clay round it.” “Why, there’s clay in the playground.” “You could put the meat into a skin bag or a basket.” Asked if the skin or basket could be set on the fire, or if anything could be done to keep the basket from catching fire, the answer comes, “Yes, dab clay round it. Then,” joyfully, “it would hold water and you _could_ boil.” “What would happen to the clay when it was put on the fire?” This has to be discovered by a quick experiment, but the children readily guess that when the hot water is taken off the fire there would be “a sort of clay basin. Then they could make more! and plates and cups!”
Experiments depend upon circumstances and upon the age of the children. A thick and tiny basin put into a hot part of an ordinary fire does harden and hold water to a certain extent even without glazing. But elaborate baking may also be done.
I have found it convenient to take weaving as a bridge to history stories, by using Sir Frederick Leighton’s picture of the Phoenicians bartering cloth for skins with the early Britons. The children are told that the people dressed in cloth come from near the Bible-story country, and those dressed in skins are the long-ago people of this very country. What would these people think of the cloth? “They would think it was animals’ skins.” And what would they do? “They’d feel it and look at it.” So cloth is produced and we pull it to pieces, first into threads and then into hairs, and the children say the hairs are like “fur.” Then sheep’s wool is produced and we try to make thread. Attempts at thread-making and then at weaving last a long time, and along with this come some history stories, probably arising out of the question, “How did people know about all this?” The children are told about the writings of Julius Caesar, and pictures of Roman ships and houses are shown, beside pictures of coracles and bee-hive dwellings, etc. Old coins, a flint battle-axe, some Roman pottery are also shown, along with descriptions and pictures of the Roman villa at Brading and other Roman remains. The children are thus helped to realise that other countries exist where the people were far ahead of those in this country, and they can begin to understand how social conditions vary, and how nations act upon each other.
The work varies considerably from year to year, according to how it takes hold upon the children’s interest. But children of eight to nine are usually considered ready for broad ideas of the world as a whole, and the inquiry into where Julius Caesar came from, and why he came, gives a fair start.
CHAPTER XIII
NEW NEEDS AND NEW HELPS
I am old, so old, I can write a letter.
Writing and reading have no place in the actual Kindergarten, much less arithmetic. The stories are told to the child; drawing, modelling and such-like will express all he wants to express in any permanent form, and speech, as Froebel says, is “the element in which he lives.” His counting is of the simplest, and the main thing is to see that he does not merely repeat a series while he handles material, but that the series corresponds with the objects. Even this can be left alone if it seems to annoy the little one. In the school he is on a very different level, he has attained to the abstract, he can use signs: he can express thoughts which he could not draw, and can communicate with those who are absent. He can read any letter received and he is no longer dependent on grown-ups for stories. He can count his own money and can get correct change in small transactions, and he can probably do a variety of sums which are of no use to him at all.
Between these two comes what Froebel called the Transition or Connecting Class, in which the child learns the meaning of the signs which stand for speech, and those which make calculation less arduous for weak memories.
Much has been written as to when and how children are to be taught to read. Some great authorities would put it off till eight or even ten. Stanley Hall says between six and eight, while Dr. Montessori teaches children of five and even of four. Froebel would have supported Stanley Hall and would wait till the age of six. The strongest reason for keeping children back from books is a physiological one. In the _Psychology and Physiology of Reading_[30] strong arguments are adduced against early reading as very injurious to eyesight, so it is surprising that Dr. Montessori begins so soon. It has been said that her children only learn to write, not to read, but it is to be supposed that they can read what they write, and therefore can read other material.
[Footnote 30: Macmillan.]
If we agree not to begin until six years old, the next question is the method. The alphabetic, whereby children were taught the letter names and then memorised the spelling of each single word, has no supporters. But controversy still goes on as to whether children shall begin with word wholes or with the phonic sounds. It is not a matter of vital importance, for the children who begin with words come to phonics later, and so far as English is concerned, the children who begin with phonics cannot go far without meeting irregularities, unless indeed they are limited to books like those of Miss Dale.
In other languages which are phonic the difficulties are minimised. Children in the ordinary Elementary Schools in Italy, though taught in large classes, can write long sentences to dictation in four or five months.[31] But in Italian each letter has its definite sound and every letter is sounded. It is true that these children appear to spend most of their time in formal work.
[Footnote 31: A class of children who began in the middle of October wrote correctly to dictation on March 28, “Patria e lavoro siamo, miei cari bambini, parole sante per voi. Amate la nostra cara e bella Italia, crescete onesti e laboriosi e sarete degni di lei.”]
The Froebelian who believes in learning by action will, of course, expect the children to make or write from the beginning as a method of learning, whether she begins with words or with sounds. But in English, unless simplified spelling is introduced, the time must soon come when reproduction must lag behind recognition. One child said with pathos one day, “May we spell as we like to-day, for I’ve got such a lot to say?”
The phonic method dates back to about 1530. The variety used in the Pestalozzi-Froebel House is said to have originated with Jacotot (1780-1840). It is called the “Observing-Speaking-Writing and Reading Method.” Froebel’s own adaptation was simpler; it was his principle to begin with a desire on the part of the child, and he gives his method in story form, “How Lina learned to write and read.” Lina is six, she has left the Kindergarten and is presently to attend the Primary School. She notices with what pleasure her father, perhaps a somewhat exceptional parent, receives and answers letters. She desires to write and her mother makes her say her own name carefully, noticing first the “open” or vowel sounds and then by noting the position of her tongue she finds the closed sounds. As she hears the sound she is shown how to make it. Her father leaves home at the right moment, Lina writes to him, receives and is able to read his answer, printed like her own in Roman capitals. He sends her a picture book and she is helped to see how the letters resemble those she has learned and the reading is accomplished.
In England the phonic method best known is probably Miss Dale’s. It is very ingenious, the analysis is thorough and the books are prettily got up, but to those who feel that reading, though a most valuable tool, still is but a tool and one not needed for children under seven, the method seems over-elaborate. Much depends upon the teacher but to see fifty children sitting still while one child places the letters in their places on the board suggests a great deal of lost time. The system is also so rigidly phonic that it is a long time before a child can pick up an ordinary book with any profit.
Stanley Hall holds that it is best to combine methods, and probably most of us do this. “The growing agreement” is, he says, “that there is no one and only orthodox way of teaching and learning this greatest and hardest of all the arts, in which ear, mouth, eye and hand must each in turn train the others to automatic perfection, in ways hard and easy, by devices old and new, mechanically and consciously, actively and passively … this is a great gain and seems now secure. While a good pedagogic method is one of the most economic–both of labour and of money–of all inventions, we should never forget that the brightest children, and indeed most children, if taught individually or at home, need but very few refinements of method. Idiots, as Mr. Seguin first showed, need and profit greatly by very elaborated methods in learning how to walk, feed and dress themselves, which would only retard a normal child. Above all it should be borne in mind that the stated use of any method does not preclude the incidental use of any and perhaps of _all_ others.”
An adaptation of phonic combined with the word method can be found in _Education by Life_. It is simpler than Miss Dale’s, and being combined with the word method, children get much more quickly to real stories. Stanley Hall advocates the individual teaching of reading, and since Dr. Montessori called every one’s attention to this we have used it much more freely, and have found that once the children know some sounds, there is a great advantage in a certain amount of individual learning, but class teaching has its own advantages and it seems best to have a combination. Long since we taught a boy who was mentally deficient and incapable of intelligent analysis, by whole words and corresponding pictures. Miss Payne has developed this to a great extent. It is practically an appeal to the interest in solving puzzles. The children choose their own pictures and are supplied with envelopes containing either single sounds, or whole words corresponding with the picture. They lay _h_ on the house, _g_ on the girl, _p_ on the pond, and later do the same with words. They certainly enjoy it, and no one is ever kept waiting. Sometimes the puzzle is to set in order the words of a nursery rhyme which they already know, sometimes it is to read and draw everything mentioned.
It is not only how children learn to read that is important: even more so is what they read. Much unintelligent reading in later life is due to the reading primer in which there was nothing to understand. Children should read books, as adults do, to get something out of them. The time often wasted in teaching reading too soon would be far better employed in cultivating a taste for good reading by telling or reading to the children good stories and verses.[32]
[Footnote 32: It is difficult to find easy material that is worth giving to intelligent children, and we have been glad to find Brown’s _Young Artists’ Readers_, Series A.]
A revolution is going on just now in the method of teaching writing. It is now generally recognised that much time and effort have been wasted in teaching children to join letters which are easier to read unjoined.
A very interesting article appeared in the Fielden School Demonstration Record No. II., and Mr. Graily Hewitt has brought the subject of writing as it was done before copperplate was invented very much to the fore. The Child Study Society has published a little monograph on the subject giving the experience of different teachers and specimens of the writing.
Little Marjorie Fleming was a voracious reader with a remarkable capacity for writing. Her spelling was unconventional at times, but there was never any doubt about her meaning. She expressed herself strongly on many subjects, and one of these was arithmetic. “I am now going to tell you the horrible and wretched plaege (plague) that my multiplication gives me you cant conceive it the most Devilish thing is 8 times 8 and 7 times 7 it is what nature itself cant endure.” Yet “if you speak with the tongues of men and angels and make not mention of arithmetic it profiteth you nothing,” says Miss Wiggin.
There are a few little children who are really fond of number work. There are not many of them, and they would probably learn more if they were left to themselves. There are even a few mathematical geniuses who hardly want teaching, but who are worthy of being taught by a Professor of Mathematics, always supposing that he is worthy of them. But the majority of children would probably be farther advanced at ten or twelve if they had no teaching till they were seven. They ought to learn through actual number games, through keeping score for other games, and through any kind of calculation that is needed for construction or in real life.
There are but few true number games, but dominoes and card games introduce the number groups. In “Old maid” the children pair the groups and so learn to recognise them; in dominoes they use this knowledge, while “Snap” involves quick recognition. Any one can make up a game in which scoring is necessary. Ninepins or skittles is a number game, and one can score by using number groups, or by fetching counters, shells, beads, etc., as reminders. The number groups are important; they form what Miss Punnett calls “a scheme” for those who have no great visualising power, and they combine the smallest groups into large ones. It ought to be remembered that the repetition of a group is an easier thing to deal with than the combination of two groups, that is, six is a name for two threes and eight for two fours, but five and seven have not so definite a meaning.[33]
[Footnote 33: This very morning a child cutting out brown paper pennies for a shop said, ‘Look! there are two sixes; that _would_ be a big number!’]
The Tillich bricks are good playthings, and so is cardboard money–shillings, sixpences, threepences, pence and halfpence.
