DESCRIPTION OF THE METHOD AND DIDACTIC MATERIAL USED
FIRST PERIOD: EXERCISE TENDING TO DEVELOP THE MUSCULAR MECHANISM
NECESSARY IN HOLDING AND USING THE INSTRUMENT IN WRITING
_Design Preparatory to Writing.--Didactic Material._ Small wooden
tables; metal insets, outline drawings, coloured pencils. I have among
my materials two little wooden tables, the tops of which form an
inclined plane sloping toward a narrow cornice, which prevents objects
placed upon the table from slipping off. The top of each table is just
large enough to hold four of the square frames, into which the metal
plane geometric insets are fitted, and is so painted as to represent
three of these brown frames, each containing a square centre of the same
dark blue as the centres of the metal insets.
The metal insets are in dimension and form a reproduction of the series
of plane geometric insets in wood already described.
_Exercises_. Placed side by side upon the teacher's desk, or upon one of
the little tables belonging to the children, these two little tables may
have the appearance of being one long table containing eight figures.
The child may select one or more figures, taking at the same time the
frame of the inset. The analogy between these metal insets and the plane
geometric insets of wood is complete. But in this case, the child can
freely use the pieces, where before, he arranged them in the wooden
frame. He first takes the metal frame, places it upon a sheet of white
paper, and with a coloured pencil _draws around the contour of the empty
centre_. Then, he takes away the frame, and upon the paper there remains
a geometric figure.
This is the first time that the child has reproduced through design, a
geometric figure. Until now, he has only placed the geometric insets
above the figures delineated on the three series of cards. He now places
upon the figure, which he himself has drawn, the metal inset, just as he
placed the wooden inset upon the cards. His next act is to follow the
contour of this inset with a pencil of a different colour. Lifting the
metal piece, he sees the figure reproduced upon the paper, in two
colours.
Here, for the first time is born the abstract concept of the geometric
figure, for, from two metal pieces so different in form as the frame and
the inset, there has resulted the same design, which is a _line_
expressing a determined figure. This fact strikes the attention of the
child. He often marvels to find the same figure reproduced by means of
two pieces so different, and looks for a long time with evident pleasure
at the duplicate design--almost as if it were _actually produced_ by the
objects which serve to guide his hand.
Besides all this, the child learns _to trace lines_ determining figures.
There will come a day in which, with still greater surprise and
pleasure, he will trace graphic signs determining words.
After this, he begins the work which directly prepares for the formation
of the muscular mechanism relative to the holding and manipulation of
the instrument of writing. With a coloured pencil of his own selection,
held as the pen is held in writing, he _fills in_ the figure which he
has outlined. We teach him not to pass outside the contour, and in doing
so we attract his attention to this contour, and thus _fix_ the idea
that a line may determine a figure.
The exercise of filling in one figure alone, causes the child to perform
repeatedly the movement of manipulation which would be necessary to fill
ten copy-book pages with vertical strokes. And yet, the child feels no
weariness, because, although he makes exactly the muscular co-ordination
which is necessary to the work, he does so freely and in any way that he
wishes, while his eyes are fixed upon a large and brightly coloured
figure. At first, the children fill pages and pages of paper with these
big squares, triangles, ovals, trapezoids; colouring them red, orange,
green, blue, light blue, and pink.
Gradually they limit themselves to the use of the dark blue and brown,
both in drawing the figure and in filling it in, thus reproducing the
appearance of the metal piece itself. Many of the children, quite of
their own accord, make a little orange-coloured circle in the centre of
the figure, in this way representing the little brass button by which
the metal piece is to be held. They take great pleasure in feeling that
they have reproduced exactly, like true artists, the objects which they
see before them on the little shelf.
Observing the successive drawings of a child, there is revealed to us a
duplicate form of progression:
_First._ Little by little, the lines tend less and less to go outside
the enclosing line until, at last, they are perfectly contained within
it, and both the centre and the frame are filled in with close and
uniform strokes.
_Second._ The strokes with which the child fills in the figures, from
being at first short and confused, become gradually _longer, and more
nearly parallel_, until in many cases the figures are filled in by means
of perfectly regular up and down strokes, extending from one side of the
figure to the other. In such a case, it is evident that the child is
_master of the pencil_. The muscular mechanism, necessary to the
management of the instrument of writing, _is established_. We may,
therefore, by examining such designs, arrive at a clear idea of the
maturity of the child in the matter of _holding the pencil or pen in
hand_. To vary these exercises, we use the _outline drawings_ already
described. Through these designs, the manipulation of the pencil is
perfected, for they oblige the child to make lines of various lengths,
and make him more and more secure in his use of the pencil.
If we could count the lines made by a child in the filling in of these
figures, and could transform them into the signs used in writing, they
would fill many, many copy-books! Indeed, the security which our
children attain is likened to that of children in our ordinary third
elementary grade. When for the first time they take a pen or a pencil in
hand, they know how to manage it almost as well as a person who has
written for a long time.
I do not believe that any means can be found which will so successfully
and, in so short a space of time, establish this mastery. And with it
all, the child is happy and diverted. My old method for the deficients,
that of following with a small stick the contours of raised letters,
was, when compared with this, barren and miserable!
Even when the children _know how to write_ they continue these
exercises, which furnish an unlimited progression, since the designs may
be varied and complicated. The children follow in each design
essentially the same movements, and acquire a varied collection of
pictures which grow more and more perfect, and of which they are very
proud. For I not only _provoke_, but perfect, the writing through the
exercises which we call preparatory. The control of the pen is rendered
more and more secure, not by repeated exercises in the writing, but by
means of these filled-in designs. In this way, my children _perfect
themselves in writing, without actually writing_.
SECOND PERIOD: EXERCISES TENDING TO ESTABLISH THE VISUAL-MUSCULAR IMAGE
OF THE ALPHABETICAL SIGNS, AND TO ESTABLISH THE MUSCULAR MEMORY OF THE
MOVEMENTS NECESSARY TO WRITING
_Didactic Material._ Cards upon which the single letters of the alphabet
are mounted in sandpaper; larger cards containing groups of the same
letters.
The cards upon which the sandpaper letters are mounted are adapted in
size and shape to each letter. The vowels are in light-coloured
sandpaper and are mounted upon dark cards, the consonants and the groups
of letters are in black sandpaper mounted upon white cards. The grouping
is so arranged as to call attention to contrasted, or analogous forms.
The letters are cut in clear script form, the shaded parts being made
broader. We have chosen to reproduce the vertical script in use in the
elementary schools.
