THE SCHOOL READERS
If we scholars did not grow up to be exemplary men and women, it surely
was not the fault of our teachers or our parents,—or of the schoolbook
publishers.
When I look back to those lessons that we learned, I marvel that I ever
wandered from the straight path in the smallest possible degree. Whether
we were learning to read or write, studying grammar or composition, in
whatever book we chanced to take, there was the moral precept plain on
every page. Our many transgressions could have come only from the fact
that we really did not know what these lessons meant; and doubtless our
teachers also never thought they had any sort of relation to our lives.
How these books were crammed with noble thoughts! In them every virtue
was extolled and every vice condemned. I wonder now how the book
publishers could ever have printed such tales, or how they reconciled
themselves to the hypocrisy they must have felt when they sold the
books.
This moral instruction concerned certain general themes. First of all,
temperance was the great lesson taught. I well remember that we children
believed that the first taste of liquor was the fatal one; and we never
even considered that one drop could be taken without leading us to
everlasting ruin and despair. There were the alms-house, the jail, and
the penitentiary square, in front of every child who even considered
taking the first drink; while all the rewards of this world and the next
were freely promised to the noble lad who should resist.
As I look back to-day, it seems as if every moral lesson in the universe
must have grown into my being from those books. How could I have ever
wandered from the narrow path? I look back to those little freckled,
trifling boys and girls, and I hear them read their lessons in their
books so long ago. The stories were all the same, from the beginning to
the end. We began in the primer, and our instruction in reading and good
conduct did not end until the covers of the last book were closed.
It seems to me to-day that I can hear those little urchins reading about
the idle lazy boy who tried to get the bee and the cow and the horse to
play with him,—though what he wanted of the bee I could never
understand,—but they were all too busy with their work, and so he ran
away from school and had a most miserable day alone. How could we
children ever stay away from school after we had read this lesson? And
yet, I cannot now recall that it made us love our books, or think one
whit less of the free breeze, the waving grass and trees, or the
alluring coaxing sun.
We were taught by our books that we must on all accounts speak the
truth; that we must learn our lessons; that we must love our parents and
our teachers; must enjoy work; must be generous and kind; must despise
riches; must avoid ambition; and then, if we did all these things, some
fairy godmother would come along at just the darkest hour and give us
everything our hearts desired. Not one story in the book told how any
good could ever come from wilfulness, or selfishness, or greed, or that
any possible evil ever grew from thrift, or diligence, or generosity, or
kindness. And yet, in spite of all these precepts, we were young
savages, always grasping for the best, ever fighting and scheming to get
the advantage of our playmates, our teachers, and our tasks.
A quarter of a century seems not to have wrought much change; we still
believe in the old moral precepts, and teach them to others, but we
still strive to get the best of everything for ourselves.
I wonder if the old school-readers have been changed since I was a boy
at school. Are the same lessons there to-day? We were such striking
examples of what the books would not do that one would almost think the
publishers would drop the lessons out.
I try to recall the feelings of one child who read those stories in the
little white schoolhouse by the country road. What did they mean to me?
Did I laugh at them, as I do to-day? Or did I really think that they
were true, and try and try, and then fail in all I tried, as I do now? I
presume the latter was the case; yet for my life I cannot recall the
thoughts and feelings that these stories brought to me. But I can still
recall the stories.
I remember, as if it were yesterday, the story about the poor widow of
Pine Cottage, in the winter, with her five ragged children hovering
around her little table. Widows usually had large families then, and
most of their boys were lame. This poor widow had at last reached the
point where starvation faced her little brood. She had tasted no food
for twenty-four hours. Her one small herring was roasting on the dying
coals. The prospect was certainly very dark; but she had faith, and
somehow felt that in the end she would come out all right. A knock is
heard at the back door. A ragged stranger enters and asks for food; the
poor widow looks at her five starving children, and then she gives the
visitor the one last herring; he eats it, and lo and behold! the
stranger is her long-lost son,—probably one that was left over from the
time when she was a widow before. The long-lost son came in this
disguise to find out whether or not his mother really loved him. He was,
in fact, rich; but he had borrowed the rags at the tavern, and had just
arrived from India with a shipload of gold, which he at once divided
among his mother and brothers and sisters. How could any child fail to
be generous after this? And yet I venture to say that if any of us took
a herring to school for dinner the day that we read this story in our
class, we clung to it as tenaciously as a miser to his gold.
