The school children struck. They refused to attend the Council School.
When they knew their beloved teachers had been victimised they refused to
go back. They went on strike.
This was the finest, spontaneous, and most loving act of kindness that
kind teachers ever had showered upon them. It was a fitting tribute and
a real answer to all the calumny and slander.
Children know when they are loved. They cannot pretend as grown-ups can.
Had Higdon and his wife been disciples of Whackford Squeers or advocates
of the “Big Stick,” the children would gladly have sung Tosti’s “Good-bye
for ever,” and good shuttance. But they struck in sympathy.
Here are we confronted with another great factor. The mothers backed
them up womanfully. There are at present 56 children on Higdons’ books.
There’s a juxtaposition, as the late-lamented Dominie Sampson might have
remarked. The Babes o’ Burston and the Burston Braves.
That the women showed bravery is an undeniable fact. It requires more
than milksop pluck to brave the farmers, the clerics, and the law.
An open-air meeting was held on the green. The village green is that
portion of England left over after the squire and parson have cast lots
for the remainder.
What says the good book, slightly altered? “A certain man went to
Jericho and fell among landowners.”
Here let me insert the villagers’ reply to the Reverend Managers’
Committee and the Norfolk Education Committee:
That we, the electors and ratepayers of Burston and Shimpling, in
peaceable meeting assembled on Burston Common, again protest against
the action of certain school managers in bringing about the dismissal
of the teachers, Mr. and Mrs. Higdon, whom we all desire to keep; we
who are parents have been more than satisfied with the educational
progress during the past three years; the children have liked going
to school, and have been more regular in their attendances than ever
before; the report of His Majesty’s Inspector is a most excellent
one, so that upon no grounds whatever can we see any reasonable
excuse for the removal of these teachers from the school.
The children wrote essays upon these exciting incidents. I have read
them. They have given me great joy. Some are quite dramatic.
THE NIGHT BEFORE THE STRIKE.
By a Strike Boy.
The night before we went on strike we had a meeting on the comon.
(Nothing common about _his_ spelling is there?) Mr. Durbridge, who
is a soldier now, had two lamps a light. All the children goin’ on
strike. Went into a ring and held there hands up. So we all went
into the ring. There were 66 children. The last night we went to
the Council School we all had a Easter egg each and a orange each.
These were Mrs. Higdon’s parting gifts to the children. But she has not
parted from them yet (Glory be!) and this was over sixteen months ago.
Other essays tell us how “the strikers marched with flags and banners,
with cards on their breasts, ‘We want our teachers back.’”
One boy writes “that God sent fine weather a purpose for us strikers.” I
hope he did, sonny.
Another states “how they marched round the candlestick.” This is a route
march which consists of a twist and a double to pass the Council School
and the Rectory, although there is no mention of the children being
invited in to tea.
We gain information from these essays, “as to bobies standing round.”
Evidently this boy has studied un-Natural History.
We also learn “how Mrs. Boulton brought a pale of lemonade and nuts, and
we sang ‘We will all cling together like the ivy on the old garden wall,’
and we have done so except two Turncote blacklegs.” Not white
Wyandottes, blacklegs.
Another budding Jim Mace perchance (for James hailed from “Swarfham where
they do tree days’ trashin’ for norfun’”) informs us “that they had three
or four policemen to gaurd the school, but (as he quaintly remarks)
_there was no need_ for _them as we did not get to fighting_.” Evidently
a good job for the policemen that Jack did not tackle them.
Yes, I have had great joy of these essays. Amy informs us “how she
brought her mouth organ and Violet brought her accordeon, and how those
Barnardo girls told stories, for they had not been caned.” One feels
quite young as one reads of “Ben Turner borrowing two planks to write
upon, how schoolmistress, whom they term governess, would come and catch
us not redein, an’ we would have to do a slate full of
trancription”—whatever that may mean.
One may read, mark, and learn “how the boys sat on planks with their legs
in the ditch,” and “how when it was sewing day, we sat on the copper in
the coal-house, and when it raned we ranned into the cottage,” and “how
we had our liteness tooken twice.”
But some of the essays are grand and reflect credit upon all concerned.
To read them brings back youthful days.