CHAPTER VIII.
MARY JAY’S INSTRUCTIONS.
AFTER Lucy had been several days in Mary Jay’s school, and had learned to work quietly by herself, for half an hour at a time, Mary Jay said, one day, that she would go and take a walk with her in the recess.
“Well,” said Lucy, “and I wish you would go down behind the garden, by the great rock, and show me where that path leads to.”
Mary Jay assented to this proposal, and they set out together. Lucy clambered over the stile without any trouble, and Mary Jay herself got over much more easily than Lucy had supposed possible. In fact, although Mary Jay appeared to be very lame in walking, yet she could walk without any pain, and without much inconvenience to herself. The difficulty was rather apparent than real.
Lucy was surprised, therefore, to see how readily Mary Jay mounted the steps of the stile, and descended on the other side.
“I believe I will leave one of my crutches here,” said she to Lucy, “and then I can take hold of your hand.”
So she led Lucy with one of her hands, while she managed the remaining crutch with the other; and thus they walked along the path which led towards the rocky precipice.
“Now, Lucy,” said Mary Jay, “I will tell you of some of the difficulties which children meet with in school. There are three things, which it belongs to a good scholar to do, which are rather hard.”
“What are they?” said Lucy.
“To continue to study after you have got tired of study, to try to do what you think you can’t do, and to obey orders when you think they are wrong.”
“When they are wrong?” replied Lucy.
“Yes,” replied Mary Jay. “It is pretty easy to obey when you think the orders are right; the difficulty comes when you think the orders are wrong. For example, there was a boy once, and his name was Thomas. He used to hold his slate pencil just as we commonly hold a pen. The teacher told him that that wasn’t right. She showed him how a slate pencil ought to be held, and then she went away and left Thomas at his work. He tried the teacher’s way, and said to himself, ‘This isn’t half as good a way as mine. I can’t make the figures half as well.’ Then he changed his pencil, and held it just as he had done it before, that is, as a pen is held.”
“How?” said Lucy.
“I will show you,” said Mary Jay. Then she looked about upon the ground, and found a little sprig, which would answer to represent a pen, and she placed it between the fingers of her right hand, leaning upon her crutch while she did it,—and thus showed Lucy how a pen ought to be held.
“And now,” said Lucy, “show me how the teacher told him to hold it.”
So Mary Jay broke off a short piece of the sprig, which was of suitable length to represent a slate pencil, and she placed that between her fingers, in such a way as to show how a slate pencil ought to be held.
“Now, Thomas,” she continued, “when he found that he could not work so conveniently by holding the pencil in the way that the teacher had directed him to hold it, concluded that she must have been wrong, and so he returned to his old method.”
“Method?” said Lucy, “what is that?”
“The way,—his old way of holding it,” replied Mary Jay.
“And what did the teacher say?” said Lucy.
“Why, when the teacher came there again,” said Mary Jay, “she found him disobeying her. She said, ‘Why, Thomas, I told you not to hold the pencil so.’
“‘Yes,’ said Thomas, ‘I tried the other way, but I found that I couldn’t make my figures so well.’”
Here Mary Jay paused a moment; but Lucy did not say any thing, and so she proceeded.
“Thomas thought,” said she, “that he was not bound to obey his teacher, unless he thought that her directions were right. But the truth is, that children ought to obey their parents and teachers always; no matter whether they think the commands are right and reasonable, or not. It is very easy to obey, when you see that the command is right and reasonable; but when you do not understand why the command is given, or when it seems unreasonable or wrong, then comes the trial.”
“I shouldn’t think,” said Lucy, “that the teacher would want him to make the figures the hardest way.”
“Mary Jay said that she had seen boys climb up nearly to the top.”—
“No,” said Mary Jay; “the truth was this: Thomas’s way was the hardest, and the teacher’s the easiest; only Thomas had become so accustomed to his method, that he couldn’t at once do quite so well in the other. There are a great many things, which children have to do, that can be done most easily in one particular way, when they are once accustomed to that way. But before they are accustomed to it, it may perhaps be harder than some other way, which they are familiar with. Children are often told to hold their pens, or their knife and fork, or spoon, at table, in a way which seems to them inconvenient and troublesome; and so they think the command is unreasonable and wrong. They think their parent or teacher is mistaken, and so they don’t obey. But if they would obey, they would soon become accustomed to the proper way, and then they would find it altogether better than their old habit. That’s the philosophy of it, Lucy; that’s the philosophy of it.”
At this time, they had reached the rocky precipice, and the path passed around near the foot of it. Lucy looked up at the rocks, and was a little afraid that they would fall down upon her head. Mary Jay said, that she had seen boys climb up nearly to the top. From this place, the path passed along among some trees, and Lucy and Mary Jay went on; and, as they walked, Mary Jay resumed the conversation.