Then there was the widow with her one lame son, who asks the rich
merchant for a little charity. He listens to her pathetic story, and
believes she tells the truth. He asks her how much she needs. She tells
him that five dollars will be enough. He writes a check, and tells her
to go across the street to the bank. She takes it over without reading
it. The banker counts out fifty dollars. She says, “There is a mistake;
I only asked for five dollars.” The banker goes across the street to
find out the truth, and the merchant says: “Yes, there was a mistake, I
should have made it five hundred,”—which he straightway does. Thus
honesty and virtue are rewarded once again. I have lived many years and
travelled in many lands, and have seen more or less of human nature and
of suffering and greed; I have seen many poor widows,—but have never yet
come across the generous merchant.
There was no end to the good diligent boys and girls of whom the readers
told; they were on every page we turned, and every one of them received
his or her reward and received it right away in cash. There never was
the slightest excuse or need for us to be anything but diligent and
kind,—and still our young hearts were so perverse and hard that we let
the lessons pass unheeded, and clutched at the smallest piece of pie or
cake, or the slightest opportunity to deceive some good kind teacher,
although we must have known that we missed a golden chance to become
President of the United States and have money in the bank besides.
One story of a contented boy stands out so clearly in my mind that I
could not refrain from hunting up the old schoolbook and reading it once
more. It must have made a wonderful impression on my mind, for there it
is, “The Contented Boy.” I cannot recall that I ever was contented in my
life, and I am sure that I have never seen a boy like this one in the
reader; but it is not possible that I knew my schoolbooks were clumsy,
stupid lies. After all this time there is the story, clear and distinct;
and this is the way it runs:
THE CONTENTED BOY.
Mr. Lenox was riding by himself. He got off from his horse to look at
something on the roadside. The horse broke away from him and ran off.
Mr. Lenox ran after him, but could not catch him.
A little boy at work in a field, near the road, heard the horse. As soon
as he saw him running from his master, the boy ran very quickly to the
middle of the road, and catching the horse by the bridle, stopped him
till Mr. Lenox came up.
MR. LENOX. Thank you, my good boy. What shall I give you for your
trouble?
BOY. I want nothing, sir.
MR. L. You want nothing? Few men can say as much. But what were you
doing in the field?
BOY. I was rooting up weeds, and tending the sheep that were feeding on
turnips.
MR. L. Do you like to work?
BOY. Yes, sir, very well, this fine weather.
MR. L. But would you not rather play?
BOY. This is not hard work. It is almost as good as play.
MR. L. Who set you to work?
BOY. My father, sir.
MR. L. What is your name?
BOY. Peter Hurdle, sir.
MR. L. How old are you?
BOY. Eight years old next June.
MR. L. How long have you been here?
BOY. Ever since six o’clock this morning.
MR. L. Are you not hungry?
BOY. Yes, sir, but I shall go to dinner soon.
MR. L. If you had a dime now, what would you do with it?
BOY. I don’t know, sir. I never had so much.
MR. L. Have you no playthings?
BOY. Playthings? What are they?
MR. L. Such things as ninepins, marbles, tops, and wooden horses.
BOY. No, sir. Tom and I play at football in winter, and I have a
jumping-rope. I had a hoop, but it is broken.
MR. L. Do you want nothing else?
BOY. I have hardly time to play with what I have.
MR. L. You could get apples and cakes if you had money, you know.
BOY. I can have apples at home. As for cake, I don’t want that. My
mother makes me a pie now and then, which is as good.
