NATURAL HISTORY
“His acquaintance with Natural History is surprising. Quite a
Buffoon.”--_Old Curiosity Shop._
In Public Elementary Schools the study of Natural History is still in
its infancy. But there are signs of its assuming practical importance.
In one school in the county in which I write, it has developed energy
in a truly surprising manner. Our county paper recently informed us
that the boys attending that place of learning had caught and killed an
astonishing number of “worbles” in the past year; I think over 63,000.
This is a mere plagiarism from the methods of Dotheboys Hall. I turn to
the chronicles thereof, and I read:
“Please, sir, he’s weeding the garden.”
“To be sure,” said Squeers, “so he is. B-O-T bot, T-I-N tin, bottin,
N-E-Y ney, bottiney, noun substantive, a knowledge of plants. When he
has learnt that bottinney means a knowledge of plants, he goes and
knows ’em.”
What is a worble? That I know not: the worble-hunters were not in my
district. Nor is the creature traceable in Miss Ormerod’s “Manual of
Injurious Insects.”[39] I think it molests cattle, and therefore the
farmers’ sons are keen to “take away that worble.” And as the school is
in the middle of a great hunting district, the desire for the chase is
instinctive.
There is, however, no need to limit children to worbles. In London,
for instance, the supply of this prey would be insufficient; but in
so large a town there would be little difficulty in establishing a
special entomological “line.” There would be room for research of the
most varied kind. The names of several species will instantly occur
to the reader. If Marylebone and Westminster could be induced to make
competitive collections of the best known, the sympathy of all London
would be enlisted, and education would enjoy a popularity which it has
hitherto failed to attain.
To tell the truth, we did not profess to teach natural history as
a part of the regular course. But we gave object-lessons; that is,
lessons on an object placed before a class; and as the object was
usually a picture, and as the pictures usually represented either
Scripture scenes, or animals, it followed that--after 10 a.m.--most of
the lessons were on animals. Our ménagerie was a small one, and, the
remarkable habits and properties of the creatures being traditional,
there was little chance of its extension. A new beast would require
study. Moreover, the managers did not like buying too many pictures.
Will you accompany me through a large infant school? The head mistress
greets me: “The first class _was_ going to have a lesson on the
elephant: will that do?” Oh yes; let us have the elephant.
“Loungin’ around and sufferin’,” said Uncle Remus. The elephant is
painfully familiar. When the visitor to Continental picture galleries
catches sight of S. Sebastian--“arrowed, but unharrowed”--he hastily
turns away in search of novelty: and so would we gladly do here. Bitter
constraint and sad occasion compel us to listen for a decent time,
though our thoughts wander to pity for the unhappy fate of the huge
beast. To be as big as that, and yet because of “a villainous trick of
thine eye, and a foolish hanging of thy nether lip,” as Falstaff puts
it, to be in the estimation of infant schools a compound of the clown
and the pantaloon; and to be lectured on by pupil-teachers,
“Ut pueris placeas, et declamatio fias,”
it is a cruel destiny. But who could respect an animal with that tail?
The lesson is devoid of interest. How do I know, when admittedly my
thoughts have been wandering? Because the children are better judges
than I, and they have damned it by entire indifference. Would the
Inspector like to ask any questions at the end? Only one:
“What does the elephant eat?”
“Buns.”
Will I take the second class? Certainly. I am offered the camel. The
camelus scholasticus is as well known to me as my dog. I know his whole
history, his habitat, his food-and-water arrangements, his disposition.
He differs considerably from the Camelus Kiplingicus, or Melancholy
’Oont:
“The ’orse ’e knows above a bit, the bullock’s but a fool,
The elephant’s a gentleman, the battery-mule’s a mule;
But the commissariat cam-u-el, when all is said and done,
’E’s a devil an’ a ostrich an’ a orphan child in one.”