_Exercises._ In teaching the letters of the alphabet, we begin with the
_vowels_ and proceed to the consonants, pronouncing the _sound_, not the
name. In the case of the consonants, we immediately unite the sound with
one of the vowel sounds, repeating the syllable according to the usual
phonetic method.
The teaching proceeds according to the three periods already
illustrated.
_First._ Association of the visual and muscular-tactile sensation with
the letter sound.
The directress presents to the child two of the cards upon which vowels
are mounted (or two of the consonants, as the case may be). Let us
suppose that we present the letters i and o, saying, "This is i! This is
o!" As soon as we have given the sound of a letter, we have the child
trace it, taking care to show him _how_ to trace it, and if necessary
guiding the index finger of his right hand over the sandpaper letter _in
the sense of writing_.
"_Knowing how to trace_" will consist in _knowing the direction_ in
which a given graphic sign must be followed.
The child learns quickly, and his finger, already expert in the tactile
exercise, _is led_, by the slight roughness of the fine sandpaper, over
the exact track of the letter. _He may then repeat indefinitely_ the
movements necessary to produce the letters of the alphabet, without the
fear of the mistakes of which a child writing with a pencil for the
first time is so conscious. If he deviates, the smoothness of the card
immediately warns him of his error.
The children, as soon as they have become at all expert in this tracing
of the letters, take great pleasure in repeating it _with closed eyes_,
letting the sandpaper lead them in following the form which they do not
see. Thus the perception will be established by the direct
muscular-tactile sensation of the letter. In other words, it is no
longer the visual image of the letter, but the _tactile sensation_,
which guides the hand of the child in these movements, which thus become
fixed in the muscular memory.
There develop, contemporaneously, three sensations when the directress
_shows the letter_ to the child and has him trace it; the visual
sensation, the tactile sensation, and the muscular sensation. In this
way the _image of the graphic sign_ is fixed _in a much shorter space of
time_ than when it was, according to ordinary methods, acquired only
through the visual image. It will be found that the _muscular memory_ is
in the young child the most tenacious and, at the same time, the most
ready. Indeed, he sometimes recognises the letters by touching them,
when he cannot do so by looking at them. These images are, besides all
this, contemporaneously associated with the alphabetical sound.
_Second._ Perception. _The child should know how to compare and to
recognise the figures, when he hears the sounds corresponding to them._
The directress asks the child, for example, "Give me o!--Give me i!" If
the child does not recognise the letters by looking at them, she invites
him to trace them, but if he still does not recognise them, the lesson
is ended, and may be resumed another day. I have already spoken of the
necessity of _not revealing_ the error, and of not insisting in the
teaching when the child does not respond readily.
_Third._ Language. _Allowing the letters to lie for some instants upon
the table, the directress asks the child, "What is this?" and he should
respond, o, i._
In teaching the consonants, the directress pronounces only the _sound_,
and as soon as she has done so unites with it a vowel, pronouncing the
syllable thus formed and alternating this little exercise by the use of
different vowels. She must always be careful to emphasize the sound of
the consonant, repeating it by itself, as, for example, _m_, _m_, _m_,
_ma_, _me_, _mi_, _m_, _m_. When the child _repeats_ the sound he
isolates it, and then accompanies it with the vowel.
It is not necessary to teach all the vowels before passing to the
consonants, and as soon as the child knows one consonant he may begin to
compose words. Questions of this sort, however, are left to the judgment
of the educator.
I do not find it practical _to follow a special rule_ in the teaching of
the consonants. Often the curiosity of the child concerning a letter
leads us to teach that desired consonant; a name pronounced may awaken
in him a desire to know what consonants are necessary to compose it, and
this _will_, or _willingness_, of the pupil is a much more _efficacious_
means than any rule concerning the _progression_ of the letters.
When the child pronounces _the sounds_ of the consonants, he experiences
an evident pleasure. It is a great novelty for him, this series of
sounds, so varied and yet so distinct, _presenting_ such enigmatic signs
as the letters of the alphabet. There is mystery about all this, which
provokes most decided interest. One day I was on the terrace while the
children were having their free games; I had with me a little boy of two
years and a half left with me, for a moment, by his mother. Scattered
about upon a number of chairs, were the alphabets which we use in the
school. These had become mixed, and I was putting the letters back into
their respective compartments. Having finished my work, I placed the
boxes upon two of the little chairs near me. The little boy watched me.
Finally, he drew near to the box, and took one of the letters in his
hand. It chanced to be an f. At that moment the children, who were
running in single file, passed us, and, seeing the letter, called out in
chorus the corresponding sound and passed on. The child paid no
attention to them, but put back the f and took up an r. The children
running by again, looked at him laughing, and then began to cry out "r,
r, r! r, r, r!" Little by little the baby understood that, when he took
a letter in hand, the children, who were passing, cried out a sound.
This amused him so much that I wished to observe how long he would
persist in this game without becoming tired. He kept it up for
_three-quarters of an hour_! The children had become interested in the
child, and grouped themselves about him, pronouncing the sounds in
chorus, and laughing at his pleased surprise. At last, after he had
several times held up f, and had received from his public the same
sound, he took the letter again, showing it to me, and saying, "f, f,
f!" He had learned this from out the great confusion of sounds which he
had heard; the long letter which had first arrested the attention of the
running children, had made a great impression upon him.
It is not necessary to show how the separate pronunciation of the
alphabetical sounds _reveals_ the condition of the child's speech.
Defects, which are almost all related to the _incomplete_ development of
the language itself, manifest themselves, and the directress may take
note of them one by one. In this way she will be possessed of a record
of the child's progress, which will help her in her individual teaching,
and will reveal much concerning the development of the language in this
particular child.
In the matter of _correcting linguistic defects_, we will find it
helpful to follow the physiological rules relating to the child's
development, and to modify the difficulties in the presentation of our
lesson. When, however, the child's speech is sufficiently developed, and
when he _pronounces all the sounds_, it does not matter which of the
letters we select in our lessons.
Many of the defects which have become permanent in adults are due to
_functional errors in the development_ of the language during the period
of infancy. If, for the attention which we pay to the correction of
linguistic defects in children in the upper grades, we would substitute
_a direction of the development of the language_ while the child is
still young, our results would be much more practical and valuable. In
fact, many of the defects in pronunciation arise from the use of a
_dialect_, and these it is almost impossible to correct after the period
of childhood. They may, however, be most easily removed through the use
of educational methods especially adapted to the perfecting of the
language in little children.
