Jennie Leavitt was a high-strung, irrepressible, well-meaning girl far
on in her teens. It was her custom to announce firm adherence to good
moral standards when such matters were up for discussion. Her motives,
moreover, were seldom open to question.
[Sidenote: Isolating Whisperers]
She entered class at the opening of the term with an established
whispering habit. Her classmates, one by one, were moved from her
vicinity so that, finally, only one was left with whom she could chat.
Her breaches of good order were so innocent that any suggestion of
coercion seemed inappropriate; the removal of her companions reduced the
problem to small dimensions.
The teacher had but one short step to take: to give her remaining
companion another seat in some unobtrusive way and to make enough
assignments of written work to afford a means of expression for the
active mind of the school girl. This could easily be done because of the
excellent mutual understanding between the whisperer and her teacher.
A school should offer conditions and surroundings that are as conducive
as possible to study, to concentration of the pupil’s effort. Too many
teachers put plenty of emphasis on the physical factors in their pupils’
surroundings—ventilation, posture, light, etc.—but allow their rooms to
degenerate into a perfect hubbub of noisy confusion in which study is
impossible.