The inquisitiveness of childhood is but a miniature of the reasoning of the adult. Thousands have heard from their little ones the question, "What makes the cover of the tea-kettle bob up and down so ?" That trivial inquiry (prosecuted by the mature reasoning of manhood) led to the application of steam as a motive power throughout the world. At first it was but the feeble effort of the fledgling to use his wings, yet they were the same wings that afterwards developed in strength, bore him victorious over the elements in his loftiest flights. To the extent that children acquire knowledge altogether in the concrete, it is similar in kind and in the manner of its acquisition to that acquired by adults. They reason, imitate, and experiment. Children are scholars always. Their mental faculties are naturally developed by processes suitable to their age and strength. They learn, too, mostly from objects that meet their eyes, or can be touched by their hands. Their mental growth mainly depends upon Object-Teaching. Like men and women, too, they remember most faithfully that in which they are the most interested. There is no doubt that the minds of school children often wander out to play marbles, spin tops, and toss grace-hoops, in the yard at home, while their listless ears and wearied eyes, in the school-room, are suffering inflictions as monotonous in sound as they are dull and unattractive in color. And it is not for us of riper years to blame them for doing this. We did the very same thing; and if your school-house was one of those old, cheerless, cabins, where you were sitting upon no-backed benches, your feet dangling in the air, under strict orders to sit still and study your lesson on pain of the birch; when going to school was correctly defined sitting all day on a bench and saying 'a-b,' you will be forced to admit that your own errors in this respect far outnumber those of your little ones whose school hours (thanks to modern science) are enlivened by song, and are ever varying in interest. Such are the children whom we are to accompany to the door of the school room. Kind Teachers, as we commit these little ones to your care, remember that they come to continue a mental training begun in Nature's School, not to begin it anew. See how they enter proudly elated with their new position, curious to penetrate the mysteries of the new life they are about to begin, yet reluctant to leave the bright world behind them. As they tremblingly, for the first time, hear their names called by a Teacher, dispel their fears, let them feel that they come for pleasure, not for a task. Instead of riveting the first fetters upon their restive limbs, by those stern words, "Take your seat and sit still till I call you," talk with them then about home things, point them to the open door, send them out where the singing-birds, the fresh air, and spacious play-ground, invite them, enjoining them to return and tell you all about their play. Let them see that their books are only records of their childish thoughts and amusements, that they tell of the pets and familiar objects of their homes. There are other forms than those of letters, other facts, for the school-room, than that "a-b spells ab," other learnings than those within the lids of the new Primer. It may be more expeditious to cram them with the mysterious shapes which form the alphabet, to scold them well for not remembering that A is just like a harrow, or B just like an ox-yoke. But, discover to them that their Primers contain only pictures of objects with which they are already familiar in their homes, in the fields, or on the common, things they already knew of, listening meanwhile to their simple narration of what they do know about them, and you have established a connection between their homes and their school that will imbue them with strength and courage from the very revelation it makes that they have some knowledge already acquired. Nothing so much discourages children as the idea that they are entering, in their primary studies, upon things of which they have no knowledge, a land of fogs and obscurities. Holbrook justly says: "The great and crying evil of teaching is that book knowledge is kept isolated from real knowledge, and the evil generally begins with the first lessons of the child, and ends with the last lesson upon the collegiate graduate. Thus, no pains should be spared to connect the words of the books with the ideas of existing things." The education of children in the school-room should be both mental and physical. The two cannot properly be separated in the Primary School, they should be generally blended and ever co-existent. The songs of our schools, blending motion and instructive facts, are fast establishing the desired medium between the rolicksome freedom of home, and the unnatural restraint of school discipline. A child of the age of which we speak should not be snubbed of his childish freaks (the natural ebullition of his pent-up spirit). Nature has filled him with elastic springs, and if you attempt to force them to inaction, nature rebels— "And yet we check and chide The airy angels as they float about us With rules of so-called wisdom till they grow The same tame slaves to custom and the world." Allow them then, full freedom in their motion, to skip, to march, to imitate the motions of the mechanical trades, the carpenter, the sawyer, mason, wood-cutter, and shoe-maker. Let them reap, thresh, and mow, throw in such exercises and songs for a change, if but for a moment. It seems at first thought but a slight effort for a child of tender years to confine his attention for a few minutes to the page of a book, and trace their letters there and their connection in words. But what powers are called into action while he does so ? "The eye," says an eminent writer on this point, "must be fixed to follow the form of the letters while the mind is endeavoring to grasp the words in their connection in the sentence. This effort is oppressive to the nerves of vision and by exhausting them renders the mind powerless for thought." Children are thus sometimes accused of listlessness when they are simply exhausted. Government has much to do with right physical education. The first thing necessary to success is to secure the good will of the child. Let smiles always stand sentinels at your school-room