When the names have a meaning the children will want signs, i.e. figures. Clock figures (Roman) can be used first as simplest, showing the closed fingers and the thumb for V; the only difficulty is IX. The Arabic figures can be made by drawing round the number groups, or by laying out their shapes in little sticks. 5 and 8 show very plainly how to arrange five and eight sticks; for two and three they are placed horizontally, the curves merely joining the lines.
In teaching children to count, the decimal system should be kept well in mind, and the teacher should see that thirteen means three-ten, and that the children can touch the three and the ten as they speak the word. Eleven and twelve ought to be called oneteen and twoteen, half in joke. The idea of grouping should never be lost sight of, and larger numbers should at first be names for so many threes, fours, fives, etc. In order to keep the meaning clear the children should say threety, fourty and fivety, but there should be no need to write these numbers. The Kindergarten sticks tied in bundles of ten are quite convenient counting material when any counting is necessary. Tram tickets and cigarette pictures can be used in the same way.
The decimal notation is a great thing to learn, how great any one will discover who will take the trouble to work a simple addition sum, involving hundreds, in Roman figures. Children are always taught the number of the house they live in, which makes a starting-point. If, for instance, 35 is compared with XXXV a meaning is given to the 3.
Many teachers make formal sums of numbers which could quite well be added without any writing at all. By using any kind of material by which ten can be made plain as a higher unit–bundles of sticks or tickets, Sonnenschein’s apparatus, Miss Punnett’s number scheme, or the new Montessori apparatus with its chains of beads: the material used is of no great consequence–children should be able to deal as easily with tens as with ones, and there is no need for little formal sums which have no meaning.
Everything in daily life should be used before formal work is attempted. “Measure, reckon, weigh, compare,” said Rousseau. Children love to measure, whether by lineal or liquid measure, or by learning to tell the time or to use a pair of scales.
There are a few occasions when interest is in actual number relations, as when a child for himself discovers that two sixes is six twos. One boy on his own account compared a shilling and an hour, and said that he could set out a shilling in five parts by the clock. He looked at the clock and chose out a sixpence, a threepence, and 3 pennies. But usually what is abstract belongs to a stage farther on.
So we can end where we began, by letting Froebel once more define the Kindergarten.
“Creches and Infant Schools must be raised into Kindergartens wherein the child is treated and trained according to his whole nature, so that the claims of his body, his heart and his head, his active, moral and intellectual powers, are all satisfied and developed.
“Not the training of the memory, not learning by rote, not familiarity with the appearances of things, but culture by means of action, realities and life itself, bring a blessing upon the individual, and thereby a blessing upon the whole community; since each one, be he the highest or the humblest, is a member of the community.”
PART II
THE CHILD IN THE STATE SCHOOL
I. THINGS AS THEY ARE
CHAPTER XIV
CERTAIN CHARACTERISTICS OF GROWTH
Early in the nineteenth century two men, moved by very different impulses, founded what might be considered the beginnings of the Infant School. For nearly fifty years their work grew separately, but now they are merged together into something that seems to be permanent.
In a bleak Lanarkshire factory village in the south of Scotland, Robert Owen, millowner, socialist and Welshman, found that unless he could provide for the education of the children of his factory hands, no parents would consent to settle in the district and he would be without workers in his mill. As a consequence Owen found himself in the position of education authority, privy purse and organiser, and he did not flinch from the situation; he imposed no cheap makeshift, because he believed in education as an end and not as an economic means; a twofold institution was therefore established by him in 1816, one part for the children of recognised school age, presumably over six, and one for those under school age, whose only entrance test was their ability to walk. It is with the latter that we are concerned.
The instructions given by Owen to the man and the women he chose for his Infant School may serve to show his general aim; the babies under their care were above all to be happy, to lead a natural life, outdoor or indoor as weather permitted; learning their surroundings, playing, singing, dancing, “not annoyed with books,” not shadowed by the needs of the upper school, but living the life their age demanded. In the light of the 1918 Education Bill this seems almost prophetic.
Their guardians were selected solely on the grounds of personality, and expected to work in the spirit in which Owen conceived the school. They were gentle, without personal ambition, fond of children, caring only for their welfare; but the sole guiding principle was Owen, and this was at once the success and doom of the school, for the personality of Owen was thus made the pivot round which the school revolved; without him there was nothing to take hold of.
Very soon the experiment became known: persons with the stamp of authority came to see it, and even official hearts were moved by the reality of the children’s happiness and their consequent development. The visitors felt, rather than knew, that the thing was right. Arrangements were made to establish similar institutions in London, and after one or two experiments, a permanent one was founded which was under the control of a man named Wilderspin.
Wilderspin’s contribution to education is difficult to estimate; certainly he never caught Owen’s spirit, or realised his simple purpose: he had ambitions reaching beyond the happiness of the children; and far from trying to make their education suit their stage of growth, he sought to produce the “Infant Prodigy,” just as a contemporary of his sought to produce the “Infant Saint.” From what we can see, his aim was what he honestly believed to be right, as far as his light went; but he sought for no light beyond his own; and his outlook was not so narrow as his application was unintelligent. Owen was still in Lanarkshire to be consulted; Rousseau had already written _Emile_, Pestalozzi’s work was by this time fairly well known in England, the children were there to be studied, but Wilderspin pursued his limited and unenlightened work, until the Infant School was almost a dead thing in his hands and in the hands of those who followed. The following is Birchenough’s account:
“The school was in charge of a master and a female assistant, presumably his wife. Much attention was given to training children in good personal habits, cleanliness, tidiness, punctuality, etc., and to moral training. Great stress was laid on information…. The curriculum included reading, writing, arithmetic, geometry, lessons on common objects, geography, singing and religion, and an effort was made to make the work interesting and ‘concrete.’ To this end much importance was attached to object-lessons, to the use of illustrations, to questioning and exposition, while the memory was aided by means of didactic verse…. The real teaching devolved upon the master and mistress. This was of two kinds: class teaching to a section of the children of approximately equal attainments either on the floor or in the class-room, and collective teaching to the whole school, regardless of age, on the gallery.”
It is a curious coincidence that in 1816, the year of Owen’s experiment, a humble educational experiment was begun by Frederick Froebel in a very small village in the heart of the Thuringian forest. Like Owen, his aim was education solely for its own sake, and he had a simple faith in the human goodness of the older Germany. But he came to education as a philosopher rather than a social reformer, with a strong belief in its power to improve humanity. This belief remained with him; it is embodied in his aim, and leavened all his work.
The first twenty years of his experience convinced Froebel that the neglect or mismanagement of the earliest years of a child’s life rendered useless all that was done later. What came to Owen as an inspiration grew in Froebel to be a reasoned truth, and like Owen he put it into practice. In 1837 the little Kindergarten at Blankenburg was begun, with the village children as pupils; the beautiful surroundings of forest-covered hills and green slopes made a very different background from the bleak little Lanarkshire village, overshadowed by the factory, where Owen’s school stood, but the spirit was the same; the children were in surroundings suitable for their growth, and the very name of Kindergarten does more to make Froebel’s aim clear than any explanation. He lived to see other Kindergartens established in different parts of Thuringia, and about the middle of the nineteenth century some of his teachers came to England, and did similar work in London, Croydon and Manchester. The private Kindergarten became an established thing, and educationalists came to understand something of its meaning.
In 1870 the London School Board suggested that the Kindergarten system should be introduced into their Infant Schools, and in doing so they were unconsciously the factors in bringing together the work initiated by Owen and by Froebel. The Infant School of Wilderspin, already briefly described, was almost a dead thing, with its galleries and its mechanical prodigies, its object-lessons and its theology; now it was breathed upon by the spirit of the man who said: “Play is the highest phase of child development, of human development at this period: for it is the spontaneous representation of the inner, from inner necessity and impulse.” “Play is the purest, most spiritual activity of man.” “The plays of childhood are the germinal leaves of all later life.” “If the child is injured at this period, if the germinal leaves of the future tree of his life are marred at this time, he will only with the greatest difficulty and the utmost effort grow into strong manhood.”
It is perhaps not altogether to be wondered at that teachers at first seized the apparatus rather than the spirit of the Kindergarten when we remember that we have not accepted in anything like its fulness the teaching of Froebel. Formalism and materialism always die slowly: play in the Board School was interpreted as something that had to be dictated and taught: the gifts, occupations and games were organised, and appeared on the time-table as subjects side by side with Wilderspin’s theology and object-lessons. The combination must have been curious, but even with its formalism the change was welcome to the children: at least they could use their hands and do something; at least they could leave their back-breaking galleries and dance and skip, even though the doing and the dancing were according to strict rule.
The change was not welcome to all teachers. As late as 1907 a headmistress who was a product of the training of that time remarked: “We have Kindergarten on Wednesday afternoons and then it is over for the week.” But there were teachers who saw beneath the bricks and sticks and pretty movements, who felt the spiritual side and kept themselves alive till greater opportunities came. What was imperishable has remained; the system of prescribed activities is nearly dead, but the spirit of the true Kindergarten is more alive than ever.
The change from the early ‘eighties till now is difficult to describe, because it is a growth of spirit, a gradual change of values, rather than a change in outward form; there has been no definite throwing off, and no definite adoption, of any one system or theory; but the difference between the best Infant Schools of 1880 and the best Infant Schools of to-day is chiefly a difference in outlook. The older schools aimed at copying a method, while the schools of to-day are more concerned with realising the spirit.
At present we are trying to reconstruct education for the new world after the war, and so it is convenient to regard the intervening period of nearly half a century as a transition period: during that time the education of the child under eight has changed much more than the education of older children, at least in the elementary school; and there have been certain marked phases that, though apparently insignificant in themselves, have marked stages of progress in thought.
Perhaps the most significant and most important of these was the effect of the child-study movement on the formal and external side of Kindergarten work. It is first of all to America that we owe this, to the pioneer Stanley Hall, and more especially here to Mr. Earl Barnes. Very slowly, but surely, it was evident to the more enlightened teachers that children had their own way of learning and doing, and the adult-imposed system meant working against nature. For the logical method of presenting material from the simple to the complex, from the known to the unknown, from the concrete to the abstract, was substituted the psychological method of watching the children’s way of learning and developing. Teachers found that what they considered to be “the simple” was not the simple to children; what they took to be “the known” was the unfamiliar to children. For instance, the “simple” in geography, in the adult sense, was the definition of an island, with which most of us began that study, and in geometry it was the point. To children of the ordinary type, both are far-away ideas, and not related to everyday experiences; “the known” in arithmetic, for example, was to teachers the previous lesson, quite regardless of the fact that arithmetic enters into many problems of life outside school. The life in school and the life outside school were, in these early days of infant teaching, two separate things, and only occasionally did a teacher stoop to take an example from everyday life. A little girl in one of the poorest schools brought her baby to show her teacher, and proudly displayed the baby’s powers of speech–“Say a pint of ‘alf-an-‘alf for teacher,” said the little girl to the baby by way of encouragement to both. This is the kind of rude awakening teachers get, from time to time, when they realise how much of the real child eludes them. Psychology has made it clear that life is a unity and must be so regarded.
