The power to read is so ordinary a part of our mental equipment that we rarely question its meaning or its origin. All common things pass us unchallenged, however marvellous they may be. We take little note of our sunrises and sunsets, the hill range which we see every day from our window, the clear air which infuses new energies into our lives with every new morning. Common institutions, however precious—the home, the school, the church, the state—are received by us as a matter of course, just as children receive without surprise the most valuable gifts from the hands of their friends. We need not marvel, then, that this power, which has so long been a part of ourselves, should remain unquestioned, or that we learn to read without giving a thought to the motive which impels us to learn. It may be well for even the most thoughtful among us to pause for a moment to question why everybody learns to read; to ponder the returns from the effort, the time, and the pains spent in the mastery of the art.
It is evident that our estimate of the value of reading will depend upon our kind of reading; or, in other words, the kind of knowledge which we gain from reading. For example, you and I may turn to the daily newspaper for a certain knowledge to direct our everyday plans. We wish to go to the city on the morrow:—this evening’s paper warns us of an approaching rain; we therefore provide ourselves with an umbrella before starting on our journey. Or we desire to hear Nansen’s lecture:—the newspaper apprises us of the time, the place, the subject, the cost of tickets, the place where they are to be sold, the arrangement for extra trains. Or, again, we plan a trip to Florida:—the ways and means of going, the departure and arrival of trains, the choice of routes, the cost of the journey, the hotels which we may expect to find, together with a thousand other items,—all these are learned by means of time-tables, guide-books, and printed pamphlets, which we carefully read before going. Without this information which has been written down for us, and without this power on our part to read it, our journey would be to us like that of a traveller in an unexplored country, except as our friends give us the result of their experience. The business man consults the paper to learn of the quotations of stocks and bonds, the arrival or departure of ships, the scarcity or abundance of crops. The enthusiastic bicyclist learns of the proposed runs of the club through the obliging columns of the paper; his guide-book supplies the directions which take him safely to his journey’s end, or the descriptions which interpret to him the places through which he rides. Can we imagine ourselves as bereft of this power of reading the printed directions which are every day consulted by us for our ordinary convenience? How limited, how hindered our lives would seem to us with this power withdrawn!
Through the various agencies to which we have referred, and similar sources equally familiar to us, we share the experience of others and add to our limited life that which they have learned for us. Our power is multiplied, our convenience is assured, our happiness is increased by means of the work which has been done by others. The fruit of others’ thought and experience is stored ready for our use as soon as we have mastered the art of reading. Therefore, in order that we may add to our own power by sharing the experience and wisdom of others in the management of our everyday, practical affairs, we have learned to read.
And, furthermore, as members of a community we need to know what others are doing. We cannot live to ourselves alone. Ordinary intelligence demands a knowledge of contemporary events. A strike in the Fall River mills, a freshet in the Connecticut Valley, a cyclone in Iowa, a frost in Florida, a famine or a pestilence in India, a war in Cuba, the threatened partition of China, the accession of Hawaii, are matters which pertain to us also. In these days of rapid transmission of intelligence, the world has become one great family, and in proportion as one recognizes his responsibility to the brotherhood of which he is a member, he will be interested to know the deeds of other men, the happenings in other communities. These exert a direct influence upon our own environment. Therefore we read to obtain knowledge of the life about us, in countries near and remote; and in proportion as our interest is wide and intelligent does such reading become a necessity to us.
Moreover, an intelligent judgment of the events of the present involves a knowledge of the past, which to so large a degree determines the present. What men have done, what they have discovered, what they have thought, in the ages that are past, enables us to interpret the present. A complete knowledge of our own time is the possession only of the man who can read the past. The history of any nation, the development of any art or science, the growth of any religion can be known only to him who reads. The student of his own times must turn to the life of the yesterdays for answers to the problems which are confronting him. The experience of the past has been chronicled in books in order that we may share the blessings of that experience. How narrow seems the life of the person who is without the power to read even the outlines of that history! We have but to imagine the books of the past as closed to the entire world, and the power of reading as cut off from every one, to realize the individual loss when the power of thus reading is withheld. It is a recognized truth that the broader one’s life, the greater his consciousness of the necessity for general knowledge such as is gained from books.