door! The Public School Teacher, too, ought to remember that pupils there are from all classes of society, the poor and rich, the proud and humble, the prosperous and unfortunate. It is one of the most beautiful features of the system, and I am proud to say, from my experience, that it is a most successful defacer of false notions of caste. The modest, unobtrusive, daughter of poverty is as often crowned the chosen Queen of the May-Day Festival, by the voice of her schoolmates, as the child of fortune and of luxury. But, while it is an interesting feature of the system, it imposes a delicate duty upon the Teacher. The eye of the child is quick to detect injustice, or partiality, and it should not be forgotten that the claims of all are equal, not only to your teaching, but to your love. The little rosy-cheeked child, whose patched garments speak of want and sorrow, at home, chants as merrily as his fellows the song of love your voice has taught him, and in the casket of that heart your image is as brightly set as if its throbbings were concealed beneath the purple of royalty. A very good general rule of government is, to be blind to half you see of mischief, or disobedience, and make your pupils forget the other half intended, by keeping them employed. The most perfect master of a child's love of mischief is his curiosity. It is related of a celebrated English Primary School Teacher that upon one occasion his school became so disorderly that it seemed about to get beyond his control; his wife was standing near, and seizing her cap from her head, he whirled it round and round singing "Hey-diddle diddle, the cat's in the fiddle," upon a high key, gradually, lowering the tone, as one after another the children joined in the song, until in a quiet, subdued, manner, the attention of the whole school was fixed, rebellion crushed, and order restored. Would that the cap our Goddess of Liberty wears might be as effectually used in quelling the rebellious spirits of American children of a larger growth! Such conquests should not be looked upon as permanent, variety in discipline, as in study, is necessary to a child. In every thing said to the child, aim to leave his mind free from perplexity, or doubt, otherwise you will find him sometimes unraveling the mystery in a way you least expected, and that you would gladly have avoided. I recollect a very amusing anecdote of a little three-year boy, which may recall to your minds others of a similar character, and save me the necessity of dwelling longer upon such oddities of childhood: A colored barber was sent for to shave his uncle who was sick. Jimmy had a natural dislike to colored people and a very saucy habit of calling them niggers. Apprehending some annoyance to the negroe if Jimmy met him, the boy's mother took him aside and said to him, "Jimmy, there is a colored gentleman coming to shave Uncle William to-day, and you may go and see him if you will not call him a nigger, for he is not, he is a colored gentleman. Now, you won't call him a nigger, will you ?" "No, ma'am," promptly replied Jimmy. This quieted his mother's fears. In the course of the morning the barber came. Jimmy watched him very closely, and seemed evidently to be in a brown study; at length, going up quite near to him, he gave one scrutinizing glance and said, "Look here, you ain't a nigger, are you? You are a colored gentleman, but you look like a nigger prethithely.” This was too much for the barber, who good-naturedly enjoyed the joke as much as his mother. The natural order of mental education is, perceiving, thinking, speaking, reading, writing; and by following this order which we have already considered as it appears in the Home School, we shall best succeed in the Day School. The child first perceives objects as to form, color, taste, etc.; he next perceives their relations to other objects, or the dependent relations of their parts; next he perceives their actions, motions, uses. These facts acquired, he begins to think about them, to create new relations of parts, or new forms of action. But any abstract perception has its immediate connection with the real object established at once, his knowledge of things is always linked with the thing itself. It is a living, acting, idea, not a dead, abstract, form. Now, to such a child you want to teach the alphabet; let me suggest a method. Some morning a little girl brings a rose for her Teacher, or any objects are brought by the children which you have previously requested them to bring. (This is an excellent method of interesting children in the school, it links home and school so intimately, and the child will take so much greater interest in that which it owns.) The morning greetings over, the opening song of praise to God ended, you take the rose from the vase "Who else of you have roses in their gardens? Raise your hands. Well James," you say (singling out some little boy who needs encouragement and confidence), "what kind of roses have you?" "White roses, ma'am." "Well, children, I will now show you a picture of a rose; here it is. Now I will show you the word rose," (writing, or printing, it upon the black-board, under the picture.) The word is examined, analysed, talked about; the sounds of its letters learned, not their names. If the child can remember the picture rose, why not the word rose? He does not analyse one more than the other. He does not count, nor think of, the leaves in the picture, he apprehends it as a whole. So of the word, and he will remember the word as associated with the real thing itself, as he does the picture. The Teacher proceeds: "What did this grow upon ?" "A stem," or, 66 a bush," is the answer. (This word, too, is written down.) Thus continuing until several words are written to be learned at sight, and then the lesson is left to be resumed another hour." The mere naming of the letters after the child is familiar with the sight of words, is no more difficult than it would be for him to learn the names of the parts of his wagon after he knows their uses. There is scarcely any limit to the objects that can be used in this way, the more commonplace they are to the child, the stronger are the associations and easier their remembrance; some of the simplest will evolve principles of social and moral culture as facts, not theories. Take, for example, a piece