Part of this child-study movement has resulted in the slow but sure death of formalism: large classes, material results, and a lack of psychology made formalism the path of least resistance. Painting became “blobbing,” constructive work was interpreted as “courses” of paper folding, cutting, tearing; books of these courses were published with minute directions for a graduated sequence. The aim was obedient imitation on the part of the child, and the imagined virtues accruing to him in consequence were good habits, patience, accuracy and technical skill. Self-expression and creativeness were still only theories.
A second interesting phase of the transition period was the method adopted for the training of the senses. From the days of Comenius till now the importance of this has held its place firmly, but the means have greatly changed. Pestalozzi’s object-lesson was adopted by Wilderspin and thoroughly sterilised; many teachers still remember the lessons on the orange, leather, camphor, paper, sugar, in which the teacher’s senses were trained, for only she came in contact with the object, and the children from their galleries answered questions on an object remote from most of their senses, and only dimly visible to their eyes. Similar lessons were given after 1870 on Froebel’s gift II. in which the ball, cylinder and cube were treated in the same manner: progress was slow, but sometimes the children followed nature’s promptings and played with their specimens; this was followed by books of “gift-plays,” where organised play took the place of organised observation.
About 1890 or thereabouts the Nature Study movement swept over the schools, and “nature specimens” then became the material for sense training: as far as possible each child had a specimen, and by the minute examination of these, stimulated their senses and stifled their appreciation of all that was beautiful.
Question and answer still dominated the activity; the poor little withered snowdrop took the place of the dead camphor or leather. But underlying all the paralysing organisation the truth was slowly growing, and the children were being brought nearer to real things.
A third phase in this transition period is that known as “correlation”; most teachers remember the elaborate programmes of work that drove them to extremes in finding “connections.” The following, taken from a reputable book of the time, will exemplify the principle:
A WEEK’S PROGRAMME
Object Lesson The Horse.
Phonetics The Foal, _oa_ sound. Number Problems on the work of horses. Story The Bell of Atri [story of a horse ringing a bell]. Song Busy Blacksmith [shoeing a horse]. Game The Blacksmith’s Shop.
Reading On the Horse.
Poetry Kindness to Animals. Paper Cutting The Bell of Atri.
Paper Folding A Trough.
Free-arm Drawing A Horseshoe.
Clay Modelling A Carrot for the Horse. Brushwork A Turnip for the Horse. Brown Paper Drawing A Stable.
Underneath it all the truth was growing, namely, the need of making associations and so unifying the children’s lines. But the process of finding the truth was slow and cumbersome.
A fourth phase of the early Infant School was the strong belief of both teachers and inspectors in uniformity of work and of results. It is difficult to disentangle this from the paralysing influences of payment by results and large classes: it was probably the teachers’ unconscious expression of the instinct of self-preservation, when working against the heaviest odds. But it was constantly evident to the teacher that any attempt on a child’s part to be an individual, either in work or in conduct, had to be arrested: and the theory of individual development was regarded as so Utopian that the idea itself was lost. Goodness was synonymous with uniform obedience and silence; naughtiness with individuality, spontaneity and desire to investigate. A frequently-heard admonition on the part of the teacher was, “Teacher didn’t tell you to do it that way–that’s a naughty way”; but such an attitude of mind was doubtless generated by the report of the inspector when he commended a class by saying: “The work of the class showed a satisfactory uniformity.”
To obtain uniform results practice had to come before actual performance, and many weary hours were spent over drill in reading, drill in number, drill in handwork, drill in needlework. The extreme point was reached when babies of three had thimble and needle drill long before they began needlework. There were also conduct drills; Miss Grant, of Devons Road School, remembers a school where the babies “practised” their conduct before the visit of the “spectre,” as they called him, he being represented as a stick set up on a chair. There is a curious symbolism in the whole occasion.
It is difficult to see the good underlying this phase, but it was there. There is undoubtedly a place for practice, though not before performance, and uniformity was undoubtedly the germ of an ideal.
All these phases stand for both progress and arrest. The average person is readier to accept methods than investigate principles; but we must recognise that all struggles and searchings after truth have made the road of progress shorter for us by many a mile.
Perhaps the chief cause of stumbling lay in the fact that there was no clearly realised aim or policy except that of material results. There were many fine-sounding principles in the air, but they were unrelated to each other; and the conditions of teaching were likely to crush the finest endeavours, and to make impossible a teaching that could be called educative.
CHAPTER XV
THE INFANT SCHOOL OF TO-DAY
Taking neither the best nor the worst, but the average school of to-day, it will be profitable to review shortly where it stands, to consider how far it has learnt the lessons of experience, and what kind of ideal it has set before itself.
In externals there have been many improvements. Modern buildings are better in many ways; there is more space and light, and the surroundings are more attractive. Most of the galleries have disappeared, but the furniture consists chiefly of dual desks, fixed and heavy, so that the arrangement of the room cannot be changed. The impression given to a visitor is that it is planned for listening and answering, except in the Baby Room, where there are generally light tables and chairs, and consequently no monotonous rows of children, unless a teacher arranges them thus from sheer habit. In each room is a high narrow cupboard about one quarter of the necessary size for all that education demands; most education authorities provide some good pictures, but the best are usually hung on the class-room wall behind the children, and all are above the children’s eye level. “Oh, teacher, my neck do ache!” was the only appreciative remark made by a child after a tour made of the school pictures, which were really beautiful.
As a rule the windows are too high for the children to see from, and the lower part is generally frosted. In a new school which had a view up one of the loveliest valleys in Great Britain, the windows were of this description; the head of the school explained that it was a precaution in case the children might see what was outside; in other words, they might make the mistake of seeing a real river valley instead of listening to a description of it.
In country schools of the older type the accommodation is not so good, but the newer ones are often very attractive in appearance, and have both space and light. The school garden is a common feature in the country, and it is to be regretted so few even of the plot description are to be found in town schools.
Of late years the apparatus has improved, though there is still much to be done in this direction. Instead of the original tiny boxes of gifts we have frequently real nursery bricks of a larger and more varied character, and many other nursery toys. One of the best signs of a progressive policy is that large numbers of _little_ toys have taken the place of the big expensive ones that only an occasional child could use. It is a pity that the use of toys comes to so sudden an end, and that learning by this method does not follow the babies after they have officially ceased to be babies, as is the custom in real life.
One of the most striking changes for the better is the evidence of care of the children’s health, of which some of the external signs are doctor, nurse and care committee. A sense of responsibility in this respect is gradually growing in the schools; a fair number provide for sleep, a few try to train the children to eat lunch slowly and carefully, and some try to arrange for milk or cod-liver oil in the case of very delicate children. Though these instances are very much in the minority, they represent a change of spirit. This is one of the striking characteristics of the new Education Bill. A legacy from the old formalism lies in the fact that every room has a highly organised time-table, except perhaps in the Babies’ Room, where the children’s actual needs are sometimes considered first. The morning in most classes is occupied with Scripture, Reading, Arithmetic, Writing, and some less formal work, such as Nature lesson or Recitation; some form of Physical Exercise is always taken. The afternoons are mostly devoted to Games, Stories, Handwork and Singing: this order is not universal, but the general principle holds, of taking the more difficult and formal subjects in the morning. In the Babies’ Room some preparation for reading is still too frequent. The lessons are short and the order varied, but in one single morning or afternoon there is a bewildering number of changes. Some years ago the unfortunate principle was laid down in the Code, that fifteen minutes was sufficient time for a lesson in an Infant School, and though this is not strictly followed the lessons are short and numerous, giving an unsettled character to the work; children appear to be swung at a moment’s notice from topic to topic without an apparent link or reason: for example, the day’s work may begin with the story of a little boy sent by train to the country, settled at a farm and taken out to see the _cow_ and the _sow_: soon this is found to be a reading lesson on words ending in “ow,” but after a short time the whole class is told quite suddenly, that one shilling is to be spent at a shop in town, and while they are still interested in calculating the change, paints are distributed, and the children are painting the bluebell. The whole day is apt to be of this broken character, which certainly does not make for training in mental concentration, or for a realisation of the unity of life. Some teachers still aim at correlation, but in a rather half-hearted way: others have entirely discarded it because of its strained applications, but nothing very definite has taken its place.
The curriculum which has been given is varied in character, and sometimes includes a “free period.” Except in the Babies’ Class the three R’s occupy a prominent place, and children under six spend relatively a great deal of time in formal subjects, while children between six and seven, if they are still in the Infant School, are taught to put down sums on paper, which they could nearly always calculate without such help. As soon as a child can read well, and work a fair number of sums on paper, he is considered fit for promotion, and the question of whether he understands the method of working such sums, is not considered so important as accuracy and quickness. The test of so-called intelligence for promotion is reading and number, but it is really the test of convenience, so that large numbers of children may be taught together and brought, against the laws of nature, to a uniform standard.
This poison of the promotion and uniformity test works down through the Infant School: it can be seen when the babies are diverted from their natural activities to learn reading, or when they are “examined”: it can be seen when a teacher yields up her “bright” children to fill a few empty desks, it can be seen in the grind at reading and formal arithmetic of the children under six, when weary and useless hours are spent in working against nature, and precious time is wasted that will never come back. Yet we _say_ we believe that “Children have their youth that they may play,” and that “Play is the purest, most spiritual activity of man at this stage” [childhood].
The lack of any clear aim shows itself in the fluid nature of the term “results”; to some teachers it signifies readiness for promotion, or a piece of work that presents a satisfactory external appearance, such as good writing, neat handwork, an orderly game, fluent reading. To others it means something deeper, which they discover in some chance remark of a child’s that marks the growth of the spirit, or the awakening of the interest of a child whose development is late, or the quickened power of a child to express; or evidence of independent thought and the power to use it, in some piece of handwork, or appreciation of music or literature. According to the meaning attached to the term “results” so the method of the teacher must vary; but one gets the general impression that in this respect matters are in a transitional state; the first kind of teacher is always a little uncertain of her ground and a little fearful that she is not quite “up-to-date,” while the second class of teacher is sometimes a little timid, and not quite sure that she is prepared to account for the rather subtle and intangible outcome of her work.
