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.

The writer remembers a class of children—children who came from rude homes, whose lives were narrow and hindered, who, nevertheless, listened with intense interest to the poems which their teacher read to them. It happened that she once selected for the morning reading the first stanzas of Longfellow’s poem, “My Lost Youth.” They listened eagerly until the book was closed, giving evidence of appreciation with every return of the rhythmic refrain. “Is that all?” they asked. “No,” was the reply, “but you would not understand the rest.” “Oh, read it to us, even if we don’t,” they urged. “We love the sound of it.”

The writer has often heard primary classes reciting Wordsworth’s “Daffodils” with great delight. Without doubt the child’s interpretation differs from that of the man,—understanding is the fruit of experience,—but even thus early the children enter into the spirit of the poem, rejoice in the beauty of the daffodils, and are happy in the rhythmic recitation. The beautiful words are treasured in their memories, to return again and again to gladden their hearts, just as the bright vision was repeated in the experience of the poet.

Give to the children, then, not only the child thought which fits the childish experience, but also the treasure which grows in beauty as they grow, and becomes rich as they become wise.

It is well for the teacher to cultivate the art of telling stories to children. The story that is told has an element of life which is not found in the story that is read. There is no barrier between the story-teller and his audience; the book often makes a gulf between the reader and his hearers. Practise story-telling. Let the children’s indifference teach you wherein you fail; your unconscious tutors will show you what to omit and what to magnify. Their training will help you in other directions. If you yield yourself to the teaching of the children, you will be repaid by a new readiness in story-telling before less kindly and less candid critics. Do not forego this privilege.

It is well to read and re-read the poem or story until it becomes the child’s own possession. The term “Memory Gem” has been adopted into our familiar school phrases. Whether the phrase remains or not, it is to be hoped that the exercise which it names will always have a place. It has an advantage beyond simply reading or hearing the poem. The poem which has been committed to memory and recited again and again, becomes the child’s own. It will recur to him at his play, at his work, in school and out. No other thought treasure is so dear to us as that which is learned in childhood, and which accompanies us through life. Through such indirect teaching, we may remain an influence for good even when our names have been forgotten. By means of such tuition the child becomes familiar with the vocabulary of good literature, and is prepared to read, understand, and enjoy that which would otherwise have been beyond his reach. By all means continue the “memory gem,” but be assured that the selections are truly gems.

A poem or story may be presented to a child as a message from the author to him. Whittier’s “Barefoot Boy,” for example, serves not only to describe the barefoot boy, but to tell the children something about the poet himself. If they read it with this thought in mind, they will be desirous of learning something about the poet. This study of the author should not precede the study of the poem. They will care to learn about Whittier because he has written this charming poem for them; now, facts about his life will be filled with meaning; they will rejoice in the story of his boyhood experience, and will return to “The Barefoot Boy” with a keener interest, because it has become real to them through their study of the poet’s life. For little children (and is it not true of grown-up children as well?) this is the natural order of teaching. We care to know about Scott because we delight in “Marmion” and “Ivanhoe”; we do not first learn about the author, and then decide to read his works.

Other things being equal, our selections for reading and for memorizing should be from the world’s best writers. We should at least be sure that the children’s course of reading gives them some sense of companionship with a few men and women who have blessed the world through their books. Hans Christian Andersen, Alice and Phoebe Cary, Mary Howitt, Longfellow, Whittier, Lowell, Robert Louis Stevenson, and Eugene Field have written some of their best thoughts for children as well as for men and women. Some of these names should stand for real personalities, nay, for friends, to the children, before they leave school.

One question is often asked by teachers: “Shall I give myths to the children, and how? and can I give them if I do not believe them nor like them at all myself?” Somewhere, sometime, somehow, the children should become familiar with the classic myths. The “sometime” should be in childhood, or the myths will never fulfil their true mission. They should come at the time when children delight in the marvellous, the fanciful, the grotesque. Rightly used, they help to develop the imagination, a power which is left sadly to itself in school life. They serve as a basis for future reading. A knowledge of them is necessary to the interpretation of the best in literature. By all means give them to the children, but give them in their best form. They should not be mutilated by any attempt to embody them in words of one syllable. Let the child’s reading of the myths wait until he is able to read some version couched in the purest English. Meanwhile, read them to him again and again, sometimes without note or comment, for explanations are often bungling attempts to explain that which can never be explained. Let the child absorb into himself what the story conveys to him. Answer his questions plainly, if you can. Tell him you do not know, if you do not; but do not spoil his visions by attempting to teach vaporized theories.

Enough has been said of the teacher’s duty in the direction of developing taste. It is self-evident that no teacher can help a child to appreciate that which is beautiful, unless she herself appreciates it. The fountain cannot rise higher than its source. We must be that which we would help the children to become. Therefore, it is of the utmost importance that the teacher’s reading be carefully directed. I know of no way in which a teacher can better serve her children than by reading the best books. This reading will be, of course, in the line of her own tastes and interests. Every year, at the least, a new book should become a teacher’s possession. She should not only buy it to keep, but she should read and re-read it, until its contents become a part of herself. Every year should widen her horizon, and enable her to see more truly than she has seen before. Every book thus read and re-read becomes a definite force in her life, and unconsciously directs her teaching. The teacher who would guide her pupils in the fields of literature, must herself frequent the paths in which she desires their feet to tread.