The Story-Teller

"The Story-Teller" by Hector Hugh Munro, also known as Saki, is a short story that revolves around a dull outing with children and their aunt, who struggle to entertain them. In contrast, a witty and cynical man, referred to as the "story-teller," captivates the children with a vividly imaginative tale that highlights the absurdity of adult conventions and societal expectations. Through his storytelling, he not only engages the children but also exposes the limitations of their mundane experiences, ultimately prompting reflections on the nature of storytelling and the contrast between innocence and the complexities of adult life.

• Short story

								
It was a hot afternoon, and the railway carriage was correspondingly
sultry, and the next stop was at Templecombe, nearly an hour ahead.  The
occupants of the carriage were a small girl, and a smaller girl, and a
small boy.  An aunt belonging to the children occupied one corner seat,
and the further corner seat on the opposite side was occupied by a
bachelor who was a stranger to their party, but the small girls and the
small boy emphatically occupied the compartment.  Both the aunt and the
children were conversational in a limited, persistent way, reminding one
of the attentions of a housefly that refuses to be discouraged.  Most of
the aunt’s remarks seemed to begin with “Don’t,” and nearly all of the
children’s remarks began with “Why?”  The bachelor said nothing out loud.
“Don’t, Cyril, don’t,” exclaimed the aunt, as the small boy began
smacking the cushions of the seat, producing a cloud of dust at each
blow.

“Come and look out of the window,” she added.

The child moved reluctantly to the window.  “Why are those sheep being
driven out of that field?” he asked.

“I expect they are being driven to another field where there is more
grass,” said the aunt weakly.

“But there is lots of grass in that field,” protested the boy; “there’s
nothing else but grass there.  Aunt, there’s lots of grass in that
field.”

“Perhaps the grass in the other field is better,” suggested the aunt
fatuously.

“Why is it better?” came the swift, inevitable question.

“Oh, look at those cows!” exclaimed the aunt.  Nearly every field along
the line had contained cows or bullocks, but she spoke as though she were
drawing attention to a rarity.

“Why is the grass in the other field better?” persisted Cyril.

The frown on the bachelor’s face was deepening to a scowl.  He was a
hard, unsympathetic man, the aunt decided in her mind.  She was utterly
unable to come to any satisfactory decision about the grass in the other
field.

The smaller girl created a diversion by beginning to recite “On the Road
to Mandalay.”  She only knew the first line, but she put her limited
knowledge to the fullest possible use.  She repeated the line over and
over again in a dreamy but resolute and very audible voice; it seemed to
the bachelor as though some one had had a bet with her that she could not
repeat the line aloud two thousand times without stopping.  Whoever it
was who had made the wager was likely to lose his bet.

“Come over here and listen to a story,” said the aunt, when the bachelor
had looked twice at her and once at the communication cord.

The children moved listlessly towards the aunt’s end of the carriage.
Evidently her reputation as a story-teller did not rank high in their
estimation.

In a low, confidential voice, interrupted at frequent intervals by loud,
petulant questionings from her listeners, she began an unenterprising and
deplorably uninteresting story about a little girl who was good, and made
friends with every one on account of her goodness, and was finally saved
from a mad bull by a number of rescuers who admired her moral character.

“Wouldn’t they have saved her if she hadn’t been good?” demanded the
bigger of the small girls.  It was exactly the question that the bachelor
had wanted to ask.

“Well, yes,” admitted the aunt lamely, “but I don’t think they would have
run quite so fast to her help if they had not liked her so much.”

“It’s the stupidest story I’ve ever heard,” said the bigger of the small
girls, with immense conviction.

“I didn’t listen after the first bit, it was so stupid,” said Cyril.

The smaller girl made no actual comment on the story, but she had long
ago recommenced a murmured repetition of her favourite line.

“You don’t seem to be a success as a story-teller,” said the bachelor
suddenly from his corner.

The aunt bristled in instant defence at this unexpected attack.

“It’s a very difficult thing to tell stories that children can both
understand and appreciate,” she said stiffly.

“I don’t agree with you,” said the bachelor.

“Perhaps you would like to tell them a story,” was the aunt’s retort.

“Tell us a story,” demanded the bigger of the small girls.

“Once upon a time,” began the bachelor, “there was a little girl called
Bertha, who was extraordinarily good.”

The children’s momentarily-aroused interest began at once to flicker; all
stories seemed dreadfully alike, no matter who told them.

“She did all that she was told, she was always truthful, she kept her
clothes clean, ate milk puddings as though they were jam tarts, learned
her lessons perfectly, and was polite in her manners.”

“Was she pretty?” asked the bigger of the small girls.

“Not as pretty as any of you,” said the bachelor, “but she was horribly
good.”

There was a wave of reaction in favour of the story; the word horrible in
connection with goodness was a novelty that commended itself.  It seemed
to introduce a ring of truth that was absent from the aunt’s tales of
infant life.

“She was so good,” continued the bachelor, “that she won several medals
for goodness, which she always wore, pinned on to her dress.  There was a
medal for obedience, another medal for punctuality, and a third for good
behaviour.  They were large metal medals and they clicked against one
another as she walked.  No other child in the town where she lived had as
many as three medals, so everybody knew that she must be an extra good
child.”

“Horribly good,” quoted Cyril.

“Everybody talked about her goodness, and the Prince of the country got
to hear about it, and he said that as she was so very good she might be
allowed once a week to walk in his park, which was just outside the town.
It was a beautiful park, and no children were ever allowed in it, so it
was a great honour for Bertha to be allowed to go there.”

“Were there any sheep in the park?” demanded Cyril.

“No;” said the bachelor, “there were no sheep.”

“Why weren’t there any sheep?” came the inevitable question arising out
of that answer.

The aunt permitted herself a smile, which might almost have been
described as a grin.

“There were no sheep in the park,” said the bachelor, “because the
Prince’s mother had once had a dream that her son would either be killed
by a sheep or else by a clock falling on him.  For that reason the Prince
never kept a sheep in his park or a clock in his palace.”

The aunt suppressed a gasp of admiration.

“Was the Prince killed by a sheep or by a clock?” asked Cyril.

“He is still alive, so we can’t tell whether the dream will come true,”
said the bachelor unconcernedly; “anyway, there were no sheep in the
park, but there were lots of little pigs running all over the place.”

“What colour were they?”

“Black with white faces, white with black spots, black all over, grey
with white patches, and some were white all over.”

The story-teller paused to let a full idea of the park’s treasures sink
into the children’s imaginations; then he resumed:

“Bertha was rather sorry to find that there were no flowers in the park.
She had promised her aunts, with tears in her eyes, that she would not

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