A fourth type of reading is suggested by the ministrations of literature. If we imagine ourselves as seated by the study table reading our favorite poem, we shall recognize that it has been through the reading of literature that much of our highest inspiration has come to us. It is the poet who brings to us true insight into our own experience, who interprets for us the great problems of life. With what joy and exultation we recall our magnificent hymns! What waves of emotion sweep over us as we read the lines in which the master hand has recorded the deepest experiences! For enjoyment, for culture, for spiritual help we turn to the higher order of books. In the truest sense, this reading directs our lives, interprets our experiences, and determines our ideals. We cannot imagine ourselves as defrauded of this birthright. How meagre would our lives at once become if every vestige of the treasures of literature was removed from our experience:—the army without the battle hymn, the home without the poem, the struggle without the psalm of courage, the mortal defeat without the inspiring shout of spiritual triumph! In attempting thus to picture a life without the inspiration of literature, we realize our dependence upon its teachings. The higher our conception of living, the fuller our realization of the help which comes to us through literature.
Our motives in reading, then, may be recorded in an ascending series: To obtain practical guidance in everyday affairs; to enrich our lives with the experience of our neighbors; to share the wisdom resulting from the experience of the past; to gain pleasure, insight, and spiritual direction. Any one of these motives would be sufficient to warrant us in teaching reading; through any one of these results we are fitted to become better members of the community. But can we draw the line, giving to our children the lower results only, where so much might well be given?
We have asked why we read, and the question which naturally follows is: “What shall we read?” We must be able to read ordinary facts affecting our everyday life, expressed in the terms of that life. Such reading involves little growth. Its purposes are exceedingly practical in the ordinary sense of the term. There is little widening of our horizon, little deepening of our experience in consequence of such practice. Second, we should read such books and papers as will serve to inform us of contemporary events,—such events as really have a bearing upon our present environment or the life of the future. This reading gives us knowledge of other peoples and places, widening our horizon, and urging us back to study, with clearer eyes, the environment which has been constantly about us. Only thus can we truly see the life which is nearest to us. Third, the reading of the past leads us to the pages of history in which the best has been chronicled. As has been said, the knowledge of the present can be obtained only through the interpretation of the past. That life is narrow indeed which confines its range to the present alone. And fourth, we must be able to read and interpret literature, a reading which requires a fuller power than any which has been heretofore described, and involves a higher type of teaching.
In the thought of many parents and friends of the school, the immediately practical aim of reading is the only one considered. Because reading facilitates buying and selling, coming and going, and is ordinarily accepted as a mark of intelligence, it is considered as an essential in our school courses. But the higher our conception of life, the higher will be our conception of education; and with the higher conception of education comes the acceptance of the higher aim, even in our simplest teaching. We may learn to read in such a way that we never rise beyond the first result of our attainment. This will almost assuredly be the case if the so-called “practical” aim is the only one considered; but if, from the beginning, the teacher’s hope and that of the parent are that the child may grow into fuller power, we shall find his life strengthened and inspired by the loftier aim, by the surer accomplishment of the greater result. “Seek ye first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you.” The old saying is far from being interpreted in these days of hurrying to obtain the immediate and the practical,—but it is forever true that as our aim becomes higher, the type of our work becomes nobler, while the character of the results justifies our endeavors. The greater will include the less, but the lower aim may never lead to the higher. Can we dare to withhold from our children the comfort, the inspiration, the strength, the guidance that has come to us through the higher type of reading? Is it not a necessity that, from the beginning, they shall be taught to look forward to such power of acquisition as shall open to them the treasures of experience which have been written down for them in the best books?
It is as undesirable as it is impossible to try to feed the minds of children only upon facts of observation or record. The immense product of the imagination in art and literature is a concrete fact with which every educated being should be made somewhat familiar, such products being a very real part of every individual’s actual environment. … Do we not all know many people who seem to live in a mental vacuum—to whom we have great difficulty in attributing immortality, because they apparently have so little life except that of the body? Fifteen minutes a day of good reading would give any one of this multitude a really human life. “The uplifting of the democratic masses depends upon the implanting at schools of the taste for good reading.”
Charles W. Eliot.
Learning to read is an important part of the children’s training, but learning what to read is quite as important. A child’s mastery of the printed page may leave him with the key to that which is base and ignoble in literature, or it may open to him that which is noble and inspiring. His newly gotten power may unlock to him the dime novel, or the Iliad. Whether he turns to the one or to the other depends largely upon his early associations. It is determined especially by his early teaching.
