LEARNING TO READ.
The problem of teaching would be solved could the teacher know how her
well-devised plan of action really affects her pupil. Patiently and
persistently she follows her foreordained method, but who can know the
critical moment when the mind opens to take in the new idea, and to
delight in the consciousness of growth? Who can name or describe the Open
Sesame that unlocks the world of books to the child?
A clear light is thrown upon our common problem by the charming
description of one child’s experience. Hugh Miller, in his “Schools and
Schoolmasters,” tells us how he learned to read, or, rather, learned to
love reading. We quote at length:—
I had been sent, previous to my father’s death, to a dame’s
school, where I was taught to pronounce my letters to such
effect in the old Scottish mode, that still, when I attempt
spelling a word aloud, which is not often,—for I find the
process a perilous one,—the _aa’s_, and _ee’s_, and _uh’s_,
and _rau’s_, return upon me, and I have to translate them,
with no little hesitation, as I go along, into the more modish
sounds. A knowledge of the letters themselves I had already
acquired by studying the signposts of the place,—rare works of
art, that excited my utmost admiration, with jugs, and glasses,
and bottles, and ships, and loaves of bread upon them; all of
which could, as the artist intended, be actually recognized.
During my sixth year, I spelt my way, under the dame, through
the Shorter Catechism, the Proverbs, and the New Testament,
and then entered upon her highest form, as a member of the
Bible Class; but all the while, the process of acquiring
learning had been a dark one, which I slowly mastered, in
humble confidence in the awful wisdom of the schoolmistress,
not knowing whither it tended,—when at once my mind awoke to
the meaning of that most delightful of all narratives, the
story of Joseph. Was there ever such a discovery made before! I
actually found out for myself, that the art of reading is the
art of finding stories in books, and from that moment reading
became one of the most delightful of my amusements. I began by
getting into a corner at the dismissal of the school, and there
conning over to myself the new-found story of Joseph; nor did
one perusal serve; the other Scripture stories followed,—in
especial, the story of Samson and the Philistines, of David and
Goliath, of the prophets Elijah and Elisha; and after that came
the New Testament stories and parables. Assisted by my uncles,
I began to collect a library in a box of birch-bark about nine
inches square, which I found quite large enough to contain
a great many immortal works,—“Jack the Giant-Killer,” and
“Jack and the Bean-Stalk,” and the “Yellow Dwarf,” and “Blue
Beard,” and “Sindbad the Sailor,” and “Beauty and the Beast,”
and “Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp,” with several others of
resembling character.
Those intolerable nuisances, the useful-knowledge books, had
not yet arisen, like tenebrious stars, on the educational
horizon, to darken the world, and shed their blighting
influence on the opening intellect of the “youthhood”; and
so, from my rudimental books—books that made themselves truly
such by their thorough assimilation with the rudimental
mind—I passed on, without being conscious of break or line of
division, to books on which the learned are content to write
commentaries and dissertations, but which I found to be quite
as nice children’s books as any of the others. Old Homer wrote
admirably for little folk, especially in the “Odyssey”; a copy
of which, in the only true translation extant,—for, judging
from its surpassing interest and the wrath of critics, such I
hold that of Pope to be,—I found in the house of a neighbor.
Next came the “Iliad”; not, however, in a complete copy, but
represented by four of the six volumes of Bernard Lintot. With
what power, and at how early an age, true genius impresses! I
saw, even at this immature period, that no writer could cast
a javelin with half the force of Homer. The missiles went
whizzing athwart his pages; and I could see the momentary gleam
of the steel, ere it buried itself deep in brass and bull-hide.
I next succeeded in discovering for myself a child’s book, of
not less interest than even the “Iliad,” which might, I was
told, be read on Sabbaths, in a magnificent old edition of
“Pilgrim’s Progress,” printed on coarse, whity-brown paper,
and charged with numerous woodcuts, each of which occupied an
entire page, that, on principles of economy, bore letterpress
on the other side. And such delightful prints as these were! It
must have been some such volume that sat for its portrait to
Wordsworth, and which he so exquisitely describes as
“Profuse in garniture of wooden cuts,
Strange and uncouth; dire faces, figures dire,
Sharp-kneed, sharp-elbowed, and lean-ankled, too,
With long and ghastly shanks,—forms which, once seen,
Could never be forgotten.”