We do not speak here of actual linguistic _defects_ related to
anatomical or physiological weaknesses, or to pathological facts which
alter the function of the nervous system. I speak at present only of
those irregularities which are due to a repetition of incorrect sounds,
or to the imitation of imperfect pronunciation. Such defects may show
themselves in the pronunciation of any one of the consonant sounds, and
I can conceive of no more practical means for a methodical correction of
speech defects than this exercise in pronunciation, which is a necessary
part in learning the graphic language through my method. But such
important questions deserve a chapter to themselves.
Turning directly to the method used in teaching writing, I may call
attention to the fact that it is contained in the two periods already
described. Such exercises have made it possible for the child to learn,
and to fix, the muscular mechanism necessary to the proper holding of
the pen, and to the making of the graphic signs. If he has exercised
himself for a sufficiently long time in these exercises, he will be
_potentially_ ready to write all the letters of the alphabet and all of
the simple syllables, without ever having taken chalk or pencil in his
hand.
We have, in addition to this, begun the teaching of _reading_ at the
same time that we have been teaching _writing_. When we present a letter
to the child and enunciate its sound, he fixes the image of this letter
by means of the visual sense, and also by means of the muscular-tactile
sense. He associates the sound with its relative sign; that is, he
relates the sound to the graphic sign. But _when he sees and recognises,
he reads; and when he traces, he writes_. Thus his mind receives as one,
two acts, which, later on, as he develops, will separate, coming to
constitute the two diverse processes of _reading and writing_. By
teaching these two acts contemporaneously, or, better, by their
_fusion_, we place the child _before a new form of language_ without
determining which of the acts constituting it should be most prevalent.
We do not trouble ourselves as to whether the child in the development
of this process, first learns to read or to write, or if the one or the
other will be the easier. We must rid ourselves of all preconceptions,
and must _await from experience_ the answer to these questions. We may
expect that individual differences will show themselves in the
prevalence of one or the other act in the development of different
children. This makes possible the most interesting psychological study
of the individual, and should broaden the work of this method, which is
based upon the free expansion of individuality.
THIRD PERIOD: EXERCISES FOR THE COMPOSITION OF WORDS
_Didactic Material._ This consists chiefly of alphabets. The letters of
the alphabet used here are identical in form and dimension with the
sandpaper ones already described, but these are cut out of cardboard and
are not mounted. In this way each letter represents an object which can
be easily handled by the child and placed wherever he wishes it. There
are several examples of each letter, and I have designed cases in which
the alphabets may be kept. These cases or boxes are very shallow, and
are divided and subdivided into many compartments, in each one of which
I have placed a group of four copies of the same letter. The
compartments are not equal in size, but are measured according to the
dimensions of the letters themselves. At the bottom of each compartment
is glued a letter which is not to be taken out. This letter is made of
black cardboard and relieves the child of the fatigue of hunting about
for the right compartment when he is replacing the letters in the case
after he has used them. The vowels are cut from blue cardboard, and the
consonants from red.
In addition to these alphabets we have a set of the capital letters
mounted in sandpaper upon cardboard, and another, in which they are cut
from cardboard. The numbers are treated in the same way.
[Illustration: (A) TRAINING THE SENSE OF TOUCH. Learning the difference
between rough and smooth by running fingers alternately over sandpaper
and smooth cardboard; distinguishing different shapes by fitting
geometric insets into place; distinguishing textures. (B) LEARNING TO
WRITE AND READ BY TOUCH. The child at the left is tracing sandpaper
letters and learning to know them by touch. The boy and girl are making
words out of cardboard letters.]
[Illustration: (A) CHILDREN TOUCHING LETTERS. The child on the left
has acquired lightness and delicacy of touch by very thorough
preparatory exercises. The one on the right has not had so much
training. (B) MAKING WORDS WITH CARDBOARD SCRIPT.]
_Exercises._ As soon as the child knows some of the vowels and the
consonants we place before him the big box containing all the vowels and
the consonants which he knows. The directress pronounces very clearly a
word; for example, "mama," brings out the sound of the m very
distinctly, repeating the sounds a number of times. Almost always the
little one with an impulsive movement seizes an m and places it upon the
table. The directress repeats "ma--ma." The child selects the a and
places it near the m. He then composes the other syllable very easily.
But the reading of the word which he has composed is not so easy.
Indeed, he generally succeeds in reading it only after a _certain
effort_. In this case I help the child, urging him to read, and reading
the word with him once or twice, always pronouncing very distinctly,
_mama, mama_. But once he has understood the mechanism of the game, the
child goes forward by himself, and becomes intensely interested. We may
pronounce any word, taking care only that the child understands
separately the letters of which it is composed. He composes the new
word, placing, one after the other, the signs corresponding to the
sounds.
It is most interesting indeed to watch the child at this work. Intensely
attentive, he sits watching the box, moving his lips almost
imperceptibly, and taking one by one the necessary letters, rarely
committing an error in spelling. The movement of the lips reveals the
fact that he _repeats to himself an infinite number of times_ the words
whose sounds he is translating into signs. Although the child is able to
compose any word which is clearly pronounced, we generally dictate to
him only those words which are well-known, since we wish his composition
to result in an idea. When these familiar words are used, he
spontaneously rereads many times the word he has composed, repeating its
sounds in a thoughtful, contemplative way.
The importance of these exercises is very complex. The child analyses,
perfects, fixes his own spoken language,--placing an object in
correspondence to every sound which he utters. The composition of the
word furnishes him with substantial proof of the necessity for clear and
forceful enunciation.
The exercise, thus followed, associates the sound which is heard with
the graphic sign which represents it, and lays a most solid foundation
for accurate and perfect spelling.
In addition to this, the composition of the words is in itself an
exercise of intelligence. The word which is pronounced presents to the
child a problem which he must solve, and he will do so by remembering
the signs, selecting them from among others, and arranging them in the
proper order. He will have the _proof_ of the exact solution of his
problem when he _rereads_ the word--this word which he has composed, and
which represents for all those who know how to read it, _an idea_.
When the child hears others read the word he has composed, he wears an
expression of satisfaction and pride, and is possessed by a species of
joyous wonder. He is impressed by this correspondence, carried on
between himself and others by means of symbols. The written language
represents for him the highest attainment reached by his own
intelligence, and is at the same time, the reward of a great
achievement.