To present the right standard or pattern is one of the functions of the teacher. This is equally true whether the lesson be the form of a Latin verb, the shape of a vase, the polite fashion of address, or the choice of books. To set the copy was of old the teacher’s part, and it must still occupy a prominent place in our work. For the sake of giving the children right ideals, we must place before them the best in literature, such literature as will supply not only standards in language, but ideals in character. Their experience, like ours, must be reënforced by the teachings of others—the lessons which have been treasured in books—and these lessons must begin in childhood. It is a mistake to postpone good literature until the child has mastered word forms and the technique of reading. His love for the good must exist before he begins to read at all, and must be stimulated and strengthened by means of his reading. At the same time that he becomes master of the mechanics of reading, he should be endowed with the desire to choose that which is good to read. The work of the teacher, therefore, is to establish ideals, to quicken desire, to strengthen right tendencies, to lead to wise choices. These belong to the teaching of reading, and should assume quite as important a place as does the mastery of words, or fluency in expression.
As has been said, good literature should not be postponed until the children can read it for themselves. A study of our own experience will assure us that the teachings of our childhood have made the most lasting impression upon us. It is the childhood association which moves us most strongly to-day. As the twig is bent the tree is inclined. There comes a time in the tree’s history when its inclination is fixed. It is the young tree which is shaped by the skill of the nurseryman. The best of poems should be read and recited to little children. “Tell me a story,” or “Read to me,” is the oft-repeated plea in the home. It indicates the child’s desire, and his need as well. Let us be taught by the children. Here is our opportunity to present to them the story that is worth telling, the poem that is worth reading. “Tell it again,” we hear, after every recital, and again and again and again the loved story is repeated. Should we not be assured that the oft-heard word is worthy of this frequent repetition? If the child asks for bread, shall we give him a stone?
In the home, long before the child enters school, he should become familiar with true stories, fairy stories, exquisite songs, beautiful poems, adapted to his intelligence, suited to his interest. If this good work has been done at home it should be continued by the teacher. If it has been neglected by the home friends, it necessarily becomes a part of the teacher’s work. The child’s mind should be furnished with the best stories and poems before he begins his primer. So shall he long to master the art which shall open books to him for his own reading, and every step which his baby feet take in the path to his desire shall bring him consciously nearer to the longed-for treasure.
Through the first years of the school life, telling stories, reciting poems, or reading to the children should be a frequent exercise. This may occur in the time of the reading lesson, in the language lesson, or the morning talk. The benefits derived from this practice are two-fold. The stories and the poems give to the children new material for thought; they also help them to acquire a taste for good things which will cause them to choose instinctively that which is good when they are left free to choose. Children who have been accustomed to the stories of the Iliad, will read and re-read this treasure in later life with an advantage which could not have been theirs had not the heroes of the old story been the companions of their childhood’s thought. We can hardly imagine that boys accustomed to such associations will be satisfied with the cheap and pernicious pages of the dime novel. A mind well furnished with good things will appropriate good to itself. It is the empty head which becomes filled with that which is cheap and mean. The children of a certain city were once asked without previous notice to write down something which they had memorized. Those who had not been taught in school to memorize choice selections, wrote pages of curious and uncouth rhymes, which they had learned in various ways. The exercise proved conclusively that they must be helped to choose wisely. The choice will never be between the good and nothing, fulness and emptiness: it will always be a choice between the good and the bad.
Let us read to the children, then. Let their own desires guide our selection in the beginning. The true story, the fairy story, the poem, may be read or recited in turn. The children’s plea for repetition will teach us what their present choice is. If we are wise we shall be instructed by their comments and questions.
Three rules should guide our choice of literature: First, give the children what is good. Second, give them what we like. Third, give them what they like.
The first rule needs no interpretation. With so much that is precious waiting to be taught, we cannot be satisfied with any lesson material worthless in itself. Life is too short and its time too sacred to admit of such harmful dallying.
The second rule is always a safe one. We must teach that which belongs to us. We cannot give to the children what is not ours to give. The poem or story which we enjoy because it answers to something in our nature, we shall be able to teach to them. We may repeat, but we cannot teach, that which has not entered into our own lives. Therefore, if we do not love and appreciate what is good in literature, our first duty is to teach ourselves, in order that we may be prepared to teach the children.
The third rule necessitates a study of the children as well as a study of literature. Songs and stories which are entirely suited to one class may fail to interest another. Those which we like may not attract the children. Hence, we must watch them through our story-telling or our reading, and judge, by their attention, their comments, their silence, their indifference, where their interest lies. We must begin with that which appeals to their child life, their present interest; but we shall not end there. We must lead them to a fuller enjoyment and to a wider interest, by giving them always a little more than that for which they ask.
There is much in the pages of the best literature which is already suited to children’s understanding. Let us choose that first. But we shall dare to add much which they do not fully understand as yet, knowing that the future will interpret to them that which is now hidden. It is a mistake to cut literature to the children’s comprehension. Let us trust that they will feel in some measure the beauty which they cannot understand, and that their future experience will unlock the door which is now shut to them.