But our camel is gentle, meek, anxious to oblige. The lesson is going
on, while I make these valuable reflections, and the beast’s picture
hangs on the easel: if he is at all like his picture, _mallem errare
cum Platone_, I side with Mr. Kipling. The camel has been called the
ship of the desert. He is very useful; he lives in very hot countries,
where it is very hot. Tommy Jones, don’t fidget; listen to teacher. And
he lives in the desert, where there is nothing but sand all round. Mary
Smith, if you don’t give over talking, teacher will be very cross with
you: yes, my word, &c., &c.
When the stream of drivel has run dry, I ask:
“Where does the camel live?”
“In very ’ot coontries.”
“Yes: but whereabouts?”
“In the desert.”
“And what does he live on there?”
“Sahnd.”
“Sand? Yes; but I mean, what does he get to eat?”
“Sahnd.”
“And what does he get to drink in the desert?”
“Water.”
“And where does he get _that_ from?”
“Out of the taps.”
I had not thought of that. There comes up a recollection of a Norfolk
country school, where, after hearing all the uses and the virtues of
the camel, I asked whether there were any of these precious beasts in
Norfolk? None. And if the camel was so useful, why not? The answer came
from the gamekeeper’s son:
“’Cos that ’ud tread on th’ young pheasants.”
I looked at its sprawling feet as shown in the picture, and understood
their unfitness for a game-preserving county.
We must move on again. The third class is hearing about the mole, and I
pause for a minute on the way:
The mole is useful because it eats the worms, which would eat the
potatoes and get into our food. Is it ever idle? No, it is always
working; digging fresh passages.
Good old mole! “Well said, old mole! can’st work i’ the ground so
fast?” Let us try the next class. It is engaged on the lion, and an
elderly dame has got to thirdly and lastly. Etiquette requires that the
lesson should conclude with some remarks on the use of the lion.
“What is the use of the lion? The use of the lion is to ’unt. What is
the use of the lion, children?”
Chorus: “To ’UNT, teacher.”
I find she means “to be hunted”: and, when the children are gone out
to play, I put it to her whether she really thinks that beneficent
Providence has created the lion on purpose that man should hunt him.
She is a little staggered by this presentment of her own doctrine, but
pleads that it is so stated in her book, and produces it. There it is
in black and white! I have little doubt that a similar belief is held
by fox-hunters and other sportsmen. “Crewel,” said an old keeper, when
reproached for badger-baiting, “why, whativer do yo think as badgers
was made for?”
In ten minutes the children return from the playground, and I
am implored not to forget the babies: they are going to have an
object-lesson, and the pupil-teacher is waiting for me. It is Mary
Williams, whose pretty face and pretty ways make her the idol of
the babies, and even draw a smile from my grimmest Sub. I yield to
pressure. The babies are hot and dusty, and riotous, and have to be
relieved with a song, just to blow off steam. What is next on the
agenda paper? The cow? Let us have the cow. The whole class sees the
picture of the cow brought down from the wall, but nevertheless we must
approach the subject as tradition dictates:
P.T.: As I was coming to school this morning along High Street I heard
a great noise, and there was a man in a blue frock, driving a great big
animal down the road. What do you think it was, babies?
Chorus: A kyow, teacher.
(_H.M.I. to head mistress, sotto voce_: “If ye had not plowed with my
heifer, ye had not found out my riddle.” _Head-mistress, uncertainly_:
“Ye-es.”)
P.T.: Yes, a cow, and here’s a picture of a cow. (_The class regard it
with blank indifference born of familiarity._) Now the cow is a very
useful animal:----
Billy Jones (_Amicus curiæ_): I seen a kyow this mornin’ as I was
comin’, _an’ it was a bull_: and it run at a mon an’ ’orned ’im nearly,
only ’ee got away--”(_pauses for want of breath_).
P.T. (_coldly_): That will do, Billy, you mustn’t talk now till teacher
has done. And it gives us milk. What little boy or girl had milk for
their breakfast this morning, I wonder? (_Alarums and excursions, many
competing claims to have had two moogs full._) Yes, and that came from
the cow. What has it got on its head? Horns, yes. And what can it do
with its horns, Jenny?
