettelheim for
his "male developmental model" that "defines the self through separation
and mastery" (pages 78-79), Tatar probes reworkings of traditional tales
to reveal their hidden messages for children. Perrault, the Grimms, and oth-
ers, Tatar says, have altered traditional stories so that they become lessons
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? ? about the evils of disobedience, laziness, untruthfulness, and other behav-
ioral traits perceived as dangerous by society. Close examinaton of reworked
folktales can uncover substantial didactic content that has little to do with
children's own priorities (see also Zipes 1983).
One fairly typical example of folktale retelling is a lively rendition of
"The Three Bears" told by David, a boy who was almost six. David, who
lived in Rochester, New York, at the time of collection, was thrilled to tell
his story for the tape recorder. He laughed, hesitated a few times, and then
began a long story that included the following: "This girl came along named
Goldilocks. Okee, okeeee, okee, okee, okee. And, then Goldilocks came along
and tried Papa-bear's porridge. That was too hooooooo-o-o-ot! She tried
Mama-bear's porridge. That was too cold. She tried Baby-bear's porridge.
That was ju-u-ust right. She ate it all up. Yum-yum-yum. "2 David is quite a
creative narrator, especially with regard to sound effects. A few words are
shouted, some vowels are extended for dramatic emphasis, and certain syl-
lables are repeated to show intensified feeling, while some chains of syllables
sound like speech play for the sheer pleasure of rhyming. In general, his ver-
sion of "The Three Bears" shows a special sensitivity to the experimental
possibilities that language offers him.
Perhaps the most practical reason why young children are so fond of
telling tales like "The Three Bears" is that the structure of these stories lends
itself so well to formulaic narration. There are so many repetitious lines,
verses, and episodes that the child who is just learning to put together a story
has a good chance of getting the sequence right. "Cinderella," "The Three
Billy Goats Gruff," and "Snow White" all have numerous repetitions that
ease recollection. Add to this feeling of competence the joy that the very
young take in repeating actions and words-in speech play and games, for
example-and you can see why folktale retellings are so popular. They of-
fer a good chance to have fun with a story, develop narrative skills, and per-
haps throw in a few original effects as well.
EARLY SCHOOL YEARS: Six TO NINE
As children get a little older, they may care more about making fairy tales
their own stories. Slightly different characters, a new setting, or a different
ending can satisfy this need for personal manipulation. Kristin Wardetzsky
(1990), drawing upon a data sample from the German Democratic Repub-
lic, suggests that children's own folktales differ markedly from the Grimms'.
Their concepts of villainy go beyond the conventional witches and stepmoth-
ers, and their happiest ending is the return to a harmonious home (pages
157-76). I have also found in my own fieldwork that children's oral and
2. OO TALES AND LEGENDS
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? ? dramatized versions of folktales teach us a great deal about the narrators'
interests, needs, and storytelling skills (Tucker 1980a). One interesting text
is eight-year-old Krystal's version of "Little Red Riding Hood. " Krystal, a
serious girl with a taste for sad stories, was attending day camp in southern
Indiana when she told her story about a little girl going to her grandmother's
house. Although the story's beginning made several listeners whisper "Red
Riding Hood! " it soon became clear that Krystal valued her own ingenuity
above traditional identification. Her villain was a "killer," not a wolf, and
the only violent act that occurred was his removal of the little girl's hair with
a knife. The story ended with the killer's threat: "'Every time I come to your
grandmother's house, I'm gonna cut, I'm going to cut off your head and a
finger, and a ear, and a nose, and a eye and a tooth,' and so she never came
back to the house again. The end. " This conclusion is reminiscent of some
of the dialogue in the original "Red Riding Hood": "Why, Grandmama,
what big eyes you have! . . . What a big nose you have! . . . What big teeth
you have! " Besides containing these familiar terms of emphasis, Krystal's
story follows the basic plot line of "Red Riding Hood" (type 333, The Glut-
ton, in Aarne and Thompson 1961). Krystal must have known this narra-
tive structure since her early childhood; it is straightforward and exciting, a
good framework to use for creative story-building.
The most important question about Krystal's story is why she changed
the ending so much. What motivated her to let the little girl get away so eas-
ily? One deceptively simple answer is that she needs to express her original-
ity; this has to be her own story, so that she can feel proud of her work as a
narrator. What seems especially significant in her story, however, is the sen-
sitivity shown toward modern living conditions and dangers. In today's cit-
ies we measure a walk in blocks, not vaguely defined stretches, and we hardly
need to feel worried about attacks from wolves. Burglars, rapists, murder-
ers, and maniacs are far more threatening to us, and Krystal has chosen one
of these frightening figures to use in her narrative. Her choice demonstrates
Marianne Rumpf's point that the assailant in "Red Riding Hood" can be
human or animal, supernatural or realistic; the story has adapted to differ-
ent social requirements for many years, and its flexibility shows every sign
of continuing (Rumpf 1955, 4).