The same transitional character holds in the case of discipline: while what is known as “military” discipline still prevails in many schools, there are a very fair number with whom the grip has relaxed; but it is a courageous teacher that will admit the term “free discipline” which has nearly as bad a reputation as “free thought” used to have, and few are prepared to go all the way. Probably the reason lies in the vagueness of the meaning of the term, and the fact that its value is not clearly realised because it is not clearly understood. Teachers have not faced the question squarely: “What am I aiming at in promoting free discipline.”
Taking a general view of the present school, one gets the impression of a constant change of activity on the part of the children, but very little change of position, a good deal of provision for general class interest, but little for individual interest; of less demand than formerly for uniformity of results, but the existence of a good deal of uniformity of method, arresting the teacher’s own initiative; of very constant teaching on the part of the teacher and a good deal of listening and oral expression on the part of the children, of many lessons and little independent individual work. Below all this there is evident a very friendly relationship between the teacher and the children, a good deal of personal knowledge of the children on the part of the teacher, and a good deal of affection on both sides. There is less fear and more love than in the earlier days, less government and more training, less restraint and more freedom. And the children are greatly attached to their school.
From consideration of the foregoing summary it will be seen that education in the Infant School is a thing of curious patches, of strength and weakness, of light and shade; perhaps the greatest weakness is its lack of cohesion, of unification: on the one hand we find much provision for the children’s real needs, much singleness of purpose in the teacher’s work, such a genuine spirit of whole-hearted desire for their education: on the other hand, an unreasoning sense of haste, of pushing on, of introducing prematurely work for which the children admittedly are unready; an acceptance of new things on popular report, without scientific basis, and a lack of courage to maintain the truth for its own sake, in the face of so-called authority, and a craving to be modern. At the root of all this inconsistency and possibly its cause, is the lack of a guiding policy or aim, the lack of belief in the scientific or psychological basis of education, and consequently the want of that strong belief in absolute truth which helps the teacher to pass all barriers.
CHAPTER XVI
SOME VITAL PRINCIPLES
If it be true that the Infant School of to-day suffers from lack of a clear basis for its general policy, it will be profitable to have clearly before us such principles as great educators have found to be most vital to the education of young children.
We all believe that we have an aim and a high aim before us: it has been variously expressed by past educationalists, but in the main they all agree that the aim of education is conduct.
In actual practice, however, we act too often as if we only cared for economic values. If we are to live up to our educational profession, we must look our aim in the face and honestly practise what we believe.
While training of character and conduct is the accepted aim for education in general, to make this useful and practical each teacher must fix her attention on how this ultimate aim affects her own special part of the whole work. By watching the free child she will discover how best she can help him: he knows his own business, and when unfettered by advice or command shows plainly that he is chiefly concerned with _gaining experience_. He finds himself in what is to him a new and complex world of people and things; actual experience is the foundation for complete living, and the stronger the foundation the better the result of later building. _The first vital principle then is that the teacher of young children must provide life in miniature; that is, she must provide abundant raw material and opportunities for experience_.
The next question is that of the best method of gaining this actual experience. The child is unaware that he is laying foundations, he is only vaguely conscious that he finds great pleasure in certain activities, and that something impels him in certain directions. He realises no definite future, he is content with the present; he cannot work for a purpose other than the pleasure of the moment; without this stimulus concentration is impossible. In the activities of this stage he probably assimilates more actual matter than at any other period of his life, and it is the same with his acquirements of skill. In happy unconsciousness he gains knowledge of his own body and of its power, of the external world, of his mother tongue and of his relations to other people: he makes mistakes and commits faults, but these do not necessarily cripple or incriminate him. He is not considered a social outcast because he once kicked or bit, or because he threw his milk over the table; he learns to balance and adjust his muscles on a seesaw, when a fall on soft grass is a matter of little importance, and this is better than waiting till he is compelled hastily to cross a river on a narrow plank. It is all a kind of joyous rehearsal of life which we call Play. We can force a child to passivity, to formal repetitions of second-hand knowledge, to the acquisition of that for which he has no apparent need, but we can never _educate_ him by these things. “Children do not play because they are young, they have their youth that they may play,” as surely as they have their legs that they may walk.
_The second principle is therefore that the method of gaining experience lies through Play, and that by this road we can best reach work_.
The third principle is the nature of the experience that a child seeks to gain–the life he desires to live. How can we he sure that the surroundings we provide and the activities we encourage are in accord with children’s needs?
Let us imagine a child of about five to six years of age, one of a family, living in a small house to which a garden is attached; inside he has the run of the house, but keeps his own toys, picture books and collections of treasures. We will suppose that not being at school he is free to arrange his own day, sometimes alone, and sometimes with other children, or with his parents. What does he do?
He is interested in inanimate things, especially in using them, and so he plays with his toys. He builds bricks, runs engines, solves simple puzzle pictures, asks to work with his father’s gardening tools, or his mother’s cooking utensils. He is interested in the life of the garden, in the growing things, in the snail or spider he finds, in the cat, dog or rabbit of the family; he wants to dig, water and feed these various things, but he declines regular responsibility; his interest is in spurts.
He is interested in sounds, both in those he can produce and in those produced by others: soon he is interested in music, he will listen to it for considerable periods, and may join in it: at first more especially on the rhythmical side. So, too, he likes the rhythm of poetry and the melody sounds of words. He is interested in making things; on a wet day he will ask for scissors and paste, or bring out his paint box or chalks; on a fine day he mixes sand or mud with water, or builds a shelter with poles and shawls; at any time when he has an opportunity he shuts himself into the bathroom and experiments with the taps, sails boats, colours water, blows bubbles, tries to mix things, wet and dry.
He is interested in the doings of other people, in their conduct and in his own; he is more interested in their badness than in their goodness: “Tell me more of the bad things your children do,” said a little boy to his teacher aunt, and the request is significant and general; we learn so little by mere uncontrasted goodness. He is interested in the words that clothe narrations and in their style, he is impatient of a change in form of an accepted piece of prose or poetry. He is hungry for the sounds of telling words and phrases.
He is interested in reproducing the doings of other people so that he may experience them more fully, and this involves minute observation, careful and intelligent imitation, and vivid imagination. His own word for it is pretence.
There are other things that he grasps at more vaguely and later; he is dimly aware that people have lived before, and he is less dimly aware that people live in places different from his own surroundings. He realises that some of the stories, such as the fairy stories, are true in one sense, a sense that responds to something within himself; that some are true in another more material, and external sense, one concerned with things that really happen. He hears of “black men,” and of “ships that carry people across the sea,” and of “things that come back in those ships.”
He is interested in the immaterial world suggested by the mysteries of woods and gardens, he has a dim conception that there is some life beyond the visible, he feels a power behind life and he reveals this in his early questions. He is keenly interested in questions of birth and death, and sometimes comes into close contact with them. He feels that other wonders must be accounted for–the snow, thunder and lightning, the colours of summer, the changeful sea. At first the world of fairy lore may satisfy him, later comes the life of the undying spirit, but the two are continuous. He may attend “religious observances,” and these may help or they may hinder.
He is keenly interested in games, whether they are games of physical skill, of mental skill, or games of pretence. Here most especially he comes into contact with other people, and here he realises some of the experiences of social life.
Such are the most usual sides of life sought by the ordinary child, and on such must we base the surroundings we provide for our children in school, and the aspects of life to which we introduce them, commonly called subjects of the curriculum.
_Our third principle is therefore, evident: we find, in the child’s spontaneous choice, the nature of the surroundings and of the activities that he craves for; in other words, he makes his own curriculum and selects his own subject matter_.
The next consideration is the atmosphere in which a child can best develop character by means of these experiences. A young child is a stranger in an unknown, untried country: he has many strange promptings that seek for satisfaction; he has strong emotions arising from his instincts, he feels crudely and fiercely and he must act without delay, as a result of these emotions. He is like a tourist in a new strange country, fresh and eager, and with a similar holiday spirit of adventure: the stimulation of the new arouses a desire to interpret, to investigate and to ask questions: it arouses strong emotions to like or dislike, to fear, to be curious; it leads to certain modes of conduct, as a result of these emotions. Picture such a young tourist buttonholed by a blase guide, who had forgotten what first impressions meant, who insisted on accompanying him wherever he went, regulating his procedure by telling him just what should be observed and how to do so, pouring out information so premature as to be obnoxious, correcting his taste, subduing his enthusiasm, and modifying even his behaviour. The tourist would presumably pay off the unwelcome guide, but the children cannot pay off the teacher: they can and do rebel, but docility and adaptability seem to play a large part in self-preservation. For the young child freedom must precede docility, because the only reasonable and profitable docility is one that comes after initiative and experiment have been satisfied, and when the child feels that he needs help.
The world that the free child chooses represents every side of life that he is ready to assimilate, and his freedom must be intellectual, emotional and moral freedom. In the school with the rigidly organised time-table, where the remarks of the children provoke the constantly repeated reproach: “We are not talking of that just now,” where the apparatus is formal and the method of using it prescribed, where home life and street life are ignored, where there are neither garden nor picture books, where childish questions are passed over or hastily answered, where the room is full of desks and the normal attitude is sitting, where the teacher is teaching more often than the children are doing, there is no intellectual freedom.
Where passion and excitement are instantly arrested, where appreciation for strong colours, fierce punishments, loud noises, is killed, where fear is ridiculed, where primitive likes and dislikes are interpreted as coarseness, there is no emotional freedom. A child must have these experiences if he is to come to his own later: this is not the time to stamp out but only to deflect and guide; otherwise he becomes a weak and pale reflection of his elders, with little resource or enthusiasm.
Where it is almost impossible to be openly naughty, where there is no opportunity for choice or for making mistakes, where control is all from the teacher and self-control has no place, there is no moral freedom. The school is not for the righteous but for the so-called sinner, who is only a child learning self-control by experience.
Self-control is a habit gained through habits; a child must acquire the habit of arresting desire, of holding the physical side in check, the habit of reflection, of choice, and most of all the habit of either acting or holding back, as a result of all this. If in the earliest years his will is in the hands of others, and he has the habit of obedience to the exclusion of all other habits, then his development as a self-reliant individual is arrested, and may be permanently weakened. There is no other way to learn life, and build up an ideal from the raw material he has gained in other ways. In the rehearsal of life at school he can do this without serious harm; but every time a mode of conduct is imposed upon him when he might have chosen, every time he is externally controlled when he might have controlled himself, every time he is balked in making a mistake that would have been experience to him, he will be proportionally less fit to choose, to exercise self-control, to learn by experience, and these are the chief lessons at this impressionable period.