When the pupil has finished the composition and the reading of the word
we have him, according to the habits of order which we try to establish
in connection with all our work, "_put away_" all the letters, each one
in its own compartment. In composition, pure and simple, therefore, the
child unites the two exercises of comparison and of selection of the
graphic signs; the first, when from the entire box of letters before him
he takes those necessary; the second, when he seeks the compartment in
which each letter must be replaced. There are, then, three exercises
united in this one effort, all three uniting to _fix the image of the
graphic sign_ corresponding to the sounds of the word. The work of
learning is in this case facilitated in three ways, and the ideas are
acquired in a third of the time which would have been necessary with
the old methods. We shall soon see that the child, on hearing the word,
or on thinking of a word which he already knows, _will see_, with his
mind's eye, all the letters, necessary to compose the word, arrange
themselves. He will reproduce this vision with a facility most
surprising to us. One day a little boy four years old, running alone
about the terrace, was heard to repeat many times, "To make Zaira, I
must have z-a-i-r-a." Another time, Professor Di Donato, in a visit to
the "Children's House," pronounced his own name for a four-year-old
child. The child was composing the name, using small letters and making
it all one word, and had begun, thus--_diton_. The professor at once
pronounced the word more distinctly; di _do_ nato, whereupon the child,
without scattering the letters, picked up the syllable _to_ and placed
it to one side, putting _do_ in the empty space. He then placed an _a_
after the _n_, and, taking up the _to_ which he had put aside, completed
the word with it. This made it evident that the child, when the word was
pronounced more clearly, understood that the syllable _to_ did not
belong at that place in the word, realised that it belonged at the end
of the word, and therefore placed it aside until he should need it. This
was most surprising in a child of four years, and amazed all of those
present. It can be explained by the clear and, at the same time, complex
vision of the signs which the child must have, if he is to form a word
which he hears spoken. This extraordinary act was largely due to the
orderly mentality which the child had acquired through repeated
spontaneous exercises tending to develop his intelligence.
These three periods contain the entire method for the acquisition of
written language. The significance of such a method is clear. The
psycho-physiological acts which unite to establish reading and writing
are prepared separately and carefully. The muscular movements peculiar
to the making of the signs or letters are prepared apart, and the same
is true of the manipulation of the instrument of writing. The
composition of the words, also, is reduced to a psychic mechanism of
association between images heard and seen. There comes a moment in which
the child, without thinking of it, fills in the geometric figures with
an up and down stroke, which is free and regular; a moment in which he
touches the letters with closed eyes, and in which he reproduces their
form, moving his finger through the air; a moment in which the
composition of words has become a psychic impulse, which makes the
child, even when alone, repeat to himself "To make Zaira I must have
z-a-i-r-a."
Now this child, it is true, _has never written_, but he has mastered all
the acts necessary to writing. The child who, when taking dictation, not
only knows how to compose the word, but instantly embraces in his
thought its composition as a whole, will be able to write, since he
knows how to make, with his eyes closed, the movements necessary to
produce these letters, and since he manages almost unconsciously the
instrument of writing.
More than this, the freedom with which the child has acquired this
mechanical dexterity makes it possible for the impulse or spirit to act
at any time through the medium of his mechanical ability. He should,
sooner or later, come into his full power by way of a spontaneous
explosion into writing. This is, indeed, the marvellous reaction which
has come from my experiment with normal children. In one of the
"Children's Houses," directed by Signorina Bettini, I had been
especially careful in the way in which writing was taught, and we have
had from this school most beautiful specimens of writing, and for this
reason, perhaps I cannot do better than to describe the development of
the work in this school.
One beautiful December day when the sun shone and the air was like
spring, I went up on the roof with the children. They were playing
freely about, and a number of them were gathered about me. I was sitting
near a chimney, and said to a little five-year-old boy who sat beside
me, "Draw me a picture of this chimney," giving him as I spoke a piece
of chalk. He got down obediently and made a rough sketch of the chimney
on the tiles which formed the floor of this roof terrace. As is my
custom with little children, I encouraged him, praising his work. The
child looked at me, smiled, remained for a moment as if on the point of
bursting into some joyous act, and then cried out, "I can write! I can
write!" and kneeling down again he wrote on the pavement the word
"hand." Then, full of enthusiasm, he wrote also "chimney," "roof." As he
wrote, he continued to cry out, "I can write! I know how to write!" His
cries of joy brought the other children, who formed a circle about him,
looking down at his work in stupefied amazement. Two or three of them
said to me, trembling with excitement, "Give me the chalk. I can write
too." And indeed they began to write various words: _mama_, _hand_,
_John_, _chimney_, _Ada_.
Not one of them had ever taken chalk or any other instrument in hand for
the purpose of writing. It was the _first time_ that they had ever
written, and they traced an entire word, as a child, when speaking for
the first time, speaks the entire word.
The first word spoken by a baby causes the mother ineffable joy. The
child has chosen perhaps the word "mother," seeming to render thus a
tribute to maternity. The first word written by my little ones aroused
within themselves an indescribable emotion of joy. Not being able to
adjust in their minds the connection between the preparation and the
act, they were possessed by the illusion that, having now grown to the
proper size, they knew how to write. In other words, writing seemed to
them only one among the many gifts of nature.
They believe that, as they grow bigger and stronger, there will come
some beautiful day when they _shall know how to write_. And, indeed,
this is what it is in reality. The child who speaks, first prepares
himself unconsciously, perfecting the psycho-muscular mechanism which
leads to the articulation of the word. In the case of writing, the child
does almost the same thing, but the direct pedagogical help and the
possibility of preparing the movements for writing in an almost material
way, causes the ability to write to develop much more rapidly and more
perfectly than the ability to speak correctly.
In spite of the ease with which this is accomplished, the preparation is
not partial, but complete. The child possesses _all_ the movements
necessary for writing. And written language develops not gradually, but
in an explosive way; that is, the child can write _any word_. Such was
our first experience in the development of the written language in our
children. Those first days we were a prey to deep emotions. It seemed as
if we walked in a dream, and as if we assisted at some miraculous
achievement.
The child who wrote a word for the first time was full of excited joy.
He might be compared to the hen who has just laid an egg. Indeed, no one
could escape from the noisy manifestations of the little one. He would
call everyone to see, and if there were some who did not go, he ran to
take hold of their clothes forcing them to come and see. We all had to
go and stand about the written word to admire the marvel, and to unite
our exclamations of surprise with the joyous cries of the fortunate
author. Usually, this first word was written on the floor, and, then,
the child knelt down before it in order to be nearer to his work and to
contemplate it more closely.