“Then there is another thing,” she added, “which I mentioned—being willing to try to do what you think you can’t do, or what you can’t do very well. Once, when I was at a school, there was a girl that sat next to me, and her name was Sarah. The teacher was choosing a copy for her to write. He had several in his hands, and he gave her one that had some figures at the end of it. Sarah looked at it, and then carried it back to the teacher’s desk, and asked him if he would be kind enough to give her another copy, for that one had figures at the end of it.
“‘Well,’ said the teacher, ‘and why is that an objection?’
“‘Why, I can’t make figures very well,’ replied Sarah.
“‘Can’t you?’ said the teacher.
“‘No,’ said Sarah, ‘and so I should like to have a copy that hasn’t got any figures in it.’
“The teacher then began to look over his copies, and Sarah supposed that he was endeavoring to find one which had no figures in it. While he was doing this, she said,—
“‘I think Lucy Dane would like that copy very well, for she can make figures beautifully.’”
“Lucy Dane?” said Lucy; “was her name Lucy?”
“Yes,” said Mary Jay.
“That’s the same as my name,” added Lucy.
“Presently,” continued Mary Jay, “the teacher took out a copy, which was all figures from the beginning of the line to the end, and handed it to Sarah.
“‘There,’ said he, ‘I am glad you told me that you can’t make figures very well, for I want to have you learn; so I’ll give you copies of figures altogether, for a while. And as for Lucy Dane, I will be careful not to give her any more copies with figures in them, if she can make figures beautifully already.’”
“Why, Mary Jay!” said Lucy. She was quite surprised at this decision of the teacher.
“Children very often,” continued Mary Jay, “make objections to do what their teacher requires, because they say they can’t do it. They forget that this is the very reason why they should set to work and learn. You don’t go to school to do over again what you can already do very well, but to learn to do things which you can’t do when you go.
“There was another girl in the same school,” continued Mary Jay; “and one day, when the teacher told us that we must write every other page in our writing books without ruling, in order that we might learn to write straight without lines to guide us, she said that she couldn’t write at all without ruling.
“‘Can’t you?’ said the teacher; ‘then you’ll have to write every page so, instead of every other, until you learn a little; and when you get so as to write tolerably straight, then it will not be necessary for you to write so much without a guide.’”
“What was her name?” said Lucy.
But Mary Jay did not have time to answer this question, for Lucy had hardly spoken the words, when her eye caught a view of quite a little sheet of water before her, under the trees. So she left Mary Jay, and ran on towards it.
It was a broad and shallow sheet of water, made by the expansion of a brook, which flowed here over smooth, yellow sands. A little below where they stood, the surface of the water was contracted, and the brook flowed over gravel and small stones, with a rapid motion, and finally fell down some rocks, making quite a little waterfall. Large trees overhung the whole scene, and made it shady and cool.
“Now,” said Mary Jay, “I will show you my seat.”
So she led Lucy along up a bank, by a narrow path, until she came to a place where were some rocks, which were, like the water, overhung with trees. Here there was placed a long, flat stone, in front of a sort of wall or precipice of rock, in such a manner that the stone made a very good seat, and the rock behind it, which was smooth and inclined backwards a little, made a very good back to lean upon.
“Is this your seat?” said Lucy.
“Yes,” said Mary Jay.
“Who made it for you?” said Lucy.
“I made it myself,” said Mary Jay.
“Why, did you lift this great stone?” said Lucy, putting her hand down upon the stone seat.
“Yes,” said Mary Jay.
“I shouldn’t think that you could lift such a great, heavy stone,” said Lucy.
“No,” replied Mary Jay, “I couldn’t have lifted it exactly. I pried it along.”
“How did you do it?” asked Lucy.
“Why, I saw the stone lying a little way off, half in the ground, and I went, one day, and got my little hoe, which my father bought for me when I was about as large as you are, to hoe my garden with; and with that I dug the stone out. Then I brought down a little iron bar, and pried it up. My sister put stones under to keep it from falling back again into its old place. At last I got it up so high, that she could put a pole under; and at length we got it entirely out of its hole. Then we pried it along, one end at a time; and finally we got it in its place, and I pried it up, and my sister put the stones under which keep it up.”
Then Lucy looked under the seat, and found that at each end there were several flat stones, one over the other, forming a little pile; and the stone seat rested upon them.
“But, Mary Jay,” said Lucy, “why didn’t you get your father to come and do it for you?”
“Because,” said Mary Jay, “my father is always busy at his work; and, besides, I knew that I should enjoy my seat a great deal more, to do it all myself.”
“But then your sister helped you,” said Lucy.
“Yes,” replied Mary Jay, “my sister helped me; and she and I own the seat together. I come down here sometimes to read.”
“I wish,” said Lucy, “that you would let me come down here sometimes, and study my lesson.”
“Well,” said Mary Jay, “when you get so that you can go alone, I will. If you are down here, there will be nobody to watch you, or help you when you are in difficulty, so that it will be of no use for you to come until you can go alone.”
After this, Lucy and Mary Jay walked slowly back to the house.