_The fourth principle therefore is that the atmosphere of freedom is the only atmosphere in which a child can gain experiences that will help to develop character and control conduct._
These four vital principles will be applied to practical work in the following chapters.
II. PRACTICAL APPLICATION OF VITAL PRINCIPLES
Before applying these principles it is necessary for practical considerations to set out clearly the various stages of this period. During the first eight years of life, development is very rapid and not always relatively continuous. Sometimes it takes leaps, and sometimes appears for a time to be quiescent. But roughly the first stage, of a child’s developing life ends when he can walk, eat more or less ordinary food, and is independent of his mother. At this point the Nursery School stage begins: the child is learning for himself his world by experience, and through play he chooses his raw material in an atmosphere of freedom. When the period of play pure and simple begins to grow into a desire to do things better, to learn and practise for a more remote end–in other words, when the child begins to be willing to be taught, the transitional period from play to work begins. It can never be said to end, but the relative amount of play to work gradually defines the life of the school: and so the transitional period merges into the school period. Thus we are concerned first with the Nursery School period which corresponds to what Froebel meant by his Kindergarten and Owen by his Infant School; secondly, with the transitional period which has been far too long neglected or rushed over, and which roughly corresponds to the Standard I. of the Elementary School; and thirdly, we have the beginnings of the Junior School where work is the predominant factor. In spite of Shakespeare’s assertion, there is much in a name, and if these names were definitely adopted, teachers would realise better the nature of their business.
The following chapters seek to apply practically the four vital principles to these periods of a child’s life, but in many cases the Transition Classes and the Junior School are considered together.
CHAPTER XVII
THE NEED FOR EXPERIENCE
“The first vital principle is that the teacher of young children must provide for them life in miniature, i.e. she must provide abundant raw material and opportunities for acquiring experience.”
The practical translation of this in the words of the teacher of to-day is, “I must choose furniture, and requisition apparatus.” The teacher of to-morrow will say to her children, “I will bring the world into the school for you to learn.” The Local Education Authority of to-day says, “We must build a school for instruction.” The Local Education Authority of to-morrow will say, “We must make a miniature world for our children.”
The world of the Nursery School child probably requires the most careful thought in this respect: a large room with sunlight and air, low clear windows, a door leading to a garden and playground, low cupboards full of toys, low-hung pictures, light chairs and tables that can be pushed into a corner, stretcher beds equally disposable, a dresser with pretty utensils for food; these are the chief requirements for satisfying physical needs, apparent in the actual room. Physical habits will be considered later, under another heading.
Outside, in the playground, there should be opportunities for physical development, for its own sake: swings, giant strides, ladders laid flat, slightly sloping planks, and a seesaw should all be available for constant use; if the children are not warned or given constant advice about their own safety, there is little fear of accidents.
Thus the purely physical side of the children is provided for, the side that they are, if healthy, quite unconscious of; what else does experience demand at this stage?
Roughly classified, the raw experience of this stage may be divided into the experience of the natural world of living things, the world of inanimate things, and the social world. For the natural world there should be the garden outside, with its trees, grass and flower beds; with its dovecot and rabbit hutch, and possibly a cat sunning herself on its paths; inside there will be plants and flowers to care for; the elements, especially water, earth and air, are very dear to a young child, and it is quite possible to satisfy his cravings with a large sand-heap of _dry_ and _wet_ sand; a large flat bath for sailing boats and testing the theory of sinking and floating; a bin of clay; a pair of bellows and several fans to set the air in motion. There is always the fire to gaze at on the right side of the fire-guard, and appreciation of the beauty of this element should be encouraged.
The world of inanimate things includes most of the toys that stimulate activity and give ideas. The chief that should be found in the cupboards, round the walls, or scattered about the room, are bricks of all sizes and shapes, skittles, balls and bats or rackets, hoops, reins, spades and other garden tools; pails and patty pans for the sand-heap; pipes for bubbles, shells, fir-cones, buttons, acorns, and any collection of small articles for handling; all kinds of vehicles that can be pushed, such as carts, barrows, prams, engines; drums and other musical instruments; materials for construction and expression, such as chalks, boards, paints and paper.
For experiences of the social world, which is not very real at this individualistic period, come the dolls and doll’s house, horses and stables, tea-things, cooking utensils, Noah’s ark, scales for a shop, boats, soldiers and forts: a very important item in this connection is the collection of picture-books: they must be chosen with the greatest care, and only pictures of such merit as those of Caldecott, Leslie Brooke and Jessie Wilcox Smith should be selected. Pictures form one of the richest sources of experience at this stage, as indeed at any stage of life, and truth, beauty and suggestiveness must be their chief factors.
The toys should be above all things durable, and if possible washable. Broken and dirty toys make immoral children.
Besides the material surroundings there are opportunities, the seizing of which gives valuable experiences. These belong to the social world, and lie chiefly in the training in life’s social observances and the development of good habits. This side of life is one of the most important in the Nursery School, and needs material help. The lavatories and cloakrooms should be constructed so that there is every chance for a child to become self-reliant and fastidious. The cloakrooms should be provided with low pegs, boot holes, clothes brushes and shoe brushes: there should be low basins with hot and cold water, enamel mugs and tooth brushes _for each child,_ nail brushes, plenty of towels, and where the district needs it, baths. The type provided by the Middlesex Education Authority at Greenford Avenue School, Hanwell, gives a shower bath to a whole group of children at once, thus making a more frequent bath possible. Perhaps for very small children of the Nursery School age separate baths are more suitable. This is a question for future experience on the part of teachers. There should be plenty of time for the children to learn to wash and dress themselves.
In the school-room there should either be tablecloths, or the tables should be capable of being scrubbed by the children after each meal. Their almost inevitable lack of manners at table gives an invaluable opportunity for training, and again in such a case there should be no question of haste. The meals should be laid, waited on and cleared away, and the dishes washed by the children themselves, and they should be responsible for the general tidiness of the room. This involves tea-cloths, mops, dusters, washing bowls, brushes and dustpans.
In the Transition Classes and Junior School the furniture and apparatus can be to a great extent very much the same, their difference lying chiefly in degree. It is a pity to bring the age of toys to an abrupt conclusion; in real life the older children still borrow the toys of the younger ones while there are some definitely their own: such are, jigsaw and other puzzles, dominoes, articles for dramatic representation, playing cards, toys for games of physical skill, such as tops, kites, skipping ropes, etc. Such prepared constructive materials as meccano–and a great mass of raw material for construction, generally termed “waste.” There should be a series of boxes or shelves where such waste products of the home, or of the woods, or of the seashore, or of the shop, might be stored in some classified order: the collective instinct is stronger than the more civilised habit of orderliness: here is an opportunity for developing a habit from an instinct. There should also be materials for expression, such as clay, paper, chalk, pencil, paints, weaving materials, cardboard, and scenery materials; and such tools as scissors, cardboard knives, needlework tools, paste brushes, and others that may be necessary and suitable. The rooms should be large and suitable for much moving about: the most usual conditions should be a scattered class and not a seated listening class. This means light chairs and tables or benches where handwork can be done; low cupboards and lockers so that each child can get at his own things; broad window-sills for plants and flowers and a bookcase for reading and picture books. Here again good picture-books are as essential as, even more essential than, readers in the Transition Class. They will be a little more advanced than in the Nursery School, and will be of the type of the Pied Piper illustrated, or pictures of children of other lands and times. Some of Rackham’s, of Harold Copping’s, of the publications by Black in _Peeps at Many Lands_, are suitable for this stage. Readers should be chosen for their literary value from the recognised children’s classics, such as the Peter Rabbit type, _Alice in Wonderland, Water-Babies,_ and not made up for the sake of reading practice.
The pictures on the walls should be hung at the right eye-level, and the windows low enough for looking at the outside world–whatever it may be. The teacher’s desk should be in a corner, not in the central part of the room, for she must remember that the children are still in the main seeking experience, not listening to the experience of another. They should have access to the garden and playground, and all the incitements to activity should be there–similar to those of the Nursery School, or those provided by the London County Council in parks. The bare wilderness of playground now so familiar, where there is neither time nor opportunity for children to be other than primitive savages, does not represent the outside world of beauty and of adventure.
The lower classes of Junior School should differ very little in their miniature world. Life is still activity to the child of eight, and consequently should contain no immovable furniture. There will be more books, and the children may be in their seats for longer periods; the atmosphere of guided but still spontaneous work is more definite, but the aim in choice of both furniture and apparatus is still the gaining of experience of life, by direct contact in the main. Such is the Requisition Sheet to be presented to the Stores Superintendent of the Local Education Authority in the future, with an explanatory note stating that in a general way what is actually required is the world in miniature!
CHAPTER XVIII
GAINING EXPERIENCE BY PLAY
“The Second Principle is that the method of gaining experience lies through Play and that by this road we can best reach work.”
Play is marked off from work chiefly by the absence of any outside pressure, and pleasure in the activity is the characteristic of play pure and simple: if a child has forced upon him a hint of any ulterior motive that may be in the mind of his teacher, the pleasure is spoilt for him and the intrinsic value of the play is lost. In bringing children into school during their play period, probably the most important formative period of their lives, and in utilising their play consciously, we are interfering with one of their most precious possessions when they are still too helpless to resent it directly. Too many of us make play a means of concealing the wholesome but unwelcome morsel of information in jam, and we try to force it on the children prematurely and surreptitiously, but Nature generally defeats us. The only sound thing to do is to _play the game_ for all it is worth, and recognise that in doing so education will look after itself. To understand the nature of play, and to have the courage to follow it, is the business of every teacher of young children. The Nursery School, especially if it consists chiefly of children under five, presents at first very hard problems to the teacher; however strong her belief in play may be, it receives severe tests. So much of the play at first seems to be aimless running and shouting, or throwing about of toys and breaking them if possible, so much quarrelling and fighting and weeping seem involved with any attempts at social life on the part of the children; there seems very little desire to co-operate, and very little desire to construct; as a rule, a child roams from one thing to another with apparently only a fleeting attempt to play with it; yet on the other hand, to make the problem more baffling, a child will spend a whole morning at one thing: quite lately one child announced that he meant to play with water all day, and he did; another never left the sand-heap, and apparently repeated the same kind of activity during a complete morning; visitors said in a rather disappointed tone, “they just play all the time by themselves.” One teacher brought out an attractive picture and when a group of children gathered round it she proceeded to tell the story; they listened politely for a few minutes, and then the group gradually melted away; they were not ready for concentrated effort. If those children had been in the ordinary Baby Room of a school they would have been quite docile, sitting in their places apparently listening to the story, amiably “using” their bricks or other materials according to the teacher’s directions, but they would not, in the real sense, have been playing. This is an example of the need for both principle and courage.