In process of time I had devoured, besides these genial works,
“Robinson Crusoe,” “Gulliver’s Travels,” “Ambrose on Angels,”
the judgment chapter in Howie’s “Scotch Worthies,” Byron’s
“Narrative,” and the “Adventures of Philip Quarll,” with a
good many other adventures and voyages, real and fictitious,
part of a very miscellaneous collection of books made by my
father. It was a melancholy little library to which I had
fallen heir. Most of the missing volumes had been with the
master aboard the vessel when he perished. Of an early edition
of Cook’s “Voyages,” all the volumes were now absent save the
first; and a very tantalizing romance in four volumes, Mrs.
Ratcliff’s “Mysteries of Udolpho,” was represented by only the
earlier two. Small as the collection was, it contained some
rare books,—among the rest, a curious little volume entitled,
“The Miracles of Nature and Art,” to which we find Dr. Johnson
referring, in one of the dialogues chronicled by Boswell,
as scarce even in his day, and which had been published, he
said, some time in the seventeenth century by a bookseller
whose shop hung perched on Old London Bridge, between sky and
water. It contained, too, the only copy I ever saw of the
“Memoirs of a Protestant condemned to the Galleys of France
for his Religion,”—a work interesting from the circumstance
that, though it bore another name on its title-page, it had
been translated from the French for a few guineas by poor
Goldsmith in his days of obscure literary drudgery, and
exhibited the peculiar excellences of his style. The collection
boasted, beside, of a very curious old book, illustrated by
very uncouth plates, that detailed the perils and sufferings
of an English sailor who had spent his best years of life as
a slave in Morocco. It had its volumes of sound theology,
too, and of stiff controversy,—Flavel’s “Works,” and Henry’s
“Commentary,” and Hutchinson on the “Lesser Prophets,” and a
very old treatise on the “Revelation,” with the title-page
away, and blind Jameson’s volume on the “Hierarchy,” with first
editions of “Naphthali,” “The Cloud of Witnesses,” and “The
Hind let Loose.” But with these solid authors I did not venture
to grapple until long after this time. Of the works of fact
and incident which it contained, those of the voyagers were
my especial favorites. I perused with avidity the voyages of
Anson, Drake, Raleigh, Dampier, and Captain Woods Rogers, and
my mind became so filled with conceptions of what was to be
seen and done in foreign parts, that I wished myself big enough
to be a sailor, that I might go and see coral islands and
burning mountains, and hunt wild beasts and fight battles.
These reminiscences are most suggestive. Do they not find a parallel in
our memory of our childhood conquest of the art of reading?
Before planning her lessons in reading, the teacher will do well to
review her own experience in reading, or to scan the difficulties which
she has encountered in teaching other classes. A brief analysis of her
experiences, both as a pupil and as a teacher, will reveal distinct lines
of achievement in learning to read. These are illustrated in any act of
reading.
“The old familiar sights of ours
Took marvellous shapes. Strange domes and towers
Rose up where sty and corncrib stood,
Or garden wall, or belt of wood.
The bridle post an old man sat,
With loose-flung coat and high-cocked hat.
The wellcurb had a Chinese roof,
And even the tall sweep, high aloof,
In its slant splendor seemed to tell
Of Pisa’s leaning miracle.”
=To read=,—that is, to get the meaning of these lines; or, if one reads
aloud, to get and to give the meaning. One who truly reads “Snow-Bound”
learns to see the scenes which Whittier so beautifully describes; to see
them as he saw them, with tender affection, and to interpret the deeper
meaning of the lines of “homely toil and destiny obscure.”
Manifestly this involves much. On the surface, and first attracting the
attention of the teacher, appears the obvious necessity of knowing
the words at sight. Familiarity with the forms of the words used is
indispensable to reading. This involves knowing the sounds of the words,
while the power to pronounce new words readily calls for knowledge of the
laws of English pronunciation.
