hopeful of my own shaky claims to divine mercy.
I decided to let the children write a poem about the spring. They have learnt Robert Bridges' 'Spring Goeth All in White' and Thomas Nashe's 'Spring, the Sweet Spring' recently, and I thought it would be interesting to see what sort of attempts these most unbookish children would make. Their faces, when I suggested this mental exercise, were studies in stupefaction.
'What—rhyming and that?' asked Eric, appalled.
'Yes, rhyming,' I answered ruthlessly. There was a shocked silence. Linda Moffat was the first to find her breath.
'How many verses, Miss Read?'
'As many as you can think of.'
Patrick then piped up.
'Do us have to make it go thumpety-thumpety like that "Haifa league, half a league" bit you read us?'
I said that rhythm would be expected, and they delved into their desks for their pens and English exercise books, with the doomed look of those that face the firing squad.
For half an hour the room was quiet, broken only by the solemn tick of the ancient wall-clock, and the sighs and groans of spirits in poetic travail. After the first few minutes, I had softened so far as to suggest that they could begin with:
In the Spring
and go on from there. As drowning men clutch at straws, so did these Fairacre children clutch at these three words which could be copied from the blackboard.
After thirty minutes I collected their efforts and sent them tottering out to play. Never had their young minds been so sternly exercised, and the results were highly entertaining.
For sheer brazen effrontery and gross idleness, I think Ernest's takes the prize. He had shamelessly lifted, intact, a verse from one of the tombstones in the neighbouring churchyard. In his painstaking copperplate he had written:
In the spring
She drooped and died.
Now she sleeps
By Jesu's side
There is not one spelling mistake. Nor should there be, considering that we pass and repass this inscription a dozen times a day.
Linda Moffat had very cunningly covered the maximum of paper with the minimum of effort. Her poem ran:
In the spring
The swallows wing
In the spring
In the spring
The flowers bring (What? I wonder)
In the spring
In the spring
We all do sing
In the spring
Perhaps the most engaging poem was Eric's. He is a 'growler,' unable to sing in tune and incapable of keeping in step in dancing and other rhythmic work. Written in an appalling hand, with, apparently, a crossed nib dipped in black honey, his poem said:
In the spring
I has my birthday and usually a hice
cake which my gran makes. It is on March 20th
I rather liked the gentle reminder about a fortnight before the great day, and felt inclined to give him a couple of extra writing lessons as a present.
But for brevity and charm, for a little snatch that reminds one of William Barnes's simplicity and use of dialect, I think the attempt of young bandaged-kneed Patrick takes the prize. His poem read thus:
In the spring
It comes on worm (sic!)
Us likes the spring
Us has no storm
Poor dears, how hard I made them work! Truly the mastering of one's own language is a major operation!
The kitten is still with me, and I hope that I shall never have to part with him. He answers to the deplorably plebeian name of 'Tibby,' while I still rack my brains daily for some other more inspired cognomen.
Now that the weather is warmer he plays outside and yesterday afternoon he ventured across the playground and found his way into the classroom, much to the children's delight. He settled himself in a patch of sunlight on the needlework cupboard, and I foresee many more such excursions to school, as he is a most companionable animal.
In any case, I see no reason why a good-tempered, steady-going cat should not be included in a country classroom. It adds a pleasantly domestic touch to our working conditions.
Amy came to tea and brought her sister, who is staying with her, as wed. She is one of those people—all too common, alas!—who bore
I decided to let the children write a poem about the spring. They have learnt Robert Bridges' 'Spring Goeth All in White' and Thomas Nashe's 'Spring, the Sweet Spring' recently, and I thought it would be interesting to see what sort of attempts these most unbookish children would make. Their faces, when I suggested this mental exercise, were studies in stupefaction.
'What—rhyming and that?' asked Eric, appalled.
'Yes, rhyming,' I answered ruthlessly. There was a shocked silence. Linda Moffat was the first to find her breath.
'How many verses, Miss Read?'
'As many as you can think of.'
Patrick then piped up.
'Do us have to make it go thumpety-thumpety like that "Haifa league, half a league" bit you read us?'
I said that rhythm would be expected, and they delved into their desks for their pens and English exercise books, with the doomed look of those that face the firing squad.
For half an hour the room was quiet, broken only by the solemn tick of the ancient wall-clock, and the sighs and groans of spirits in poetic travail. After the first few minutes, I had softened so far as to suggest that they could begin with:
In the Spring
and go on from there. As drowning men clutch at straws, so did these Fairacre children clutch at these three words which could be copied from the blackboard.
After thirty minutes I collected their efforts and sent them tottering out to play. Never had their young minds been so sternly exercised, and the results were highly entertaining.
For sheer brazen effrontery and gross idleness, I think Ernest's takes the prize. He had shamelessly lifted, intact, a verse from one of the tombstones in the neighbouring churchyard. In his painstaking copperplate he had written:
In the spring
She drooped and died.
Now she sleeps
By Jesu's side
There is not one spelling mistake. Nor should there be, considering that we pass and repass this inscription a dozen times a day.
Linda Moffat had very cunningly covered the maximum of paper with the minimum of effort. Her poem ran:
In the spring
The swallows wing
In the spring
In the spring
The flowers bring (What? I wonder)
In the spring
In the spring
We all do sing
In the spring
Perhaps the most engaging poem was Eric's. He is a 'growler,' unable to sing in tune and incapable of keeping in step in dancing and other rhythmic work. Written in an appalling hand, with, apparently, a crossed nib dipped in black honey, his poem said:
In the spring
I has my birthday and usually a hice
cake which my gran makes. It is on March 20th
I rather liked the gentle reminder about a fortnight before the great day, and felt inclined to give him a couple of extra writing lessons as a present.
But for brevity and charm, for a little snatch that reminds one of William Barnes's simplicity and use of dialect, I think the attempt of young bandaged-kneed Patrick takes the prize. His poem read thus:
In the spring
It comes on worm (sic!)
Us likes the spring
Us has no storm
Poor dears, how hard I made them work! Truly the mastering of one's own language is a major operation!
The kitten is still with me, and I hope that I shall never have to part with him. He answers to the deplorably plebeian name of 'Tibby,' while I still rack my brains daily for some other more inspired cognomen.
Now that the weather is warmer he plays outside and yesterday afternoon he ventured across the playground and found his way into the classroom, much to the children's delight. He settled himself in a patch of sunlight on the needlework cupboard, and I foresee many more such excursions to school, as he is a most companionable animal.
In any case, I see no reason why a good-tempered, steady-going cat should not be included in a country classroom. It adds a pleasantly domestic touch to our working conditions.
Amy came to tea and brought her sister, who is staying with her, as wed. She is one of those people—all too common, alas!—who bore
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