It is into this chaotic method of gaining experience that the teacher comes with her interpretive power–she sees in it the beginnings of all the big things of life–and like a bigger child she joins, and like a bigger child she improves. She sees in the apparent chaos an attempt to get experience of the different aspects of life, in the apparently aimless activity an attempt to realise and develop the bodily powers, in the fighting and quarrelling an attempt to establish a place in social life. It is all unconscious on the part of a child, but a necessary phase of real development.
Gradually the little primitive man begins to yield to civilisation. He is interested in things for longer and asks for stories, music and rhymes, and what does this mean?
As he develops a child learns much about life in his care of the garden, about language in his games, about human conduct from stories; but he does these things because he wants to do them, and because there is a play need behind it all, which for him is a life need; in order to build a straight wall he must classify his bricks, in order to be a real shopman he must know his weights, in order to be a good workman he must measure his paper; all the ideas gained from these things come to him _along with sense activity_; they are associated with the needs and interests of daily life; and because of this he puts into the activity all the effort of which he is capable, or as Dewey has expressed it, “the maximum of consciousness” into the experience which is his play. This is real sense training, differing in this respect from the training given by the Montessori material, which has no appeal to life interest, aims at exercising the senses separately, and discourages _play_ with the apparatus. It is activity without a body, practice without an end, and nothing develops from it of a constructive or expressive nature.
In the nursery class therefore our curriculum is life, our apparatus all that a child’s world includes, and our method the one of joyful investigation, by means of which ideas and skill are being acquired. The teacher is player in chief, ready to suggest, co-operate, supply information, lead or follow as circumstances demand: responsibility must still belong to the children, for while most of them know quite naturally how to play, there are many who will never get beyond a rather narrow limit, through lack of experience or of initiative.
It is quite safe to let experience take its chance through play, but there are certain things that must be dealt with quite definitely, when the teacher is not there as a playmate, but as something more in the capacity of a mother. It is impossible to train all the habits necessary at this time, through the spontaneous play, although incidentally many will be greatly helped and made significant by it. If the children come from poor homes where speech is imperfect, probably mere imitation of the teacher, which is the chief factor in ordinary language training, will be insufficient. It will be necessary to invent ways, chiefly games, by which the vocal organs may be used; this may be considered play, but it is more artificial and less spontaneous than the informal activity already described. It is well to be clear as to the kind of exercises best suited to make the vocal organs supple, and then to make these the basis of a game: for example, little children constantly imitate the cries of ordinary life; town children could dramatise a railway station where the sounds produced by engines and by porters give a valuable training; they could imitate street cries, the sound of the wind, of motor hooters, sirens, or of church bells. Country children could use the sounds of the farm-yard, the birds, or the wind. In the recognition of sound, which is as necessary as its production, such a guessing game could be taught as “I sent my son to be a grocer and the first thing he sold began with _s_ and ended with _p_,” using the _sounds_, not names of the letters. For the acquisition of a vocabulary, such a game as the Family Coach might be played and turned into many other vehicles or objects about which many stories could be told. All the time the game must be played with the same fidelity to the spirit of play as previously, but the introduction must be recognised as more artificial and forced, and this can be justified because so many children are not normal with regard to speech, and only where this is the case should language training be forced upon them. Habits of courtesy, of behaviour at table, of position, of dressing and undressing, of washing hands and brushing teeth, and many others, must all be _taught_, but taught at the time when the need comes. Occasions will certainly occur during play, but the chances of repetition are not sufficient to count on.
Thus we summarise the chief business of the Nursery School teacher when we say that it is concerned chiefly with habits and play and right surroundings.
Play in the Transition Class is less informal. After the age of six certain ambitions grow and must be satisfied. The aspects of life are more separated, and concentration on individual ones is commoner; this means more separation into subjects, and thus a child is more willing to be organised, and to have his day to _some_ extent arranged for him. While in the nursery class only what was absolutely necessary was fixed, in the Transition Class it is convenient to fix rather more, for the sake of establishing certain regular habits, and because it is necessary to give the freshest hours to the work that requires most concentration. We must remember, however, that it _is_ a transition class, and not set up a completely fashioned time-table for the whole day. Reading and arithmetic must be acquired both as knowledge and skill, the mother tongue requires definite practice, there must be a time for physical activity, and living things must not be attended to spasmodically. Therefore it seems best that these things be taken in the morning hours, while the afternoon is still a time for free choice of activity.
The following is a plan for the Transition Class, showing the bridge between absolute freedom and a fully organised time-table–
MORNING. AFTERNOON.
Monday |Nature |Reading |Stories from |Organised games and |work. |and Number.|Scripture or other |handwork. ———|Care |———–|literature, and |———————– Tuesday |of the |Reading |stories of social |Music and handwork. |room. |and Number.|life; music and | ———|Nature |———–|singing; industrial|———————– Wednesday|chart |Reading |activities such as |Excursion or handwork. |and |and Number.|solving puzzles, | ———|General|———–|playing games of |———————– Thursday |talk. |Reading |skill, looking at |Dramatic representation | |and Number.|pictures, arranging|including preparations. ———| |———–|collections. |———————– Friday | |Reading | |Gardening or handwork. | |and Number.| |
Granting this arrangement we must be clear how play as a method can still hold.
It does not hold in the informal incidental sense of the Nursery School: there are periods in the Transition Class when the children know that they are working for a definite purpose which is not direct play–as in reading; and there are times when they are dissatisfied with their performances of skill and ask to be shown a better way, and voluntarily practise to secure the end, as in handwork, arithmetic and some kinds of physical games. The remainder is probably still pursued for its own sake. How then can this play spirit be maintained side by side with work?
First of all, the children should not be required to do anything without having behind it a purpose that appeals to them; it may not be the ultimate purpose of “their good,” but a secondary reason may be given to which they will respond readily, generally the pretence reason. Arithmetic to the ordinary person is a thing of real life; we count chiefly in connection with money, with making things, with distributing things, or with arranging things, and we count carefully when we keep scores in games; in adult life we seldom or never count or perform arithmetical operations for sheer pleasure in the activity, but there are many children who do so in the same spirit as we play patience or chess. And all this is our basis. The arithmetical activities in the Transition Class should therefore be based on such everyday experiences as have been mentioned, else there will be no associations made between the experiences of school and those of life outside. The two must merge. There is no such thing as arithmetic pure and simple for children unless they seek it; they must play at real life, and the real life that they are now capable of appreciating.
Skill in calculation, accuracy and quickness can be acquired by a kind of practice that children are quite ready for, if it comes when they realise the need; most children feel that their power to score for games is often too slow and inaccurate; as store clerks they are uncertain in their calculations; they will be willing to practise quick additions, subtractions, multiplications and divisions, in pure arithmetical form, if the pretence purpose is clearly in view, which to them is a real purpose; the same thing occurs in writing which should be considered a side issue of reading; meaningless words or sentences are written wearily and without pains, but to write the name of a picture you have painted, at the bottom of it, or to write something that Cinderella’s Godmother said, or bit by bit to write a letter, will be having a purpose that gives life to an apparently meaningless act, and thoroughness to the effort.
In handwork, too, at this stage, practice takes an important place: a child is willing to hem, to try certain brush strokes, to cut evenly, and later on to use his cardboard knife to effect for the sake of a future result if he has already experimented freely. This is in full harmony with the spirit of play, when we think of the practiced “strokes” and “throws” of the later games, but it is a more advanced quality of play, because there is the beginning of a purpose which is separated from immediate pleasure in the activity, there is the hint of an end in view though it is a child’s end, and not the adult or economic one.
The training of the mother tongue can be made very effective by means of games: in the days when children’s parties were simple, and family life was united, language games in the long dark evenings gave to many a grip of words and expressions. Children learnt to describe accurately, to be very fastidious in choice of words, to ask direct questions, to give verbal form to thought, all through the stress of such games–Man and his Shadow, Clumps, Subject and Object, Russian Scandal, the Minister’s Cat, I see a Light, Charades, and acting of all kinds. No number of picture talks, oral compositions, or observations can compete in real value with these games, because behind them was a purpose or need for language that compelled the greatest efforts.
Physical development and its adjustment to mental control owes its greatest stimulus to games. When physical strength, speed, or nimble adjustability is the pivot upon which the game depends, special muscles are made subservient to will: behind the game there is the stimulus of strong emotion, and here is the greatest factor in establishing permanent associations between body and mind; psychologists see in many of these games of physical activity the evolution of the race: drill pure and simple has its place partly in the same sense as “practice” in number or handwork, and partly as a corrective to our fallacious system of education by listening, instead of by activity: and we cannot in a lifetime acquire the powers of the race except by concentrated practice. But no amount of drill can give the all-round experience necessary for physical readiness for an emergency, physical and mental power to endure, active co-operation, where self-control holds in check ambitious personal impulses: and no drill seems to give grace and beauty of motion that the natural activity of dancing can give. It is through the games that British children inherit, and by means of which they have unconsciously rehearsed many of the situations of life, that they have been able to take their place readily in the life of the nation and even to help to save it. Again, as in other directions, children must be made to play the game in its thoroughness, for a well-played game gives the right balance to the activities: drill is more specialised, and has specialisation for its end: a game calls on the whole of an individual: he must be alert mentally and physically; and at the same time the sense of fairness cannot be too strongly insisted on; no game can be tolerated as part of education where there is looseness in this direction, from the skittles of the nursery class to the cricket and hockey of the seventh standard, and nothing will so entirely outrage the children’s feelings as a teacher’s careless arbitration. In physical games, too, the social side is strongly developed: leadership, self-effacement and co-operation are more valuable lessons of experience than fluent reading or neat writing or accurate additions: but they have not counted as such in our economic system of education; they have taken their chance: few inspectors ask to see whether children know how to “play the game,” and yet they are so soon to play the independent game of life. But the individual output of reading and sums of a sneaking and cowardly, or assertive and selfish child, is as good probably as that of a child that has the makings of a hero in him. And then we wonder at the propensities of the “lower classes.” It is because we have never made sure that they can play the game.
