their copper piping.'
'But the workmen—'
'The workmen have no business to give the things away.'
I made little headway with my arguments. The magpie instinct in children is strong, and they could see endless possibilities in the odds and ends so easily obtained. I have always kept a large box in the classroom filled with such oddments as cotton-reels, matchboxes, odd buttons, scraps of material, lino, off-cuts of wood, corks and so on, in which the children love to rummage. From this flotsam and jetsam of everyday life they produce dozens of playthings for themselves, and prize them more than any 'boughten' toy, as they say.
One bleak January morning, after prayers had been said and the register marked, there came a crash from the lobby and a loud wail.
On investigation, I found Joseph Coggs surveying the fragments of a tile scattered over the brick floor of the cloakroom. His dark eyes were shining with tears.
'And what,' I said sternly, 'makes you so late?'
'I bin to get this for my mum.' He pointed a filthy finger towards the pieces.
'From Tyler's Row?'
'Yes, miss. It's going to be—' He sniffed, and corrected himself. 'It were going to be a teapot stand. For her birthday, miss. Saturday, miss.'
'I shouldn't think your mother would want a stolen teapot stand,' I said, improving the shining hour.
'She wouldn't know,' explained Joseph patiently. Despair began to grip me. Should I ever succeed in my battle?
'You are late. You have been pilfering, despite all I've said, and you've made a mess on Mrs Pringle's clean floor. Sweep it up, and come inside the minute you've finished.'
'Yes, miss,' said Joseph meekly, setting off for the dustpan and brush.
He was disconsolate for the rest of the morning. I could see that he was grieving for his lost treasure, and when he refused second helpings of school dinner—minced beef and mashed potato followed by treacle pudding-my hard heart was softened a little.
When they went out to play, in a biting east wind, I returned to the school house across the playground, and sorted out a number of objects to add to the contents of the rubbish box.
'You are free to choose,' I told the children when Handwork lesson began that afternoon. 'You can paint a picture, or get on with your knitting, or make something from the rubbish box.'
Half-a-dozen little girls drew out their garter-stitch scarves and composed themselves happily with their knitting needles. About the same number of both sexes made for the paints and brushes, but the larger proportion of non-knitters rushed excitedly to the box. Some had seen me adding material and were agog to have first pick.
As I hoped, Joseph was among them. I watched him remove a piece of lino with one hand, and a large wooden lid, once the stopper of a sugar jar—with the other. His expression was one of mingled hope and anxiety. Which, he seemed to be asking himself, would make a replacement for the broken tile?
He took both objects back to his desk, and studied them closely, stroking them in turn. Around him work began on the construction of dolls' beds, dolls' chests-of-drawers, paper windmills and cardboard spinning tops. There was a hubbub of conversation among the manufacturers, but Joseph remained silent, engrossed in his problem.
At length, he set aside the lino and put the flat circle of wood in front of him. Then he went to the side table which holds such necessary equipment as nails, paste, gummed paper, string and so on. He selected some squares of gummed paper, yellow, green, and red, returned to his desk and cut out a number of bright stars.
For the rest of the lesson he stuck them on the lid in ever-diminishing circles. Despite the finger-prints, the result had a primitive gaiety, and it was good to see the child growing happier as the wood was covered. When the last star was in place, he sat and gazed at it enraptured. Then a thought struck him. He came to my desk.
'Will them stars come off under a teapot?'
'Not if you
'But the workmen—'
'The workmen have no business to give the things away.'
I made little headway with my arguments. The magpie instinct in children is strong, and they could see endless possibilities in the odds and ends so easily obtained. I have always kept a large box in the classroom filled with such oddments as cotton-reels, matchboxes, odd buttons, scraps of material, lino, off-cuts of wood, corks and so on, in which the children love to rummage. From this flotsam and jetsam of everyday life they produce dozens of playthings for themselves, and prize them more than any 'boughten' toy, as they say.
One bleak January morning, after prayers had been said and the register marked, there came a crash from the lobby and a loud wail.
On investigation, I found Joseph Coggs surveying the fragments of a tile scattered over the brick floor of the cloakroom. His dark eyes were shining with tears.
'And what,' I said sternly, 'makes you so late?'
'I bin to get this for my mum.' He pointed a filthy finger towards the pieces.
'From Tyler's Row?'
'Yes, miss. It's going to be—' He sniffed, and corrected himself. 'It were going to be a teapot stand. For her birthday, miss. Saturday, miss.'
'I shouldn't think your mother would want a stolen teapot stand,' I said, improving the shining hour.
'She wouldn't know,' explained Joseph patiently. Despair began to grip me. Should I ever succeed in my battle?
'You are late. You have been pilfering, despite all I've said, and you've made a mess on Mrs Pringle's clean floor. Sweep it up, and come inside the minute you've finished.'
'Yes, miss,' said Joseph meekly, setting off for the dustpan and brush.
He was disconsolate for the rest of the morning. I could see that he was grieving for his lost treasure, and when he refused second helpings of school dinner—minced beef and mashed potato followed by treacle pudding-my hard heart was softened a little.
When they went out to play, in a biting east wind, I returned to the school house across the playground, and sorted out a number of objects to add to the contents of the rubbish box.
'You are free to choose,' I told the children when Handwork lesson began that afternoon. 'You can paint a picture, or get on with your knitting, or make something from the rubbish box.'
Half-a-dozen little girls drew out their garter-stitch scarves and composed themselves happily with their knitting needles. About the same number of both sexes made for the paints and brushes, but the larger proportion of non-knitters rushed excitedly to the box. Some had seen me adding material and were agog to have first pick.
As I hoped, Joseph was among them. I watched him remove a piece of lino with one hand, and a large wooden lid, once the stopper of a sugar jar—with the other. His expression was one of mingled hope and anxiety. Which, he seemed to be asking himself, would make a replacement for the broken tile?
He took both objects back to his desk, and studied them closely, stroking them in turn. Around him work began on the construction of dolls' beds, dolls' chests-of-drawers, paper windmills and cardboard spinning tops. There was a hubbub of conversation among the manufacturers, but Joseph remained silent, engrossed in his problem.
At length, he set aside the lino and put the flat circle of wood in front of him. Then he went to the side table which holds such necessary equipment as nails, paste, gummed paper, string and so on. He selected some squares of gummed paper, yellow, green, and red, returned to his desk and cut out a number of bright stars.
For the rest of the lesson he stuck them on the lid in ever-diminishing circles. Despite the finger-prints, the result had a primitive gaiety, and it was good to see the child growing happier as the wood was covered. When the last star was in place, he sat and gazed at it enraptured. Then a thought struck him. He came to my desk.
'Will them stars come off under a teapot?'
'Not if you
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