After the first word, the children, with a species of frenzied joy,
continued to write everywhere. I saw children crowding about one another
at the blackboard, and behind the little ones who were standing on the
floor another line would form consisting of children mounted upon
chairs, so that they might write above the heads of the little ones. In
a fury at being thwarted, other children, in order to find a little
place where they might write, overturned the chairs upon which their
companions were mounted. Others ran toward the window shutters or the
door, covering them with writing. In these first days we walked upon a
carpet of written signs. Daily accounts showed us that the same thing
was going on at home, and some of the mothers, in order to save their
pavements, and even the crust of their loaves upon which they found
words written, made their children presents of _paper_ and _pencil_. One
of these children brought to me one day a little note-book entirely
filled with writing, and the mother told me that the child had written
all day long and all evening, and had gone to sleep in his bed with the
paper and pencil in his hand.
This impulsive activity which we could not, in those first days control,
made me think upon the wisdom of Nature, who develops the spoken
language little by little, letting it go hand in hand with the gradual
formation of ideas. Think of what the result would have been had Nature
acted imprudently as I had done! Suppose Nature had first allowed the
human being to gather, by means of the senses, a rich and varied
material, and to acquire a store of ideas, and had then completely
prepared in him the means for articulate language, saying finally to the
child, mute until that hour, "Go--Speak!" The result would have been a
species of sudden madness, under the influence of which the child,
feeling no restraints, would have burst into an exhausting torrent of
the most strange and difficult words.
I believe, however, that there exists between the two extremes a happy
medium which is the true and practical way. We should lead the child
more gradually to the conquest of written language, yet we should still
have it come as a _spontaneous fact_, and his work should from the first
be almost perfect.
Experience has shown us how to control this phenomenon, and how to lead
the child more _calmly_ to this new power. The fact that the children
_see_ their companions writing, leads them, through imitation, to write
_as soon as_ they can. In this way, when the child writes he does not
have the entire alphabet at his disposal, and the number of words which
he can write is limited. He is not even capable of making all of the
words possible through a combination of the letters which he does know.
He still has the great joy of the _first written word_, but this is no
longer the source of _an overwhelming surprise_, since he sees just such
wonderful things happening each day, and knows that sooner or later the
same gift will come to all. This tends to create a calm and ordered
environment, still full of beautiful and wonderful surprises.
Making a visit to the "Children's House," even during the opening weeks,
one makes fresh discoveries. Here, for instance, are two little
children, who, though they fairly radiate pride and joy, are writing
tranquilly. Yet, these children, until yesterday, had never thought of
writing!
The directress tells me that one of them began to write yesterday
morning at eleven o'clock, the other, at three in the afternoon. We have
come to accept the phenomenon with calmness, and tacitly recognise it as
a _natural form of the child's development_.
The wisdom of the teacher shall decide when it is necessary to encourage
a child to write. This can only be when he is already perfect in the
three periods of the preparatory exercise, and yet does not write of his
own accord. There is danger that in retarding the act of writing, the
child may plunge finally into a tumultuous effort, due to the fact that
he knows the entire alphabet and has no natural check.
The signs by which the teacher may almost precisely diagnose the child's
maturity in this respect are: the _regularity_ of the _parallel_ lines
which fill in the geometric figures; the recognition with closed eyes of
the sandpaper letters; the security and readiness shown in the
composition of words. Before intervening by means of a direct invitation
to write, it is best to wait at least a week in the hope that the child
may write spontaneously. When he has begun to write spontaneously the
teacher may intervene to _guide_ the progress of the writing. The first
help which she may give is that of _ruling_ the blackboard, so that the
child may be led to maintain regularity and proper dimensions in his
writing.
The second, is that of inducing the child, whose writing is not firm, to
_repeat the tracing_ of the sandpaper letters. She should do this
instead of _directly_ correcting his actual writing, for the child does
not perfect himself by repeating the act of writing, but by repeating
the acts preparatory to writing. I remember a little beginner who,
wishing to make his blackboard writing perfect, brought all of the
sandpaper letters with him, and before writing touched two or three
times _all of the letters needed in the words he wished to write_. If a
letter did not seem to him to be perfect he erased it and _retouched_
the letter upon the card before rewriting.
Our children, even after they have been writing for a year, continue to
repeat the three preparatory exercises. They thus learn both to write,
and to perfect their writing, without really going through the actual
act. With our children, actual writing is a test; it springs from an
inner impulse, and from the pleasure of explaining a superior activity;
it is not an exercise. As the soul of the mystic perfects itself through
prayer, even so in our little ones, that highest expression of
civilisation, written language, is acquired and improved through
exercises which are akin to, but which are not, writing.
There is educational value in this idea of preparing oneself before
trying, and of perfecting oneself before going on. To go forward
correcting his own mistakes, boldly attempting things which he does
imperfectly, and of which he is as yet unworthy dulls the sensitiveness
of the child's spirit toward his own errors. My method of writing
contains an educative concept; teaching the child that prudence which
makes him avoid errors, that dignity which makes him look ahead, and
which guides him to perfection, and that humility which unites him
closely to those sources of good through which alone he can make a
spiritual conquest, putting far from him the illusion that the
immediate success is ample justification for continuing in the way he
has chosen.
The fact that all the children, those who are just beginning the three
exercises and those who have been writing for months, daily repeat the
same exercise, unites them and makes it easy for them to meet upon an
apparently equal plane. Here there are no _distinctions_ of beginners,
and experts. All of the children fill in the figures with coloured
pencils, touch the sandpaper letters and compose words with the movable
alphabets; the little ones beside the big ones who help them. He who
prepares himself, and he who perfects himself, both follow the same
path. It is the same way in life, for, deeper than any social
distinction, there lies an equality, a common meeting point, where all
men are brothers, or, as in the spiritual life, aspirants and saints
again and again pass through the same experiences.
Writing is very quickly learned, because we begin to teach it only to
those children who show a desire for it by spontaneous attention to the
lesson given by the directress to other children, or by watching the
exercises in which the others are occupied. Some individuals _learn_
without ever having received any lessons, solely through listening to
the lessons given to others.
In general, all children of four are intensely interested in writing,
and some of our children have begun to write at the age of three and a
half. We find the children particularly enthusiastic about tracing the
sandpaper letters.
During the first period of my experiments, when the children were shown
the alphabet _for the first time_, I one day asked Signorina Bettini to
bring out to the terrace where the children were at play, all of the
various letters which she herself had made. As soon as the children saw
them they gathered about us, their fingers outstretched in their
eagerness to touch the letters. Those who secured cards were unable to
touch them properly because of the other children, who crowded about
trying to reach the cards in our laps. I remember with what an impulsive
movement the possessors of the cards held them on high like banners, and
began to march, followed by all the other children who clapped their
hands and cried out joyously. The procession passed before us, and all,
big and little, laughed merrily, while the mothers, attracted by the
noise, leaned from the windows to watch the sight.