MR. L. Would you not like a knife to cut sticks?
BOY. I have one. Here it is. Brother Tom gave it to me.
MR. L. Your shoes are full of holes. Don’t you want a new pair?
BOY. I have a better pair for Sundays.
MR. L. But these let in water.
BOY. I do not mind that, sir.
MR. L. Your hat is all torn, too.
BOY. I have a better one at home.
MR. L. What do you do if you are hungry before it is time to go home?
BOY. I sometimes eat a raw turnip.
MR. L. But if there are none?
BOY. Then I do as well as I can without. I work on and never think of
it.
MR. L. I am glad to see that you are so contented. Were you ever at
school?
BOY. No, sir. But father means to send me next winter.
MR. L. You will want books then.
BOY. Yes, sir; each boy has a spelling-book, a reader, and a Testament.
MR. L. Then I will give them to you. Tell your father so, and that it is
because you are an obliging, contented little boy.
BOY. I will, sir. Thank you.
MR. L. Good-bye, Peter.
BOY. Good-morning, sir.
One other story that has seemed particularly to impress itself upon my
mind was about two boys, one named James and the other named John. I
believe that these were their names, though possibly one was William and
the other Henry. Anyhow, their uncle gave them each a parcel of books.
James took out his pocket-knife and cut the fine whipcord that bound his
package, but John slowly and patiently untied his string and then rolled
it into a nice little ball (the way a nice little boy would do) and
carefully put it in his pocket. Some years after, there was a great
shooting tournament, and James and John were both there with their bows
and arrows; it was late in the game, and so far it was a tie. James
seized his last arrow and bent his bow; the string broke and the prize
was lost. The book does not tell us that in this emergency John offered
his extra piece of whipcord to his brother; instead, the model prudent
brother took up his last arrow, bent his bow, when, lo and behold! his
string broke too; whereupon John reached into his pocket and pulled out
the identical cord that he had untied so long ago, put it on the bow,
and of course won the prize!
That miserable story must have cost me several years of valuable time,
for ever since I first read it I have always tried to untie every knot
that I could find; and although I have ever carefully tucked away all
sorts of odd strings into my pockets, I never attended a shooting-match
or won a prize in all my life.
One great beauty of the lessons which our school readers taught was the
directness and certainty and promptness of the payment that came as a
reward of good conduct. Then, too, the recompense was in no way
uncertain or ethereal, but was always paid in cash, or something just as
material and good. Neither was any combination of circumstances too
remote or troublesome or impossible to be brought about. Everything in
the universe seemed always ready to conspire to reward virtue and punish
vice.
I well remember one story which thus clearly proved that good deeds must
be rewarded, and that however great the trouble the payment would not be
postponed even for a day.
It seems that a good boy named Henry—I believe the book did not give his
other name—started out one morning to walk about five miles away to do
an errand for his sick father. I think it was his father, though it may
possibly have been his mother or grandmother. Well, Henry had only got
fairly started on his journey when he met a half-starved dog; and
thereupon the boy shared with the dog the dinner that he was carrying in
his little basket. Of course I know now that, however great his
kindness, he could not have relieved the dog unless he had happened to
be carrying his dinner in a little basket; but my childish mind was not
subtle enough to comprehend it then. After relieving the dog, Henry went
on his way with a lighter heart and a lighter basket. Soon he came upon
a sick horse lying upon the ground. Henry feared that if he stayed to
doctor the horse he would not get home until after dark; but this made
no sort of difference to him, so he pulled some grass and took it to the
horse, and then went to the river and got some water in his hat (it must
have been a Panama) and gave this to the horse to drink, and having done
his duty went on his way. He had gone only a short distance farther when
he saw a blind man standing in a pond of water. (How the blind man got
into the pond of water the story does not tell,—the business of the
story was not getting him in but getting him out.) Thereupon little
Henry waded into the pond and led the blind man to the shore. Any other
boy would simply have called out to the man, and let him come ashore
himself. Of course, if Henry had been a bad boy, and his name had been
Tom, he would have been found leading the blind man into the pond
instead of out, and then of course he (Tom) would have taken pneumonia
and died.
