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CHAPTER XXV

NATURAL HISTORY

"His acquaintance with Natural History is surprising. Quite a Buffoon." Oliver Twist.

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. Would you accept 300,000 as a moderate estimate, or would you prefer to insert a decimal point somewhere?

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, bottinney, 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 worblehunters were not in my district. Nor is the creature

traceable in Miss Ormerod's "Manual of Injurious Insects." 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

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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

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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 badgerbaiting, "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

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