The average time that elapses between the first trial of the preparatory
exercises and the first written word is, for children of four years,
from a month to a month and a half. With children of five years, the
period is much shorter, being about a month. But one of our pupils
learned to use in writing all the letters of the alphabet in twenty
days. Children of four years, after they have been in school for two
months and a half, can write any word from dictation, and can pass to
writing with ink in a note-book. Our little ones are generally experts
after three months' time, and those who have written for six months may
be compared to the children in the third elementary. Indeed, writing is
one of the easiest and most delightful of all the conquests made by the
child.
If adults learned as easily as children under six years of age, it would
be an easy matter to do away with illiteracy. We would probably find two
grave hinderances to the attainment of such a brilliant success: the
torpor of the muscular sense, and those permanent defects of spoken
language, which would be sure to translate themselves into the written
language. I have not made experiments along this line, but I believe
that one school year would be sufficient to lead an illiterate person,
not only to write, but to express his thoughts in written language.
So much for the time necessary for learning. As to the execution, our
children _write well_ from the moment in which they begin. The _form_ of
the letters, beautifully rounded and flowing, is surprising in its
similarity to the form of the sandpaper models. The beauty of our
writing is rarely equalled by any scholars in the elementary schools,
_who have not had special exercises in penmanship_. I have made a close
study of penmanship, and I know how difficult it would be to teach
pupils of twelve or thirteen years to write an entire word without
lifting the pen, except for the few letters which require this. The up
and down strokes with which they have filled their copy-book make
flowing writing almost impossible to them.
Our little pupils, on the other hand, spontaneously, and with a
marvellous security, write entire words without lifting the pen,
maintaining perfectly the slant of the letters, and making the distance
between each letter equal. This has caused more than one visitor to
exclaim, "If I had not seen it I should never have believed it." Indeed,
penmanship is a superior form of teaching and is necessary to correct
defects already acquired and fixed. It is a long work, for the child,
_seeing_ the model, must follow the _movements_ necessary to reproduce
it, while there is no direct correspondence between the visual sensation
and the movements which he must make. Too often, penmanship is taught at
an age when all the defects have become established, and when the
physiological period in which the _muscular memory_ is ready, has been
passed.
We directly prepare the child, not only for writing, but also for
_penmanship_, paying great attention to the _beauty of form_ (having the
children touch the letters in script form) and to the flowing quality
of the letters. (The exercises in filling-in prepare for this.)
READING
_Didactic Material._ The Didactic Material for the lessons in reading
consists in slips of paper or cards upon which are written in clear,
large script, words and phrases. In addition to these cards we have a
great variety of toys.
Experience has taught me to distinguish clearly between _writing and
reading_, and has shown me that the two acts _are not absolutely
contemporaneous_. Contrary to the usually accepted idea, writing
_precedes reading_. I do not consider as _reading_ the test which the
child makes _when he verifies_ the word that he has written. He is
translating signs into sounds, as he first translated sounds into signs.
In this verification he already knows the word and has repeated it to
himself while writing it. What I understand by reading is the
_interpretation_ of an idea from the written signs. The child who has
not heard the word pronounced, and who recognises it when he sees it
composed upon the table with the cardboard letters, and who can tell
what it means; this child _reads_. The word which he reads has the same
relation to written language that the word which he hears bears to
articulate language. Both serve to _receive the language_ transmitted to
us _by others_. So, until the child reads a transmission of ideas from
the written word, _he does not read_.
We may say, if we like, that writing as described is a fact in which the
psycho-motor mechanism prevails, while in reading, there enters a work
which is purely intellectual. But it is evident how our method for
writing prepares for reading, making the difficulties almost
imperceptible. Indeed, writing prepares the child to interpret
mechanically the union of the letter sounds of which the written word is
composed. When a child in our school knows how to write, _he knows how
to read the sounds_ of which the word is composed. It should be noticed,
however, that when the child composes the words with the movable
alphabet, or when he writes, he has _time to think_ about the signs
which he must select to form the word. The writing of a word requires a
great deal more time than that necessary for reading the same word.
The child who _knows how to write_, when placed before a word which he
must interpret by reading, is silent for a long time, and generally
reads the component sounds with the same slowness with which he would
have written them. But _the sense of the word_ becomes evident only when
it is pronounced clearly and with the phonetic accent. Now, in order to
place the phonetic accent the child must recognise the word; that is, he
must recognise the idea which the word represents. The intervention of a
superior work of the intellect is necessary if he is to read. Because of
all this, I proceed in the following way with the exercises in reading,
and, as will be evident, I do away entirely with the old-time primer.
I prepare a number of little cards made from ordinary writing-paper. On
each of these I write in large clear script some well-known word, one
which has already been pronounced many times by the children, and which
represents an object actually present or well known to them. If the word
refers to an object which is before them, I place this object under the
eyes of the child, in order to facilitate his interpretation of the
word. I will say, in this connection, the objects used in these writing
games are for the most part toys of which we have a great many in the
"Children's Houses." Among these toys, are the furnishings of a doll's
house, balls, dolls, trees, flocks of sheep, or various animals, tin
soldiers, railways, and an infinite variety of simple figures.
If writing serves to correct, or better, to direct and perfect the
mechanism of the articulate language of the child, reading serves to
help the development of ideas, and relates them to the development of
the language. Indeed, writing aids the physiological language and
reading aids the social language.
We begin, then, as I have indicated, with the nomenclature, that is,
with the reading of names of objects which are well known or present.
There is no question of beginning with words that are _easy or
difficult_, for the _child already knows how to read any word_; that is,
he knows how to read _the sounds which compose it_. I allow the little
one to translate the written word slowly into sounds, and if the
interpretation is exact, I limit myself to saying, "Faster." The child
reads more quickly the second time, but still often without
understanding. I then repeat, "Faster, faster." He reads faster each
time, repeating the same accumulation of sounds, and finally the word
bursts upon his consciousness. Then he looks upon it as if he recognised
a friend, and assumes that air of satisfaction which so often radiates
our little ones. This completes the exercise for reading. It is a lesson
which goes very rapidly, since it is only presented to a child who is
already prepared through writing. Truly, we have buried the tedious and
stupid A B C primer side by side with the useless copy-books!
When the child has read the word, he places the explanatory card under
the object whose name it bears, and the exercise is finished.
