This morning especially the teacher wished to make a good showing because she wanted a place in a larger city and hoped that I would recommend her. Arithmetic was the first thing on the program. The principal had boasted of the work of his school in arithmetic. The work went beautifully, for Stella led off with a perfect recitation. The pride of the whole class was evident, the teacher was hopeful. But wanting to see the work of all the pupils, I asked several questions, and at last called upon Sadie. She didn't know, she stood abashed, and showed absolute lack of understanding of the subject. The principal was provoked. The teacher was plainly humiliated, and said in a tone that was low, but loud enough for Sadie and several of the children to hear, "The girl is not only lazy, but feeble-minded."
So it was the whole term. Sadie was tortured each school day, condemned by the most powerful court in the world, her companions, led by her teacher. And the reason was that the teacher was teaching only the six-hour-a-day girl. One does not have to go to Turkey to see examples of injustice and cruelty. But let us not be too critical of the teacher. She is tender-hearted and sympathetic. She weeps over the heroines in books, and has latent longings to be of service in the world. In this case she did not know the conditions that made Sadie stupid. If she had been interested in the children's out-of-school work, and had had them tell her about it, she would have known that the frail little unkempt girl was compelled to do a woman's work at home besides trying to get her lessons. Then she would have seen the tragedy in the child's appealing glance and have understood her. Some people go through life without finding an opportunity to do justice, such as was this teacher's. In ministering to the soul-hunger of this little girl she might have given the service that she had dreamed of giving. It would have been the kind of service that is its own reward.
IX
A STORY AND LETTERS FROM TEACHERS
A Story From Nebraska, by Mrs. Sarah J. Hoagland
One spring found me in Nebraska teaching a school of German and Bohemian children, only two of whom spoke English. I boarded with a German family who lived about a mile from the school. In our walks to and from school I taught the children English. They and their father were born in Nebraska, but at first none of them could speak English so that I could understand it, although I understood some of their German.
The oldest boy—ten years old—lanky, with awkward gait, and fair, straight-standing hair, had a dogged, sullen look. It was a "home" look, especially when the father was around, but it left when he was trying to tell about birds or other interesting things. His telling me that he intended to work in town as soon as possible gave me a peep into his heart as regarded home. It was not a happy home. The father often drank, and at such times he was harsh and cruel. The mother was meek and subdued. She never had known how to do good housekeeping. She told me that when a girl in Germany, being large and strong, she had had to work in the fields instead of learning housework.
The farm was run down; the house was bare and unhomelike. The father's voice was often raised in upbraiding in "Low Dutch." He often had the children rounded up for punishment for starting fires or other mischief. The seven-year-old boy was more efficient, either in the home or out, than the ten-year-old boy. I noticed that he had a better head and intelligence. His efficiency was due to this, not to any better training.