Within the flexible network of children's storytelling, it has become
increasingly common for children to build creative tales upon frameworks
offered by movies and videotapes. Sylvia Grider's term "media narraform"
is used to indicate a story based on a movie that the narrator has seen (Grider
1981). In my own research, I found that children about age six or seven en-
joy using movie versions of tales like "Aladdin" and "Beauty and the Beast"
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? ? as points of departure for their own imaginative stories. For example, the
heroine of "Cinderella" becomes "Cinderella vampire" or "Cinderella tiger,"
as young narrators shift the frame to suit their fancy (Tucker 1992).
Another form of storytelling that has flourished in recent years has
been the composition of a computer story. Teachers have encouraged their
pupils to write and to print out their own stories with the help of a wide
range of computer software. Programs such as Kidwriter and Explore-A-
Story make it possible for young writers to create their own printed story
texts, taking great pride in the creation process (Eltgroth 1988, 1989). Some
computer programs combine art with writing, making story composition
a delightfully multifaceted process (Summers 1988). In schools where
children's creative stories and artwork are published, the researcher can dis-
cover narratives that reflect children's story-sharing as well as individual
creativity.
In addition to stories based on folktale models, tales from oral tradi-
tion that begin frighteningly and end happily are very popular among chil-
dren in the early years of elementary school. These tales differ from those
of folktale origin in that they are generally transmitted from child to child,
rather than from parent or teacher to child. The first and second grades are
years of discovery in many forms, and one of these is storytelling apart from
adult influence. At recess, after school, and at parties, boys and girls share
the stories they have recently learned--often from somewhat older friends
or siblings. In this manner a story like "The Golden Arm" or "One Black
Eye" can remain fresh from one generation of schoolchildren to the next,
constantly being rediscovered and passed on to new recruits.
My favorite term for traditional tales that end happily, in spite of a
worrisome start, is "funny-scary story. " Many of the second- and third- graders
with whom I worked in the summer of 1976 used this term; it seemed to re-
assure their listening friends that a story would be "not really scary. " I found
that these youngsters, new to the sharing of stories, found it very hard to lis-
ten to frightening tales that didn't end with some kind of happy resolution.
They were beginning to experiment with fear, just starting to understand the
pleasure of "a good scare," and constant reassurance was necessary.
One especially venerable funny-scary story is the tried-and-true "It
Floats"; I heard it myself at camp in the late 1950s. Seven-year-old Stacy,
one of the quieter girls at the camp in southern Indiana where I worked, told
the story with much enthusiasm: "I got a funny-scary story. One time this
boy and girl were walking home from their uncle's house, 'cause they stayed
too late, and they were walking past this house and people say it was
haunted. And then they stopped to look at it and they heard something say,
202 TALES AND LEGENDS
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? ? 'It floats! It floats! ' And then the little girl was real scared, she said, 'What
floats? What floats? ' And he said, 'Ivory soap floats'" (Tucker 1977, 122-
123). From the reaction of the other children to Stacy's story, it seemed that
"It Floats" had lost some of its topical appeal since the time of my own camp-
ing experiences. There was not much laughter, and some of the children were
downright confused about the punchline; what did it matter if the soap
floated? In the 1950s and early 1960s, when the manufacturers of Ivory Soap
put the slogan "It floats" into a lot of their commercials, the story had much
more appeal. Today Ivory Soap is known for its purity and its history of being
passed down from mother to daughter (according to the television commer-
cials). As advertising changes, storytelling may undergo adaptations.
One noteworthy aspect of Stacy's story is the fact that the girl, not the
boy, has the courage to ask the disembodied voice, "What floats? " Even
though she is "real scared," she takes the risk of confronting the voice and
thus wins reassurance. We can see a close identification of the narrator with
the protagonist in this story and other variants, such as the one collected from
Jim, a ten-year-old boy, by John Vlach. In Jim's story three boys discover a
haunted house in the country; two of them get killed, and the third asks the
voice what floats (Vlach 1971, 101-02). Another contrast between Jim's story
and Stacy's is the absence of any real expression of fear in the former com-
pared to the fright in the latter. Since Jim is three years older than Stacy, he
can reel off a funny-scary story without any trepidations; and besides, admit-
ting to being scared seems less common in boys' funny-scary stories.