One of our most interesting discoveries was made in the effort to devise
a game through which the children might, without effort, learn to read
words. We spread out upon one of the large tables a great variety of
toys. Each one of them had a corresponding card upon which the name of
the toy was written. We folded these little cards and mixed them up in a
basket, and the children who knew how to read were allowed to take turns
in drawing these cards from the basket. Each child had to carry his card
back to his desk, unfold it quietly, and read it mentally, not showing
it to those about him. He then had to fold it up again, so that the
secret which it contained should remain unknown. Taking the folded card
in his hand, he went to the table. He had then to pronounce clearly the
name of a toy and present the card to the directress in order that she
might verify the word he had spoken. The little card thus became current
coin with which he might acquire the toy he had named. For, if he
pronounced the word clearly and indicated the correct object, the
directress allowed him to take the toy, and to play with it as long as
he wished.
When each child had had a turn, the directress called the first child
and let him draw a card from another basket. This card he read as soon
as he had drawn it. It contained the name of one of his companions who
did not yet know how to read, and for that reason could not have a toy.
The child who had read the name then offered to his little friend the
toy with which he had been playing. We taught the children to present
these toys in a gracious and polite way, accompanying the act with a
bow. In this way we did away with every idea of class distinction, and
inspired the sentiment of kindness toward those who did not possess the
same blessings as ourselves. This reading game proceeded in a
marvellous way. The contentment of these poor children in possessing
even for a little while such beautiful toys can be easily imagined.
But what was my amazement, when the children, having learned to
understand the written cards, _refused_ to take the toys! They explained
that they did not wish to waste time in playing, and, with a species of
insatiable desire, preferred to draw out and read the cards one after
another!
I watched them, seeking to understand the secret of these souls, of
whose greatness I had been so ignorant! As I stood in meditation among
the eager children, the discovery that it was knowledge they loved, and
not the silly _game_, filled me with wonder and made me think of the
greatness of the human soul!
We therefore put away the toys, and set about making _hundreds_ of
written slips, containing names of children, cities, and objects; and
also of colours and qualities known through the sense exercises. We
placed these slips in open boxes, which we left where the children could
make free use of them. I expected that childish inconstancy would at
least show itself in a tendency to pass from one box to another; but no,
each child finished emptying the box under his hand before passing to
another, being verily _insatiable_ in the desire to read.
Coming into the school one day, I found that the directress had allowed
the children to take the tables and chairs out upon the terrace, and was
having school in the open air. A number of little ones were playing in
the sun, while others were seated in a circle about the tables
containing the sandpaper letters and the movable alphabet.
A little apart sat the directress, holding upon her lap a long narrow
box full of written slips, and all along the edge of her box were little
hands, fishing for the beloved cards. "You may not believe me," said the
directress, "but it is more than an hour since we began this, and they
are not satisfied yet!" We tried the experiment of bringing balls, and
dolls to the children, but without result; such futilities had no power
beside the joys of _knowledge_.
Seeing these surprising results, I had already thought of testing the
children with print, and had suggested that the directress _print_ the
word under the written word upon a number of slips. But the children
forestalled us! There was in the hall a calendar upon which many of the
words were printed in clear type, while others were done in Gothic
characters. In their mania for reading the children began to look at
this calendar, and, to my inexpressible amazement, read not only the
print, but the Gothic script.
There therefore remained nothing but the presentation of a book, and I
did not feel that any of those available were suited to our method.
The mothers soon had proofs of the progress of their children; finding
in the pockets of some of them little slips of paper upon which were
written rough notes of marketing done; bread, salt, etc. Our children
were making lists of the marketing they did for their mothers! Other
mothers told us that their children no longer ran through the streets,
but stopped to read the signs over the shops.
A four-year-old boy, educated in a private house by the same method,
surprised us in the following way. The child's father was a Deputy, and
received many letters. He knew that his son had for two months been
taught by means of exercises apt to facilitate the learning of reading
and writing, but he had paid slight attention to it, and, indeed, put
little faith in the method. One day, as he sat reading, with the boy
playing near, a servant entered, and placed upon the table a large
number of letters that had just arrived. The little boy turned his
attention to these, and holding up each letter read aloud the address.
To his father this seemed a veritable miracle.
As to the average time required for learning to read and write,
experience would seem to show that, starting from the moment in which
the child writes, the passage from such an inferior stage of the graphic
language to the superior state of reading averages a fortnight.
_Security_ in reading is, however, arrived at much more slowly than
perfection in writing. In the greater majority of cases the child who
writes beautifully, still reads rather poorly.
Not all children of the same age are at the same point in this matter of
reading and writing. We not only do not force a child, but we do not
even _invite_ him, or in any way attempt to coax him to do that which he
does not wish to do. So it sometimes happens that certain children, _not
having spontaneously presented themselves_ for these lessons, are left
in peace, and do not know how to read or write.
If the old-time method, which tyrannized over the will of the child and
destroyed his spontaneity, does not believe in making a knowledge of
written language _obligatory_ before the age of six, much less do we!
I am not ready to decide, without a wider experience, whether the period
when the spoken language is fully developed is, in every case, the
proper time for beginning to develop the written language.
In any case, almost all of the normal children treated with our method
begin to write at four years, and at five know how to read and write, at
least as well as children who have finished the first elementary. They
could enter the second elementary a year in advance of the time when
they are admitted to first.
_Games for the Reading of Phrases._ As soon as my friends saw that the
children could read print, they made me gifts of beautifully illustrated
books. Looking through these books of simple fairy lore, I felt sure
that the children would not be able to understand them. The teachers,
feeling entirely satisfied as to the ability of their pupils, tried to
show me I was wrong, having different children read to me, and saying
that they read much more perfectly than the children who had finished
the second elementary.
I did not, however, allow myself to be deceived, and made two trials. I
first had the teacher tell one of the stories to the children while I
observed to what extent they were spontaneously interested in it. The
attention of the children wandered after a few words. I had _forbidden_
the teacher to recall to order those who did not listen, and thus,
little by little, a hum arose in the schoolroom, due to the fact that
each child, not caring to listen had returned to his usual _occupation_.
It was evident that the children, who seemed to read these books with
such pleasure, _did not take pleasure in the sense_, but enjoyed the
mechanical ability they had acquired, which consisted in translating the
graphic signs into the sounds of a word they recognised. And, indeed,
the children did not display the same _constancy_ in the reading of
books which they showed toward the written slips, since in the books
they met with so many unfamiliar words.
My second test, was to have one of the children read the book to me. I
did not interrupt with any of those explanatory remarks by means of
which a teacher tries to help the child follow the thread of the story
he is reading, saying for example: "Stop a minute. Do you understand?