In the minds of too many teachers of little children, such mastery of
word pronunciation is held as reading. But this is a grievous error,
which leads to narrow and mechanical work, and obscures the high purpose
of real reading. Reference to the definition of reading, and a study
of the selection from “Snow-Bound,” will show us the proper value of
this achievement and its relation to true reading. The words are the
vehicle of thought, a means to an end. Their mastery is indispensable to
reading, but the reader must compass, not the single word-speaking, but
the meaning of the related words which express the author’s thought.
Knowledge of the meaning of the words used, and especially the meaning of
the words as Whittier uses them, is necessary to a clear understanding of
the poem. The reader who would understand the poem must know something
of farm life—the sty and the corncrib, the garden wall, the wellcurb,
the sweep, and the other accessories of the farm which Whittier names
or describes. Plainly, too, his knowledge must extend further—to a
Chinese roof, and Pisa’s leaning miracle. To such knowledge, observation
of common life must minister, coupled with the study of books and
pictures. In other words, the reader interprets Whittier’s “Snow-Bound”
by virtue of his own experience, reënforced by the experience of others
as written down in books, or pictured with brush or pen. To the formal
word-mastery, then, must be added study of the meaning of new words, or
recalling such experience as explains the old. The content, as well as
the form, of the word must be studied.
Added to such study, is the general training which gives us power to
picture the unknown, interpreting a new scene through its relation to our
old experience. The ready and trained imagination easily pictures the
scene which the words conjure before the mind—makes real the homestead,
snowbound and comfortfilled. Reading may be so taught as to develop this
power, which takes hold on things unseen. No careful teacher omits such
training.
Here, then, are different phases of teaching reading: mastery of the
words as to form and sound; explanation of the meaning of new words,
through observation or reading; lessons which tend to develop power of
imagination.
* * * * *
The young child who leaves his home and his play to enter upon the life
of the school-room finds a new world awaiting him, with manifold new
experiences. Hitherto he has romped and rambled to his heart’s content.
All his friends and playmates have in turn been his teachers, albeit
theirs has been an unconscious tuition. His lessons have been in the
line of his desires, or suggested by his natural environment. Longfellow
pictures the little Hiawatha in the arms of his first teacher, the loving
old Nokomis:
“At the door on summer evenings
Sat the little Hiawatha,
Heard the whispering of the pine-trees,
Heard the lapping of the water—
Sounds of music, words of wonder;—
Saw the moon rise from the water,
Rippling, rounding from the water,
Saw the flecks and shadows on it,
Whispered, ‘What is that, Nokomis?’
And the good Nokomis answered—”
…
The moon, the rainbow in the heaven, the Milky Way, the firefly, the owl
and owlet, the beaver, the rabbit, the squirrel—these saluted the baby
boy, and awakened his interest. “What is that?” he cried, with eager
question. “And the good Nokomis answered.” The little Hiawatha “learned
of every bird its language.” He was taught, not by old Nokomis alone, but
by bird and beast, flower and field.
So with every child who enters the school-room upon that fateful first
Monday in September. He brings with him, not an empty head, but a mind
stored with the memories of varied experiences. Just as the little
Hiawatha gazed, pondered, questioned, learned—so this child has seen,
has heard, has questioned, has thought, has acted. What he brings to
school, who can tell? What has he seen and heard? What has he liked
and desired? What has he questioned and learned? How little we know of
this unwritten history! And yet it determines the net result of all our
teaching. For nothing which we attempt to teach finds lodgment in the
child mind unless it is linked with some past experience and awakens
actual interest. Much of our reiterated instruction falls upon deaf ears,
fails utterly to awaken the dormant interest, because it is ill chosen.
We must know something about the life of the children before we can
wisely teach them.
The thoughtful teacher remembers this truth and directs her work
accordingly. Instead of rushing with headlong zeal into the routine of
reading, writing, and number—under the impulsion of the Course of Study,
and the memory of classes which failed to “pass”—she makes haste slowly,
and devotes the first days of the term to lessons which help to reveal
the experience of the children. Observation of and talks about common
things; conversations which lead the children to tell what they can do,
or like to do; story telling; picture drawing;—these afford opportunity
for expression, and serve to show the teacher something of her pupils’
attainments, and the line of their interests as well. Meanwhile, they
are becoming accustomed to the school-room routine, and so emerge from
the period in which they gazed, dumb and dazed, at the many marvels with
which this new school world is crowded. They come to know the teacher as
their friend, and they become free and confident in her presence. Thus
the true atmosphere of the school-room is created—the only atmosphere in
which wholesome and natural teaching and learning can thrive.
