Here and there an
inspired human being seizes on the thought that the child should
really be taught how to live at some time between the ages of six and
sixteen, or he may not learn so easily afterward. Accordingly, the
pupils under the guidance of that particular person catch a glimpse of
eternal verities between the printed lines of their geographies and
grammars. The kindergarten makes the growth of every-day virtues so
simple, so gradual, even so easy, that you are almost beguiled into
thinking them commonplace. They seem to come in, just by the way, as
it were, so that at the end of the day you have seen thought and
word and deed so sweetly mingled that you marvel at the "universal
dovetailedness of things," as Dickens puts it. They will flourish
better in the school, too, when the cheerful hum of labor is heard
there for a little while each day. The kindergarten child has "just
enough" strips for his weaving mat,--none to lose, none to destroy;
just enough blocks in each of his boxes, and every one of them, he
finds, is required to build each simple form.
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