Jenny: Hike yer. (_i. e. toss you._)
P.T. (_much shocked_): Oh, Jenny! I told you never to say “hike.” The
cow would give you a great knock. And how many legs has it got?
My attention wanders, as if I were sitting under a dull preacher,
and in the absence of mural tablets I study the pictures and general
exhibits. With joy I hail a reading sheet for infants:
Bill is not well. He is ill at the mill. Bid Ann fill a can of jam,
and get us a bit of ham, and we will go with them to him. Did Bill sip
the jam? Oh yes, he sat up in his bed, and did sip jam till his lips
were red. He did not have a bit of ham. We sat with Bill till six, and
then we set off.
I infer that Bill succumbed to this novel treatment at 5.55, and that
they fled in haste, when they were quite sure, you know. But I think
if they had given him the ham, too, he would have gone off quicker, if
that was all they wanted.
Over the fireplace is the time table for the babies’ class. It is
“approved by me as satisfying the Conscience Clause.” (In those days
our control over time tables went no further.) The babies have two
lessons a week, each of fifteen minutes, on “threading a needle.” I
think the Conscience Clause might come in here. On Friday afternoon
they have a lesson on riddles! And I never knew that! “Why does a
miller wear a white hat?” “When is a door not a door?” For children who
have gone through a year of this course of instruction, including the
cow, the camel, and the cat, life has no further terrors, and death
comes as a happy release.
The cow is nearly exhausted. “And it has a very, very long tongue, and
when it wants to get some grass to eat, it wraps its tongue round the
grass, and tears it off. Isn’t that clever? Yes, Sally, you shall go
home directly, if you are a good girl.”
The closure is applied: the lesson ends, and the cow “winds slowly” to
its place on the wall. As I go, I mutter to myself the old tag--
“Claudite jam rivos, pueri, sat prata biberunt,”[40]
and it reminds me of a familiar Swiss scene. The Matterhorn, the Zmutt
glacier, and the Dent Blanche make the background: in the foreground
daddy with a spade is diverting the runnels to feed another meadow,
and Anastasia, aged seven, is not embittering life in Standard I., but
superintends the prolonged meal of a tethered cow, and at the same
time “minds” Seraphina and Claudinus, aged three and four respectively,
who sprawl contentedly on the Alp, and pull to pieces what I call
crocus, and the gods call Colchicum Alpinum. They toil not, nor do they
thread needles, but they know a good deal about a cow.
Where is Mary? “Oh! Mary, Mary, quite contr_ai_ry, did you tell those
babies any mortal thing about the cow that they didn’t know before they
came in?”
“Well, Mr. Kynnersley, there was that about the tongue.”
“Mary, Mary, did you ever hear of the book--” (_I pause, trying to
remember the details_)--
“Do you mean the Bible, Mr. Kynnersley?”
“No, Mary, nor ‘Bradshaw’: the book that contained things that are true
and things that are new: but the things that are true are not new, and
the things that are new are not true?”
Mary looks at me in utter bewilderment. I box her pretty ears, pull
her pretty hair, and dismiss her, quite unrepentant, to her dinner.
The teacher of the second class stands where I left her--“Grieving, if
aught inanimate e’er grieves.”
She thinks I was not pleased with her presentment of the camel. I
soothe her, and at that moment appears from the end class-room a
bright-eyed little body, with a model, and a pile of literature. “Why,
Miss Miranda!” I exclaim, “where have you been all the morning?”
“In the class-room with Standard I., Mr. Kynnersley, and you never came
near _my_ class.”
How was I to know that there was a class in there? What has she got
in her hands? There is a model of a camel, a sketch of its internal
arrangements, “Wood’s Natural History,” and rough notes of the lesson.
Oh, Miss Miranda!
“Excellent wench!
Perdition catch my soul but I do----”
wish there were more teachers like you.
FOOTNOTES:
[39] A scientific friend explains that the Manual treats only of
vegetable destroyers: the worble fly is the pest of oxen.
[40] “Shut off the runnels now, lads; the meadows have drunk enough.”