But Henry’s adventures did not end here. He had gone only a little way
farther when he met a poor cripple, who had been fighting in some war
and who was therefore a hero, and this cripple was very hungry. Henry
promptly gave him all the dinner he had saved from his interview with
the dog; and having finished this further act of charity, he at last
hurried on to do his errand. But he had worked so long in the Good
Samaritan business that by the time he started home it began to get
dark. Then, of course, he soon reached a great forest, which added to
his troubles. After wandering about for a long time in the darkness and
the woods, he sat down in hunger and despair. Thereupon his old friend
the dog came into the wood and up to the tree where Henry sat, and he
found that the dog carried some bread and meat nicely pinned up in a
napkin in payment for the breakfast given him in the morning. How the
dog had managed to pin the napkin, the story does not tell. After eating
his supper, Henry got up and wandered farther into the woods. He was
just despairing a second time, when by the light of the moon he saw the
horse that he had fed in the morning. The horse took him on his back and
carried him out of the wood; but the poor boy’s troubles were not yet
done. He was passing along a lane, when two robbers seized him and began
stripping off his clothes; then the dog came up and bit one robber, who
thereupon left Henry and ran after the dog (presumably so that he might
get bitten again), and just then some one shouted from the hedge and
scared the other robber off. Henry looked toward the hedge in the
darkness, and, behold! there was the crippled soldier riding on the back
of the blind man,—and in this way they had all come together to save
Henry and pay him for being such a good little boy.
When such efforts as these could be put forth for the instant reward of
virtue, where was there a possible inducement left to tempt the most
wayward child to sin?
Not only good conduct, but religion, was taught to us children in the
same direct and simple way. Nothing seemed to pay better than Sabbath
observance, according to the strict rules that obtained when I was
young.
I remember the story of a barber who was doing a “thriving business” in
an English city. He was obliged to shave his customers on Sunday morning
(possibly in order that they might look well at church). However, one
Sunday the barber went to church himself; and, as it so happened, the
minister that day preached a sermon about Sabbath observance. This made
so deep an impression on the barber’s mind that he straightway refused
to do any more shaving on Sunday. Thereupon he was obliged to close his
shop in the aristocratic neighborhood where he had lived, and rent a
basement amongst the working people who did not go to church and hence
had no need of a Sunday shave.
One Saturday night a “pious lawyer” came to town and inquired in great
haste where he could find a barber-shop, and was directed to this
basement for a shave. The “pious lawyer” told the barber that he must
have his work done that night, as he would not be shaved on the Sabbath
day. This at once impressed the barber, who was then so poor that he was
obliged to borrow a halfpenny from his customer for a candle before he
could give him the shave. When the “pious lawyer” learned of the
barber’s straits, and what had been the cause, he was so deeply moved
that he gave him a half-crown, and asked his name. The barber promptly
answered that it was William Reed. At this the lawyer opened his
eyes,—doubtless through professional instinct,—and asked from what part
of the country the barber had come. When he answered, from Kingston,
near Taunton, the lawyer’s eyes were opened wider still. Then he asked
the name of the barber’s father, and if he had other relatives. The
barber told his father’s name, and said that he once had an “Uncle
James,” who had gone to India many years before and had not been heard
from since. Then the “pious lawyer” answered: “If this is true, I have
glorious news for you. Your uncle is dead, and he has left a fortune
which comes to you.” It is needless to add that the barber got the
money,—and of course the death of the uncle and the good luck of the
nephew were entirely due to the fact that the barber would not shave a
customer on the Sabbath day.
Well, those were marvellous tales on which our young minds fed. I wonder
now which is the more real,—the world outside as it seemed to us in our
young school-days, or that same enchanted land our childhood knew, as we
look back upon the scene through the gathering haze that the fleeting
years have left before our eyes!