The situation might be embarrassing. Conceive it in a French novel; with the Inspector’s wife lurking in the doorway.
The answers of these infants to their own teachers were a source of endless amusement; and sometimes they were saved up for me. One teacher had been giving a first lesson to her class on some animals. “That,” she said, in conclusion, “is what we call Natural History: all about birds, beasts, fishes, and insects. I will write it on the board: ‘Natural History.’ Now can any little girl tell me any fact that she has ever observed in Natural History—anything about a bird, or a beast, or a fish, or an insect? Yes, Mary, that is a good girl: what is it that you observed?”
Mary: “Please, teacher, our baby ate a slug once.”
Sometimes, too, the teachers would bring us stories of our colleagues, and of the unexpected answers given to them. The unconscious humour was often prominent. It was said that one Inspector asked, “What sort of people do you think they were, who called the most northerly county of Scotland ‘Sutherlandshire’?” (It may be well to state here that the proper answer is “Norwegians.”) And a child answered “Irishmen.”
Another H.M.I. was credited with this elaborate interrogatory:
Q. “What is that island called which from its name you would suppose contained neither women nor children?”
A. “Please, sir, the Scilly Isles.”
Enough for the Unexpected. Constant familiarity with school life gave us a good deal of insight into children’s ways, and in many matters we could calculate their probable course of conduct with the assurance of a weather prophet. We got to know, also, what a thin wall separates mischief from Hooliganism, and the latter from crime. In the poorer districts we dealt with children, to whom the wall was a transparent veil. In the best districts—and the remark is equally true of the great Public Schools—there is a very thin crust over the volcano. From Monday to Friday, between 9 A.M. and 4.30 P.M. conduct is exemplary. The Roman poet dreamt of the return of Saturnia regna, and the British schoolboy dreams of what he will do when Saturday comes again. But every evening school discipline is suspended, and the home resumes its influence. “You mustn’t be too hard on these children, Mr. Kynnersley,” said a wise manager of a poor school to me: “after leaving here they don’t hear a decent word till to-morrow morning.”
Then there is Sunday School, and the animal gets the upper hand. Grattez l’écolier, et trouvez l’écolier de Dimanche. It was only second-hand, and perhaps from seeing the wreckage on Monday morning, that we got to know what boy-without-cane is like.
Of later years the Sabbatical revels have been extended to week-nights. Under the names of Bands of Hope and Boys’ Brigades caneless boy has had many happy hours. We used to read in the school log-books: “Nov. 14. Meeting of Band of Hope here last night: two desks wrecked, maps pulled down, and a picture broken.” Nov. 20. “Meeting of Boys’ Brigade here last night. Found the floor strewn with matches and cigarette ends: maps pulled down, &c.”