This is not a prodigal misuse of time. It is the part of thrift to so
spend in the beginning, for the returns are evident in the ease and
readiness with which pupils and teacher afterward work together—the value
of every lesson being enhanced by the mutual good will and understanding.
* * * * *
The school differs from the home and the kindergarten in that its
allotted tasks are evidently determined by a motive and plan outside the
child’s comprehension. In many cases this must be so. The lessons which
involve the mastery of the symbols used in reading, writing, and number,
or the drill and practice necessary to attain skill in music or drawing
or writing, have no self-evident goal for the child. So many lines, so
many letters, so many problems, he attempts, because the teacher says so,
and in his new universe the teacher is supreme. At home he has always
chosen more or less; so, too, in the kindergarten his interest and choice
determined the story or the game or the topic of conversation. He has
delighted in building houses, modelling balls, weaving mats, playing
games—and all, so far as he knew, for his own immediate pleasure and
accomplishment. Other results, to him unknown, were of course secured.
He builded better than he knew. But in every case he rejoiced in some
immediate accomplishment which he desired.
In too many cases the decreed exercises of the school are meaningless
and purposeless to the beginner. Such exercises easily degenerate
into dull and fruitless routine, indifferent and profitless to teacher
and pupil alike. To arouse desire and awaken conscious motive is the
teacher’s most important work, and in teaching reading it should receive
first consideration. She, therefore, after securing such freedom and
coöperation as promise a fertile soil for her seed-planting, calls the
children about her to explain the purpose of the lessons which will fill
their days.
Perhaps she reads to them a story which they like, a new story which they
have never heard. When she reaches the interesting climax she pauses to
say, “I haven’t time to read the rest of the story now. How I wish you
could read! Then you might take the book and read the story yourselves.
Would you not like to learn to read, so that you could read stories like
these?”
In Hugh Miller’s graphic description of his childhood experience in
reading, this element of purpose and desire is strongly emphasized.
“The process of learning and acquiring had been a dark one,” he says,
recalling his struggles with letters and syllables. He “slowly mastered”
these “in humble confidence in the awful wisdom of the schoolmistress,
not knowing whither it tended,” when (as a member of the Bible Class—“in
the highest form”) his mind “awoke to the meaning of that most delightful
of all narratives, the story of Joseph. Was there ever such a discovery
made before?”
Such testimony might be repeated a thousand times over, by our pupils of
to-day—if they were able to describe their common experience.
It was the first vision of the goal that gave meaning, motive, and
conscious gladness to Hugh Miller’s study. Such motive and such meaning
should pervade the earliest lessons in reading, and should be consciously
recognized by pupil as well as teacher. We repeat, then: the teacher’s
first effort, after becoming acquainted with her children, is to awaken
this conscious desire to read, and to secure intelligent coöperation in
her exercises.
One teacher suggests writing upon the board some sentence which has been
whispered to her by the children, and then calling an older child from
another room to read the secret. This is done again and again, until the
children are eager to share the power which their comrade possesses, and
turn gladly to the tasks required of them, that they may the sooner reach
their goal.
There is a wide difference between such teaching and the routine drill
which does not enlist the child’s desire. The enthusiastic bicyclist
would smile if asked to exchange his morning ride to the city for an
hour’s exercise upon a fixed “bicycle exerciser” in the back hall. Nor
could the most skilful pedagogue convince him that the exercise involved
in making the wheel go round is as valuable as the spin which carries him
to his destination, through the fresh morning air, along roads bordered
with flowered fields. Yet the contrast is no more marked than that
between the task of the syllable-pronouncer, who obediently performs his
meaningless labor, and that of the child who, with conscious and earnest
desire, sets himself to learn to read.
In order to give some sense of immediate achievement, the sentences of
the first lessons should express thoughts in which the children are
interested.
This is Kate.