What have you read? You told me how the little boy went to drive in a
big carriage, didn't you? Pay attention to what the book says, etc."
I gave the book to a little boy, sat down beside him in a friendly
fashion, and when he had read I asked him simply and seriously as one
would speak to a friend, "Did you understand what you were reading?" He
replied: "No." But the expression of his face seemed to ask an
explanation of my demand. In fact, the idea that _through the reading of
a series of words the complex thoughts of others might be communicated
to us_, was to be for my children one of the beautiful conquests of the
future, a new source of surprise and joy.
The _book_ has recourse to _logical language_, not to the mechanism of
the language. Before the child can understand and enjoy a book, the
_logical language_ must be established in him. Between knowing how to
read the _words_, and how to read the _sense_, of a book there lies the
same distance that exists between knowing how to pronounce a word and
how to make a speech. I, therefore, stopped the reading from books and
waited.
One day, during a free conversation period, _four_ children arose at the
same time and with expressions of joy on their faces ran to the
blackboard and wrote phrases upon the order of the following:
"Oh, how glad we are that our garden has begun to bloom." It was a great
surprise for me, and I was deeply moved. These children had arrived
spontaneously at the art of _composition_, just as they had
spontaneously written their first word.
The mechanical preparation was the same, and the phenomenon developed
logically. Logical articulate language had, when the time was ripe,
provoked the corresponding explosion in written language.
I understood that the time had come when we might proceed to _the
reading of phrases_. I had recourse to the means used by the children;
that is, I wrote upon the blackboard, "Do you love me?" The children
read it slowly aloud, were silent for a moment as if thinking, then
cried out, "Yes! Yes!" I continued to write; "Then make the silence, and
watch me." They read this aloud, almost shouting, but had barely
finished when a solemn silence began to establish itself, interrupted
only by the sounds of the chairs as the children took positions in which
they could sit quietly. Thus began between me and them a communication
by means of written language, a thing which interested the children
intensely. Little by little, they _discovered_ the great quality of
writing--that it transmits thought. Whenever I began to write, they
fairly _trembled_ in their eagerness to understand what was my meaning
without hearing me speak a word.
Indeed, _graphic_ language does not need spoken words. It can only be
understood in all its greatness when it is completely isolated from
spoken language.
This introduction to reading was followed by the following game, which
is greatly enjoyed by the children. Upon a number of cards I wrote long
sentences describing certain actions which the children were to carry
out; for example, "Close the window blinds; open the front door; then
wait a moment, and arrange things as they were at first." "Very politely
ask eight of your companions to leave their chairs, and to form in
double file in the centre of the room, then have them march forward and
back on tiptoe, making no noise." "Ask three of your oldest companions
who sing nicely, if they will please come into the centre of the room.
Arrange them in a nice row, and sing with them a song that you have
selected," etc., etc. As soon as I finished writing, the children seized
the cards, and taking them to their seats read them spontaneously with
great intensity of attention, and all _amid the most complete silence_.
I asked then, "Do you understand?" "Yes! Yes!" "Then do what the card
tells you," said I, and was delighted to see the children rapidly and
accurately follow the chosen action. A great activity, a movement of a
new sort, was born in the room. There were those who closed the blinds,
and then reopened them; others who made their companions run on tiptoe,
or sing; others wrote upon the blackboard, or took certain objects from
the cupboards. Surprise and curiosity produced a general silence, and
the lesson developed amid the most intense interest. It seemed as if
some magic force had gone forth from me stimulating an activity hitherto
unknown. This magic was graphic language, the greatest conquest of
civilisation.
And how deeply the children understood the importance of it! When I went
out, they gathered about me with expressions of gratitude and affection,
saying, "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you for the lesson!"
This has become one of the favourite games: We first establish _profound
silence_, then present a basket containing folded slips, upon each one
of which is written a long phrase describing an action. All those
children who know how to read may draw a slip, and read it _mentally_
once or twice until they are certain they understand it. They then give
the slip back to the directress and set about carrying out the action.
Since many of these actions call for the help of the other children who
do not know how to read, and since many of them call for the handling
and use of the materials, a general activity develops amid marvellous
order, while the silence is only interrupted by the sound of little feet
running lightly, and by the voices of the children who sing. This is an
unexpected revelation of the perfection of spontaneous discipline.
Experience has shown us that _composition_ must _precede logical_
reading, as writing preceded the reading of the word. It has also shown
that reading, if it is to teach the child to _receive an idea_, should
be _mental_ and not _vocal_.
Reading aloud implies the exercise of two mechanical forms of the
language--articulate and graphic--and is, therefore, a complex task. Who
does not know that a grown person who is to read a paper in public
prepares for this by making himself master of the content? Reading aloud
is one of the most difficult intellectual actions. The child, therefore,
who _begins_ to read by interpreting thought _should read mentally_. The
written language must isolate itself from the articulate, when it rises
to the interpretation of logical thought. Indeed, it represents the
language which _transmits thought at a distance_, while the senses and
the muscular mechanism are silent. It is a spiritualised language, which
puts into communication all men who know how to read.
Education having reached such a point in the "Children's Houses," the
entire elementary school must, as a logical consequence, be changed. How
to reform the lower grades in the elementary schools, eventually
carrying them on according to our methods, is a great question which
cannot be discussed here. I can only say that the _first elementary_
would be completely done away with by our infant education, which
includes it.
The elementary classes in the future should begin with children such as
ours who know how to read and write; children who know how to take care
of themselves; how to dress and undress, and to wash themselves;
children who are familiar with the rules of good conduct and courtesy,
and who are thoroughly disciplined in the highest sense of the term,
having developed, and become masters of themselves, through liberty;
children who possess, besides a perfect mastery of the articulate
language, the ability to read written language in an elementary way, and
who begin to enter upon the conquest of logical language.
These children pronounce clearly, write in a firm hand, and are full of
grace in their movements. They are the earnest of a humanity grown in
the cult of beauty--the infancy of an all-conquering humanity, since
they are intelligent and patient observers of their environment, and
possess in the form of intellectual liberty the power of spontaneous
reasoning.
For such children, we should found an elementary school worthy to
receive them and to guide them further along the path of life and of
civilisation, a school loyal to the same educational principles of
respect for the freedom of the child and for his spontaneous
manifestations--principles which shall form the personality of these
little men.
[Illustration: Example of writing done with pen, by a child five years.
One-fourth reduction.
Translation: "We would like to wish a joyous Easter to the civil
engineer Edoardo Talamo and the Princess Maria. We will ask them to
bring their pretty children here. Leave it to me: I will write for all.
April 7, 1909."]