To summarise: play in the Nursery School stage is unorganised, informal, and pursued with no motive but pleasure in the activity itself; it is mainly individual. Play in the Transition Class is more definitely in the form of games, _i.e._ organised play, efforts of skill, mental or physical; it becomes social. Play in the Junior School is almost an occasional method, because the work motive is by this time getting stronger.
CHAPTER XIX
THE UNITY OF EXPERIENCE
“We find in the child’s spontaneous choice the nature of the surroundings and of the activities he craves for; in other words, he makes his own curriculum, and selects his own subject matter.”
The next problem we have to solve is how to unify the bewildering variety of ideas and activities that a child seeks contact with during a day. We found that the curriculum of the Infant School of to-day presented a rather confusing variety of ideas, not necessarily arranged as the children would have chosen; they would certainly not have chosen to break off some intense interest, because an arbitrary timetable hurried them to something else, and they would have been right. If we asked the children their reasons for choosing, we would find no clue except that they chose what they wanted to, neither could they tell us why they spent so much more time over one thing than another. If a similar study were to be made of a child from a slum also free to arrange his day, we should find that while certain general features were the same others would be different: he would ask for different stories, probably play different games, or the same games in a different way, his back-yard would present different aspects, the things he made would be different.
It is evident that the old correlation method has little or nothing to do with the matter; a child may or may not draw the rabbit he feeds, he certainly does not play a rabbit game because of the rabbit he has fed, nor does he build a rabbit-hutch with his bricks. He might try to make a real one if the rabbit really needed it, but that arises out of an obvious necessity. If he could put his unconscious promptings into words, he would say he did the things because he wanted to, because somebody else did them, or because of something he saw yesterday, and so on; but he would always refer back to _himself_. The central link in each case is in the child, with his special store of experiences derived from his own particular surroundings; he brings to new experiences his store of present experiences, his interests not always satisfied, his powers variously used, he interprets the new by these, and seeks for more in the line of the old. It is life he has experienced, and he seeks for more life.
How then can we secure for him that the new experiences presented to him in school will be in line with the old? We will take three typical cases of children to illustrate the real nature of this problem.
The first is the case of a child living in a very poor district of London or of any large town. The school is presumably situated in a narrow street running off the High Street of the district, the street where all the shopping is done; at the corner is a hide factory with an evil smell. Most of the dwelling-houses abut on the pavement, some with a very small yard behind, some without any. Several families live in one house, and often one room is all a family can afford; as that has to be paid for in advance the family address may change frequently. The father may be a dock labourer with uncertain pay, a coster, a rag and bone merchant, or he may follow some unskilled occupation of a similarly precarious nature; in consequence the mother has frequently to do daily work, the home is locked up till evening, and she often leaves before the children start for morning school. It is a curious but very common fact that, free though these children are, they know only a very small radius around their own homes. They are accustomed to be sent shopping into High Street, where household stores are bought in pennyworths or twopennyworths, owing to uncertain finance and no storage accommodation. Generally there is one tap and one sink in the basement for the needs of all the families in the house. There is usually a park somewhere within reach, but it may be a mile away; in it would, at least, be trees, a pond, grass, flowers. But an excursion there, unless it is undertaken by the school, can only be hoped for on a fine Bank Holiday; there is neither time nor money to go on a Saturday, and Sunday cannot be said to begin till dinner-time, about 3 P.M., when the public-houses close, and the father comes home to dinner.
It is difficult to imagine the conversation of such a household; family life exists only on Sunday at dinner-time; the child’s background of family life is a room which is at once a bedroom, living room and laundry. There is nearly always some part of a meal on the table, and some washing hanging up. Outside there are the dingy street, the crowded shops, the pavement to play on, and both outside and in, the bleaker and more sordid aspects of life, sometimes miserable, sometimes exciting. On Saturday night the lights are brilliant and life is at least intense. Bed is a very crowded affair, in which many half-undressed children sleep covered with the remainder of the day’s wardrobe.
What store of experiences does a child from such a neighbourhood bring to school, to be assimilated with the new experiences provided there? What do such terms as home, dinner, bed, bath, birth, death, country, mean to him? They mean _something_.[34]
[Footnote 34: See _Child Life_, October 1916.]
Not a mile away we may come to a very respectable suburb of the average type; and what is said of it may apply in some degree to a provincial or country town or, at least, the application can easily be made. The school probably stands at the top corner of a road of houses rented, at L25 to L35 per annum, with gardens in front and behind. The road generally runs into a main road with shops and traffic. Here and there in the residential road are little oases of shops, patronised by the neighbourhood, and some of the children may live over these. The home life is more ordinary and needs less descriptive detail, but there are some features that must be considered. The decencies, not to say refinements of eating, sleeping and washing are taken for granted: there is often a bath-room and always a kitchen. The father’s occupation may be local, but a good many fathers will go to town; there is generally a family holiday to the sea, or less often to the country. In the house the degree of refinement varies; there are nearly always pictures of a sort, books of a sort, and the children are supplied with toys of a sort. They visit each other’s houses, and the observances of social life are kept variously. Often the horizon is very narrow; the mother’s interest is very local and timid; the father’s business life may be absolutely apart from his home life and never mentioned there. The family conversation while quite amiable and agreeable may be round very few topics, and the vocabulary, while quite respectable, may be most limited. Children’s questions may be put aside as either trivial or unsuitable. In one sense the slum child may be said to have a broader background, the realities of life are bare to him on their most sordid side, there is neither mystery nor beauty around life, or death, or the natural affections. The suburban child may on the contrary be balked and restricted so that unnecessary mystery gives an unwholesome interest to these things and conventionality a dishonest reserve.
A suburb of this type is described by Beresford in _Housemates_:–“In such districts (as Gospel Oak) I am depressed by the flatness of an awful monotony. The slums vex me far less. There I find adventure and jest whatever the squalor; the marks of the primitive struggle through dirt and darkness towards release. Those horrible lines of moody, complacent streets represent not struggle, but the achievement of a worthless aspiration. The houses, with their deadly similarity, their smug, false exteriors, their conformity to an ideal which is typified by their poor imitative decoration, could only be inhabited by people who have no thought or desire for expression…. The dwellers in such districts are cramped into the vice of their environment. Their homes represent the dull concession to a state rule; and their lives take tone from the grey, smoke-grimed repetition of one endlessly repeated design. The same foolish ornamentation on every house reiterates the same suggestion. Their places of worship, the blank chapels and pseudo-Gothic churches rear themselves head and shoulders above the dull level, only to repeat the same threat of obedience to a gloomy law…. The thought of Gospel Oak and its like is the thought of imitation, of imitation falling back and becoming stereotyped, until the meaning of the thing so persistently copied has been lost and forgotten.”
A third case is that of the country child, the child who attends the village school. Many villages lie several miles from a railway station, so that the younger children may not see a railway train more than once or twice a year. The fathers may be engaged in village trades, such as a shoemaker, carpenter, gardener, general shop merchant, farm labourer, or farmer. The village houses are often cramped and small, but there is wholesome space outside, and generally a good garden which supplies some of the family food; milk and eggs are easily obtainable, and conditions of living are seldom as crowded as in a town. The country children see more of life in complete miniature than the slum or the suburban child can do, for the whole life of the village lies before him. The school is generally in the centre, with a good playground, and of late years a good school garden is frequent. The village church, generally old, is another centre of life, and there is at least the vicarage to give a type of life under different social conditions.
The home intellectual background may vary, but on the whole cannot be reckoned on very much; though in some ways it is more narrow than the suburban one, it is often less superficial. In a different way from the slum child, but none the less definitely, the country child comes face to face with the realities of life, in a more natural and desirable way than either of the others. It is difficult to estimate some of the effects of living in the midst of real nature on children; unconsciously, they acquire much deep knowledge impossible to learn through nature study, however good, a kind of knowledge that is part of their being; but how far it affects them emotionally or enters into their scheme of life, is hard to say. As they grow up much of it is merely economic acquirement: if they are to work on the land, or rear cattle, or drive a van through the country, it is all to the good; but one thing is noticeable, that they take very quickly to such allurements of town life as a cinema, or a picture paper or gramophone, and this points to unsatisfied cravings of some sort, not necessarily so unworthy or superficial as the means sought to satisfy them.
From these rather extreme cases we get near the solution of the problem; it is quite evident that each of these children brings to school very different contributions of experience on which to build, though their general needs and interests are similar. Therefore the curriculum of the school will depend on the general surroundings and circumstances of the children, and all programmes of work and many questions of organisation will be built on this. The model programme so dear to some teachers must be banished, as a doctor would banish a general prescription; no honest teacher can allow this part of her work to be done for her by any one else.
Therefore the central point is the child’s previous experience, and on this the experience provided by school, _i.e._ curriculum and subject matter, depends. One or two examples of the working out of this might make the application clearer. Probably the realities of life in relation to money differ greatly. The kind of problem presented to the poor town child will deal with shopping in pennyworths or ounces, with getting coals in pound bagfuls. Clothes are generally second-hand, and so ordinary standard prices are out of the question. Bread is bought stale and therefore cheaper, early in the morning. Preserved milk only is bought, and that in halfpenny quantities. Only problems based on these will be real to this child at first.
The suburban child’s economic experience may be based on his pocket-money, money in the bank, and the normal shopping of ordinary life.
The country child is frequently very ignorant of money values; probably it will be necessary to take the country general shop as the basis. He could also begin to estimate the produce of the school garden.
THE NURSERY SCHOOL PROGRAMME
It is quite obvious from the nature of play at this stage that a time-table is out of the question and in fact an outrage against nature. Only for social convenience and for the establishment of certain physical habits can there be fixed hours. There must be approximate limits as to the times of arrival and departure, but nothing of the nature of marking registers to record exact minutes. Little children sometimes sleep late, or, on the other hand, the mothers may have to leave home very early; all this must be allowed for. There should be fixed times for meals and for sleep, and these should be rigidly observed, and there should be regular times for the children to go to the lavatories; all these establish regularity and self-control, as well as improving general health. But anything in the nature of story periods, games periods, handwork periods, only impedes the variously developing children in their hunger for experiences.
Their curriculum is life as the teacher has spread it out before them; there are no subjects at this stage; the various aspects ought to be of the nature of a glorious feast to these young children. Traherne says in the seventeenth century:–
“Will you see the infancy of this sublime and celestial greatness? Those pure and virgin apprehensions I had in my infancy, and that divine light wherewith I was born, are the best unto this day wherein I can see the Universe…. Verily they form the greatest gift His wisdom can bestow, for without them all other gifts had been dead and vain. They are unattainable by books and therefore will I teach them by experience…. Certainly Adam in Paradise had not more sweet and curious apprehensions of the world than I when I was a child.