Kate can read.
Kate has a book.
Read to me, Kate.
Kate can read.
I can read, too.
Kate has a book.
I have a book, too.
See Kate’s book!
See my book!
Kate has a doll.
I have a doll, too.
Kate has a kitty.
I have a dog.
Kate likes her doll.
I like my dog.
See my dog!
See Kate’s little kitty!
Come, little Kitty.
Come to me, Kitty.
The object of these preparatory lessons is to give some consciousness
of the purpose of reading, and some sense of achievement. The sentences
are the children’s, obtained in a conversation concerning Kate, who is
an older pupil, or some pictured child. The sentence is the unit, and is
read by the teacher. The children repeat the sentence after her reading.
Of course these first efforts are not reading. They simply represent the
children’s memory of the teacher’s words and tone. Often, when asked to
read alone, the child dashes at the wrong sentence with his pointer,
which vainly wanders in search of the right one. But just as the frequent
observation of the loved story in the picture book not only fixes the
words in their order, but enables the young listener to find some of them
upon the page, so, by repetition of these first sentences, the words are
at last held in the mind, and are recognized in new places and under new
relations. The attentive eye will recognize the new words, first in their
wonted place in the sentence, then when isolated. At first the words
selected for repetition and recognition are those which present fewest
difficulties;—not by any means the shortest words—as =a=, =is=, =too=—but
the meaningful words, the nouns and adjectives, and verbs which denote
action. =Kate=, =book=, =doll=, =dog=, =kitty=—these are the first and
easiest, in the lessons written above. Later, =see= and =likes=, with
=can read=. Later still, =I have=, =this is=—while =is= and =a= will not
be emphasized as units until the eyes have been trained to distinguish
more readily, and the words have become familiar through constant
repetition.
Such lessons should continue for several weeks, introducing the various
dear and oft-seen objects of the child’s environment, and the actions
with which he has long been familiar. The sentences should be worth
reading, and grouped in coherent paragraphs. Drill in recognizing the
words should follow the sentence reading, in every day’s lesson.
When the children can recognize at sight a vocabulary of one hundred
to two hundred words, they should begin to compare them, and to place
in groups those which are alike in sound. For example: =book=, =look=,
and =brook= are known; =red= and =fed=; =cat=, =hat=, and =pat=; =Fan=,
=ran=, =can=, and =Dan=. Placed in lists, their similarity is evident:
book
look
_took_
fed
red
_bed_
cat
hat
_sat_
Fan
ran
_man_
Some one volunteers to increase the list, adding =took=, =bed=, =sat=,
and =man=. Here is the beginning of the analysis of words into their
sounds, and with this lesson a new feature appears in our word study.
Such lessons in sentence reading as have been suggested, if continued
long enough and with sufficient discretion on the part of the teacher,
might enable a class to read independently—for, even without the
teacher’s direction, obvious likenesses and differences in words are
noted by the children, and rules are deduced therefrom. But the mastery
of a large vocabulary is readily secured only through attention to the
common laws of pronunciation, and familiarity with the sound units.
Thus far every word has been presented as a new unit. Now the children
should learn that these words are like many others in form, and that
the pronunciation of one serves as a key to the many. Knowing =book=,
all monosyllables ending in =ook= can at once enter their vocabulary of
recognizable words; knowing =Fan=, all monosyllables with the =an= ending
are known. The missing factor is the knowledge of the sounds of the
separate letters which are initials in these group words—=m-an=, =F-an=,
=c-an=, =r-an=, =t-an=, =p-an=. At this juncture these sounds should be
taught.
There has been some question among teachers as to the time for teaching
sounds of the letters. It is wise to defer this teaching until the
children have acquired some little facility in reading, and understand
its purpose, that their work may not be approached from the mechanical
side solely. Again, the vocabulary which the children already know
reveals groups of similar words and suggests the wisdom of analysis and
classification. And, further, the too early attempt to study the lists of
similar words and to select and emphasize them for use in reading, drives
the children at once to their most difficult task. It is much easier to
recognize =Hiawatha= and =arrow=, because they are long and different,
and seem hard, than to name promptly the elusive =can=, =ran=, and =tan=,
which seem so easy and yet are so nearly alike as to be formidable
obstacles to the success of the untrained observer. The climax of
objection is reached when we cite the tendency to make sentences solely
for the sake of using certain words, thus destroying the element of
thought value in the sentence. “Does the fat rat see the cat on the mat?”
is far more difficult for a child than is “Hiawatha lived in a wigwam
with old Nokomis”—for the reasons above named.
