CHAPTER XII
TO THE TEACHER
I should like to repeat here the suggestions in “The Fall of the Year” for this corresponding chapter. I will repeat only: “that you are the teacher, not the book. The book is but a suggestion. You begin where it leaves off; you fill out where it is lacking.” For these are not all the sounds of winter; indeed they may not be the characteristic sounds in your neighborhood. No matter: the lesson is not this or that sound, but that your pupils learn to listen for sounds, for the voices of the season, whatever those voices may be in their own particular region. The trouble is that we have ears, and literally hear not, eyes and see not, souls and feel not. Teach your pupils to use their eyes, ears, yes and hearts, and all things else will be added unto them in the way of education.
FOR THE PUPIL
I
It is the stilling of the insects that makes for the first of these silences; the hushing of the winds the second; the magic touch of the cold the third.
II
The voice of the great spring storm should be added to these, and the shriek of the wind about the house.
III
You should not only hear, but you should also feel this split—passing with a thrilling shock beneath your feet.
V
How many other of the small voices do you know? The chirp of the kinglets; the scratching of mice in a shock of corn; the—— but you write a story about them. So listen for yourself.
VI
Do all you can to preserve the quail. Don’t shoot.
VIII
Along toward spring you should hear him “drumming” for a mate—a rapid motion of his wings much like the hollow sound of a distant drum.