of bread"How many children here had bread for breakfast to-day?" All hands will rise. "Where did you get it?" "Mother gave it to me." "Where did your mother get it?" "At the baker's." "Where did the baker get it?" "At the miller's." "Did the baker get the bread at the miller's ?" No, ma'am, he got the flour and made the bread." "Where did the miller get it?" "He ground it." "Ground what, the flour?" "No, ma'am, he ground the wheat." "He got it on his farm;" or, "He raised it." "How did he raise it ?" "He sowed some wheat, and it grew." "What is the wheat called that was sown? "Seed." "What became of the seed after it was sown ?" "It grew and became wheat." "When it had grown, what did the farmer do with it?" And so on, until the chain of facts is complete, back to the piece of bread that the child had for breakfast. Such exercises, are varied, of course, to suit the capacity of the children. For more advanced scholars the philosophy of the facts would properly be investigated, and the moral deductions of Divine agency and goodness in thus fitting the earth for the production of such grain, would necessarily attract notice. Is there not a view of dependence and obligation to his fellow men established here that will lead to a proper estimate of the rights of others? Each person employed in the production of that piece of bread is necessary to the child. Do we often think of this? Is it not a valuable fact for the child's moral nature? While care should be taken to present but one idea at a time, and to require the perfect mastery of each before it is left, there should also be (as there necessarily will be) a variety of subjects presented; fifteen, or twenty, minutes at a time is the length of such as an exercise, as fixed by the best authorities. In such a lesson, the smallest exertion will serve to detect and bring up the naturally, or habitually, passive, or idle, members of the class. Have you not any classes where month after month some little boys and girls have sat, silent spectators, until, from habit, you have come to expect nothing from them? If so, when the enthusiasm of the class is at its hight, and they are vieing with each other to catch the Teacher's eye with outstretched hands, (a signal of their desire to answer,) turn to such a little listless scholar in some such language as this: "Now, Tommy, can you tell me?" Tommy wakes up and looks around him, astonished that any thing is expected of him. "No, no, children," proceeds the Teacher, as each one still pushes forward his hand to answer, "you keep still, and let Tommy answer; he knows it; now listen; hear what he says," and soon, more to his astonishment than yours, Tommy breaks silence, and at once elated by his self-conquest, becomes an active thinker. He has gained a victory and is affected by it, just as you, or I, would be after a hard struggle. Henceforth, you not only have a warm friend, but a bright scholar in Tommy. A few words of encouragement, as, "that's right," "that's pretty near it," "that's a very good answer," "well done, indeed," encourages the immediate recipients of them, and enlists the interest of all. Skipping about from one to another in this manner, will keep the interest and attention of the class. Is there a little nest of urchins in yonder corner, restless, playful, and inattentive, during recitation? Select out the ringleader and let fly at him a question; you will kill two birds with one stone; you will break up their play, and improve the scholars in their habits of attention. Speaking lessons comprise "the utterance of words and the full development of the vocal organs so far as is necessary for the distinct and clear articulation of sounds." They should be among the first exercises of the lowest classes in the Primary, and carefully preserved through all the difficult words of the text of the Reading Books. By such early lessons, improper and unpleasant drawling will be avoided. The rising and falling inflections can be much aided by a motion of the fingers upward and downward to guide the voice." A little watchfulness, and the invariable habit of correcting improper pronunciation and ungrammatical expressions upon all occasions, during school hours, will prevent a multitude of errors and much labor in later years. But the next step in the process is Reading, or, as I term it, talking from a book. Next to the proper use of words, is the expression of sentiment and feeling, to make a good reader. Now, in all the questions we have just been putting to the class, there has been found no difficulty at all in the correct emphasis, accent, or expression, and just so long as you asked, and the child answered, questions, there would be none. You say to the child, "George, Tommy says you struck him." Instantly George pleads not guilty in language like this: "Oh! Teacher, I didn't; upon my word I didn't strike Tommy; it was John did it." Not a hesitation in speaking, emphasis, or expression; yet, give him the same language to articulate from a book, and how many errors would he commit? How, then, shall we best secure these good qualities, when he does commence to talk from a book? I answer, continue your questions. Let the book contain questions and answers, the former for you to read, the latter for the scholar to read, or vice versa. Every answer read in reply to you will have few such defects as we have named. Children seldom fail to answer a question with proper expression and inflection. Is this a natural indication to be followed? Try it, if you never have, and see how soon the least poetical and dullest of your school will read well. That is one thing our Primary Readers do not contain enough of, or, rather, don't contain any thing of. If I had my way about Readers, I would commence the Primer with straight lines and angles, and with cards to correspond, for use upon the wall, and gradually introduce and form letters by continuations of the elementary lines. I would not have those twenty-six stiff, uniformed, characters on the first page, or first twenty pages, of the book. And Reader Number Two should be filled with simple dialogues to be read by Teacher and scholar, and everywhere, on every page of both Primer and Reader I would have questions full and ample to draw out the explanation of each step to be taken by the scholar, and at the top of every page |