The mastery of words is an essential element in learning to read. Our
common mistake is, not that we do such work too well, but that we make it
the final aim of the reading lesson, and lead the children to feel that
they can read when they are merely able to pronounce words. Perhaps lack
of careful attention to the form of words is quite as serious a mistake,
for it results in carelessness in reading.
The study of form and of sound should be associated, but attention to
sound alone should precede any attempt to master the form as suggesting
sound. Children should be taught to recognize and to distinguish sounds,
to repeat them accurately, to speak them distinctly, before they are
taught to copy the single characters which represent these sounds. To
hear, to repeat, to compare, to distinguish sounds, should be the order
of the instruction.
Careless speech and indistinct articulation often arise from imperfect
hearing, or indifferent attention to what is said. Children should be
trained in the early lessons to hear, and to repeat, _exactly what is
said_. The repetition is a test of the child’s hearing. Begin with
short sentences. Speak them clearly, in a moderate voice, requiring the
children to repeat after _once_ hearing. Gradually increase the length
of sentence, but do not increase the volume of voice; speak distinctly,
and expect the children to be attentive enough to hear an ordinary tone;
teach them to respond in the same tone, with clear articulation. Continue
this exercise until a long sentence can be accurately returned; then
pronounce lists of words beginning with letters which demand careful
articulation. When these have been mastered, draw attention to initial
sounds, and then to the letters which represent them. Work with these
until every letter suggests its sounds to the pupils, whether in a new
or in a familiar word. With little children, the sound should be taught
first in connection with initial letters always.
A successful device consists in allowing each pupil to represent a
certain sound. If the sound is the initial sound in his own name, it will
be easy for the children to remember. Thus—John can always suggest the
sound of =j=, Mary the sound of =m=, Peter the sound of =p=, and so on. A
class of children aided in this way will master the sounds of the letters
in a very short time.
Having learned, through the initials, the sounds which various letters
represent, the next step will be to analyze monosyllables into their
sounds. Select first those containing short vowels, in order to avoid the
difficulty of the silent letter. The preliminary drill with the initials
will have made this step an easy one to take.
Whenever a type word is represented, as =black=, for example, the
children should be taught to suggest other words which rhyme with the
pattern, as =crack=, =back=, =lack=, etc. If in every such case the
common element is studied and mastered, in a few weeks the children will
become possessors of a large vocabulary, whose basis is the few familiar
words which they have studied. Every type word will stand for a list of
words similar in form.
This study of sounds should continue through at least the first five
school years. After analyzing any word into its separate sounds, the
children should be required to name other known words which resemble
the one studied. This will tend to a habit of classification, and will
enable the pupil to depend upon himself in his study.
Diacritical marks are a help in mastering new words, if the key words
have been studied in connection with the marks. They are needed also in
consulting the dictionary for pronunciation. They should be taught only
when necessary to the pronunciation. In older classes, after the use of
the dictionary becomes necessary, a complete list should be mastered. It
is a mistake to insist upon diacritical marking when the children can
pronounce accurately without. I remember hearing a teacher chide a pupil
for reading a sentence before she had time to mark the vowels, but, since
the child could and did read without such help, the marking was evidently
unnecessary. It serves as a means to an end, and should be dispensed with
when the end can be reached without such artificial aid.
As a matter of fact, every child refers a new word back to a similar word
with which he has become familiar. Thus: =black=, once mastered, serves
as a key to =sack=, =crack=, =quack=, etc. The only elements in these
words are the final element =ack= and the initial sounds. If a child
hesitates with a new word, help him to refer at once to the type word
which he has already mastered. Instead of pronouncing the new word for
him, insist upon his using for himself his own stock of knowledge. Help
him only where he cannot help himself. If he forms the habit of referring
the unknown to the kindred known, he will become independent in study.