"It Floats" is just one of the many stories that belongs to the Aarne-
Thompson tale type 326, The Youth Who Wanted to Learn What Fear Is.
The essence of this plot structure is a confrontation with a spooky, often
disembodied apparition; it may be a voice or some other kind of peculiar
noise, like rapping from a cupboard. The Grimms' tale that gives type 326
its name is about setting out to learn fear, with a silly conclusion to the quest:
The hero learns to shiver by having some slippery minnows poured down
his back (Magoun and Krappe 1960, 12-20). Not all variants of type 326
end with a shiver, but they all have to do with encountering the unknown
and getting control of one's own feelings. This process is exactly what the
funny-scary story is all about; the form of the ghost matters very little.
"Bloody Fingers," another very popular variant of type 326, some-
times has a victorious baby as its central character. Young narrators enjoy
identifying with this small hero, who responds to a ghost more bravely than
adults do. Sometimes the one who answers the ghost is a hippie, and other
times it is a teenager, a man, or a woman. As in "It Floats," the only noise
made by the ghost is a monotonously repeated phrase. The ominous wail
zo3
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? ? "Bloody Fingers! " may come from a bathroom, a basement, an attic, or a
telephone, depending on the whim of the storyteller. The punchline also has
many forms, from the polite "May I have a band-aid? " spoken by the ghost
himself in eight-and-a-half-year-old Jennifer's version (Tucker 1977, 268) to
the more cocky "Cool, man, cool. Go get a band-aid! " in the tale told by
ten-year-old Kenny (Vlach 1971, 100). All of these versions are united by a
simple goal: to have the ghost verbally put in its place by a person-usually
a very young person-who has complete control of the situation.
Perhaps the oldest and most beloved funny-scary story is "The Golden
Arm," a camp and slumber party classic. Samuel Langhorne Clemens wrote
an essay about the delicacy of delivering this story's punchline at exactly the
right moment (Clemens 1897), and many other people have raved about its
shocking "jump ending" during the past century. When the story is told well,
the narrator grabs whoever is closest to him and shouts, "YOU GOT IT! "
"I GOTCHA! " or some such fitting phrase to make the climax complete. A
thorough bibliography of "Golden Arm" variants can be found in Sylvia
Grider's dissertation, "The Supernatural Narratives of Children" (Grider
1976, 557-83).
While "The Golden Arm" still flourishes as a frequently told story,
its climax is often mangled or misunderstood by child narrators. The main
development of the story is usually much the same, with a severed arm, a
golden replacement, and a ghost's walk to reclaim the arm after death. Ten-
year-old Patricia's version is characteristic: "Okay, this one about a golden
arm. There was this man and this woman, they got in a automobile acci-
dent, and this lady, they had to go to the hospital, and, um, they had to chop
her arm off, 'cause it looked like a, you could see her bones and everything,
they had to chop her arm off and they gave her a golden arm, and then when
they, when they went home, she died of some disease, and the man took the
arm off to remember her by. And every night she'd come back and say, 'I
want my golden arm, I want my golden arm,' and um, he got real scared. "
So far, so good, but Patricia finishes the story off with the surprising words
"he found her golden arm hanging up by a rope in the, um, garage" (Tucker
1977, 491-92). I have heard other children in the first few years of elemen-
tary school say a soft "I gotcha" without a grab, give a lame answer to the
ghost such as "I took it because I was gettin' poor," or simply give up in
despair: "I can't remember it! " This uncertainty may be attributable to weak
versions of the tale in circulation, or, more likely, to the difficulty that young
schoolchildren have with such an artful climax. Since "The Golden Arm"
is most popular among younger children, however, it can fall out of a child's
active repertoire before the punchline is ever properly mastered.
204 TALES AND LEGENDS
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? ? "The Golden Arm" ends differently from "Bloody Fingers" and the
others of that group, but it is still a bona fide funny-scary story. The jump
or grab at the end is not as immediately funny as a humorous retort, but it
is a splendid releaser of tension. The shout of "You got it! " defuses the sus-
pense generated by the story, and the foolish look on the face of the grabbed
victim is the stuff of which comedy is made. The story becomes a spoof rather
than a drama, and everyone present can enjoy being part of such a ridicu-
lous situation.
The tale type to which "The Golden Arm" belongs is Aarne-Thomp-
son 366, The Man from the Gallows.