“All appeared new and strange at first, inexpressibly rare and delightful and beautiful. I was a little stranger which at my entrance into the world was saluted and surrounded with innumerable joys…. I knew by intuition those things which since my apostasy I collected again by the highest reason…. All things were spotless and pure and glorious; yea, and infinitely mine, and joyful and precious…. I saw in all the peace of Eden…. Is it not that an infant should be heir of the whole world, and see those mysteries which the books of the learned never unfold?
“The corn was orient and immortal wheat which never should be reaped, nor was ever sown. I thought it stood from everlasting to everlasting. The dust and stones of the street were as precious as gold: the gates were at first the end of the world. The green trees when I saw them first through one of the gates transported and ravished me: … the skies were mine, and so were the sun and moon and stars, and all the world was mine: and I the only spectator and enjoyer of it…. So that with much ado I was corrupted and made to learn the dirty devices of this world, which I now unlearn, and become, as it were, a little child again that I may enter into the Kingdom of Heaven.”
If this is what life means to the young child, and Traherne only records what many of us have forgotten there is little need for interference: we can only spread the feast and stand aside to watch for opportunities.
The following extract is given from a teacher’s note-book: it shows how many possibilities open out to a teacher, and how impossible it is to keep to a time-table, or even to try to name the activities. The children concerned were about five years old, newly admitted to a poor school in S.E. London. The records are selected from a continuous period, and do not apply to one day:–
PLANS FOR THE DAY WHAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED
_Number Occupations._–This will The children played, freely be entirely free and the children chalking most of the time; those will choose their own toys and threading beads were most put them away. interested. Again I noticed the lack of idea of colour; I found one new boy placing his sticks according to colour, without knowing the names of the colours. The boys thought the soldiers belonged to them, and laughed at a little girl for choosing them.
_Language Training._–I have I realised this was a failure, discovered that they love to for I asked the children to use imitate sounds, so we will play their boards and chalks for a at this. They could draw a cat definite drawing, and they should and say “miauw,” and a duck and have had the time to use them say “quack.” They could also freely and discover their use. I imitate the wind. got very little information about their vocabulary.
_Language Training_ (_another I found that many children day_).–I shall try to induce the pronounced words so strangely children to speak to me about their that I could only with difficulty homes, in order to discover any recognise them. One said she difficulties of pronunciation and had a “bresser” with “clates” to make them more fluent. on it and “knies” Others spoke of “manckle,” “firebrace,” “forts.” One child speaking of curly hair called it “killeyer.” We had no time for the story.
_Playing with Toys._–The Noah’s arks, dolls, and bricks children will choose their own toys, were used, and I found that the and as far as possible I will put girls who had no dolls at home a child who knows how to use them were delighted to be able to dress next to one who desires to sit and undress them and put them still. to bed. One little girl walked backwards and forwards before the class getting her doll to sleep; the boys were making a noise with their arks and she remarked on this, so we induced them to be silent while the dolls were put to sleep. The boys arranged their animals in long lines. The bricks were much more carefully put away to-day.
THE TRANSITION AND THE JUNIOR SCHOOL PROGRAMME
Even after the Nursery School period much of the curriculum and subject matter is in the hands of the children themselves, though the relative proportions will vary according to the children’s experiences. It is pretty evident to the honest-minded teacher that the subjects are, in school terms, nature work and elementary science, mathematics, constructive and expressive work, literature, music, language, physical exercise and religion. The business of the younger child is with real things and activity, not with symbols and passivity, therefore he is not really in need of reading, writing, or arithmetic. We hear arguments from ambitious teachers that children are fond of reading lessons because they enjoy the fantasies in which these lessons are wrapped, or the efforts made by the teacher to create interest; we hear that children ask to be taught to read; they also ask to be taught to drive a tram or to cook a dinner; but it is all part of the pretence game of playing at being grown up. They do not need to read while stories and poetry can be told or read to them; they are not ready to make the effort of working for a remote economic end, where there is no real pleasure in the activity, and no opportunity of putting their powers to use. No child under six wants to sit down and read, and it would be very harmful if he did; his business is with real things and with his vocabulary, which is not nearly ready to put into symbols yet. If reading is delayed, hours of weary drudgery will be saved and energy stored for more precious attainments.
Therefore in the transition class (_i.e._ children over six at lowest) the only addition to the curriculum already set out for the nursery class, would be arithmetic and reading, including writing. The other differences would be in degree only. In the junior class (with children over seven at lowest) a desire to know something of the doings of people in other countries, to hear about other parts of our own land, will lead to the beginnings of geography; while with this less imaginative and more literal period comes the request for stories that are more verbally true, and questions about origins, leading to the beginnings of history.
It is very much easier to give the general curriculum than to deal with the choice of actual material, because that is involved largely with the principle of the unity of experience, and, as we know, experiences vary. The normal town and country child, and the abnormal child of poverty have all certain human cravings in common, and these are provided for in the aspects of life or subjects that have been named–but this is far too general an application to be the end of the matter; each subject has many sides to offer. There may be for example the pottery town, the weaving town, the country town, the fishing town, the colliery town: in the country there is the district of the dairy farmer, of the sheep farmer, of the grain grower and miller, of the fruit farmer, of the hop grower, and many districts may partake of more than one characteristic. Perhaps the most curious anomaly of experience is that of the child of the London slums who goes “hopping” into some of the loveliest parts of Kent, in early autumn. And so in a general way at least the concentrated experience of school must fill gaps and supply experiences that life has not provided for.
One of the pottery towns in Staffordshire is built on very unfertile clay; there are several potteries in the town belching out smoke, and, in addition, rows of monotonous smoke-blackened houses; almost always a yellow pall of smoke hangs over the whole district, and even where the edge of the country might begin, the grass and trees are poor and blackened, and distant views are seen through a haze. There are almost no gardens in the town, and very little attempt has been made to beautify it, because the results are so disappointing. Beauty, therefore, in various forms must be a large part of the curriculum: already design is a common interest in the pottery museums of the district, and this could be made a motive for the older children; but in the Junior and Nursery School pictures of natural beauty, wild flowers if it is possible to get them, music, painting and drawing, and literature should bulk largely enough to make a permanent impression on the children. In a very remote country village where life seems to go slowly, and days are long, children should be encouraged, by means of the school influence, to make things that absorb thought and interest, to tell and hear stories. Storytelling in the evening round the fire is a habit of the past, and might well supply some of the cravings that have to be satisfied by the “pictures.” Most of us have to keep ourselves well in hand when we listen to a recitation in much the same way as when a slate pencil used to creak; it would be very much better if the art of storytelling were cultivated at school, encouraged at home, and applied to entertainments. Indeed the entertainments of a village school, instead of being the unnatural and feverish production of hours of overtime, might well be the ordinary outcome of work both at school and at home–and thus a motive for leisure is naturally supplied and probably a hobby initiated.
It is profitable sometimes to group the subjects of experience in order to preserve balance. All getting of experience is active, but some kinds more obviously than others. Undoubtedly in hearing stories and poetry, in watching a snail or a bee, in listening to music, the activity is mental rather than physical and assimilation of ideas is more direct; in discovering experiences by means of construction, expression, experiment or imitation, assimilation is less direct but often more permanent and secure. Froebel discriminates between impression and expression, or taking in and giving out, and although he constantly emphasised that the child takes in by giving, it is convenient to recognise this distinction. Another helpful grouping is the more objective one. Some subjects refer more particularly to human conduct, the enlargement of experiences of human beings, and the building up of the ideal: these are literature, music, history and geography; others refer to life other than that of human beings, commonly known as nature study and science; others to the properties of inanimate things, and to questions throughout all life of measurement, size and force–this is known as mathematics; others of the life behind the material and the spiritual world–this is known as religion.
CHAPTER XX
GAINING EXPERIENCE THROUGH FREEDOM
“The atmosphere of freedom is the only atmosphere in which a child can gain experiences that will help to develop character.”
The principle of Freedom underlies all the activities of the school and does not refer to conduct simply; intellectual and emotional aspects of discipline are too often ignored and we have as a product the commonplace, narrow, imitative person, too timid or too indolent to think a new thought, or to feel strongly enough to stand for a cause. Self-control is the goal of discipline, but independent thinking, enthusiasm and initiative are all included in the term.
It will be well to discriminate between the occasions, both in the Nursery School and in the transition and junior classes, when a child should be free to learn by experience and when he should be controlled from without. We shall probably find occasions which partake of the nature of each.
The Nursery School is a collection of individuals presumably from 2-1/2 to 5-1/2 years of age. They know no social life beyond the family life, and family experience is relative to the size of the family. In any case they have not yet measured themselves against their peers, with the exception of the occasional twin. A few months ago about twenty children of this description formed the nucleus of a new Nursery School where, as far as possible, the world in miniature was spread out before them, and they were guided in their entrance to it by an experienced teacher and a young helper. For the first few weeks the chief characteristic was noise; the children rushed up and down the large room, shouting, and pushing any portable toys they could find. One little boy of 2-1/2 employed himself in what can only be called “punching” the other children, snatching their possessions away from them and responding to the teacher by the law of contra-suggestion. He was the most intelligent child in the school. He generally left a line of weeping children behind him, and several began to imitate him. The pugnacious instinct requires little encouragement. Lunch was a period of snatching, spilling, and making plans to get the best. Many of the toys provided were carelessly trampled upon and broken: requests to put away things at the end of the day were almost unavailing.
When the time for sleeping came in the afternoon many of the children refused to lie down: some consented but only to sing and talk as they lay. Only one, a child of 2-1/2, slept, because he cried himself to sleep from sheer strangeness. This apparently unbeautiful picture is only the first battle of the individual on his entrance to the life of the community.
On the other hand, there were intervals of keen joy: water, sand and clay chiefly absorbed the younger children: the older ones wanted to wash up and scrub, and many spent a good deal of time looking at picture-books. This was the raw material for the teacher to begin with: the children came from comfortable suburban homes: none were really poor, and many had known no privation. They were keen for experiences and disposed to be very friendly to her.
After five months there is a marked difference in spirit. The noise is modified because the children found other absorbing interests, though at times nature still demands voice production. During lunch time and sleeping time there is quiet, but the teacher has never _asked_ for silence unless there was some such evident reason. There is no silence game. The difference has come from within the children. All now lie down in the afternoon quietly, and the greater number sleep; but there has been no command or any kind of general plan: again the desire has gradually come to individuals from suggestion and imitation. Lunch is