For example, to a six-years-old child the word =blacksmith= may, at first
sight, appear formidable. Separated into its parts and referred to the
simple words already mastered, the child conquers the newcomer, and adds
it to his list of servants. He is endowed with new strength, because he
has mastered something which seemed to him hard. Such conquests, often
repeated, lead to strength and independence. In many cases, it is wise
to leave a child to wrestle with a word which at first sight he fails to
master. Of course this process is unwise if he has no experience to which
he can refer for help. Guess-work will never take the place of thought,
and a child should not be driven to guess at the pronunciation, but every
attempt should be based upon something which he has been taught in former
lessons. Such practice will lead to thoughtful self-help.
This work may be facilitated by many devices. We have seen classes
hunting for new words beginning with a given sound, as eagerly as if they
were playing hide-and-seek. Or with the utmost enjoyment they have made
lists of words beginning with chosen sounds; or matched pairs of words
which rhymed. But their most valuable exercise is that in which the old
familiar word of their first vocabulary is made the key which unlocks the
new.
Now, when a new word is presented, the teacher no longer pronounces it
for the children, but asks instead, “What word helps you to pronounce
it?” =Bright= is not a new word, because the children know =light=,
remember the sound of =br=, and put their two bits of knowledge together
to meet the new emergency. They do for themselves what the teacher has
heretofore done for them.
A most helpful form of word study, which is suitable for desk work, is
making lists of words containing the same sound. It strengthens the habit
of classification, and helps in spelling and in the recognition of new
words.
The most difficult work for children appears in words which are spelled
alike and pronounced differently, or in words pronounced alike and
spelled differently, or in the various equivalents of the same sound
which our language affords. =Chair=, =their=, =where=, etc., suggest the
problems of this nature. This work should be introduced not earlier than
the third or fourth year. It should come in connection with the spelling
lesson, and not with the reading. The mastery of these difficulties in
English spelling doubtless requires many months of careful teaching.
It must not be forgotten that children are hindered and not helped by
any attempt to spell, by sound, words which are unique in spelling.
=Through=, for example, should be learned by sight, and not by sound.
=Beautiful=, =tongue=, =physique=, may illustrate this group. The eye
and not the ear must be depended upon in the mastery of such words. Care
should be taken to develop the habit of accurate attention through the
eye as well as the ear. Any attempt to mark the sounds in these words
increases the labor without increasing facility. If the teacher makes a
careful classification of the ordinary words which frequently recur in
the reading lesson, she will discover the class which must be mastered
by sight. Out of the remainder she can make lists which include the
ordinary type sounds. The study of these lists will reduce the labor
of word mastery to its minimum, and the habit of comparison developed
through this study will go far to make the children independent in the
pronunciation of new words.
It is self-evident that this plan can be pursued only when the words are
amenable to common phonic laws. =Cough=, and its congeners, should be
named as new wholes. So with all words which follow no rule, and must be
pronounced by substitution. No time should be lost by attempting a method
which has no excuse for being, in such cases. In its place, as a help to
the mastery of groups of kindred words, it is invaluable. Out of place,
it is bad.
For diacritical marks and correct pronunciation, the teacher is referred
to the standard dictionaries. It should not be forgotten that the
teacher’s pronunciation is a guide to the pupil. She needs a quick ear
and the careful judgment which will render her a safe guide. The familiar
rule should direct her practice: When in doubt, consult the dictionary.
Note the value of this word mastery. The pupil fast becomes independent
of the teacher, and ready to master the page for himself. Note, also,
that this power becomes his in proportion to the teacher’s purpose to
make him self-helpful, and her skill in finding the connecting link
between the new knowledge and the old.
Two elements of learning to read have been presented here: sentence
reading and word mastery. Of the study of the meaning of the words and
the development of the power of imagination we shall speak elsewhere.
[Illustration]
_Reading without purpose is sauntering, not exercise. More is
got from one book on which the thought settles for definite end
in knowledge, than from libraries skimmed over by a wandering
eye. A cottage flower gives honey to the bee, a king’s garden
none to the butterfly._
—_EDWARD BULWER._
[Illustration]