50 NA T URE-ST UD Y RE VIE W [13 :2— Feb. , 1917 



This latter trouble is not unknown in scientific contributions to 

 learned societies. 



The finest results of nature-study consist in an absorbing 

 fondness for nature, in finding in her a solace and a refreshment 

 from the worry and care of life, in gaining from her a cultiire 

 without cost to those for whom costly culture is out of the question, 

 best of all, in feeling in her the throbbing in-dwelling of a power 

 not ourselves that works for, not only righteousness, but for 

 eternal uplift in all things. 



To talk of standardizing, prescribing, testing this is to fail 

 utterly, it seems to me, in perspective. 



Dean Bailey puts us in the right track in telling us, "When you 

 think of the subject you teach you are teaching science: When 

 you think of the child to whom you are teaching it, you are teach- 

 ing nature-study." 



My suggestion to the scientist in the matter of nature-study 

 is clear and definite: Teach the facts, as many as you can, 

 as clearly as you can, as connectedly as you can, as thoroughly 

 tied up with the philosophy of the age as you can, but teach it to 

 the teachers. Standardize this knowledge, try it, test it, all you 

 will. Then say to the teacher "You come in contact with the 

 child, you know the mind of the child, you feel the developing 

 sovl of the child; dip now into what we have given you. Sift 

 from it what is good for your purpose, translate it until it is within 

 the grasp and the interest of your children, enrich it with yotir 

 own personality, and fill them with a love for the great realm of 

 nature that shall send them out to talk to her face to face, to ask 

 her questions, to find in her, strength." 



My fear of what will happen if the scientist attempts to 

 standardize and test the nature-study of the first four years of 

 school life can be well illustrated by a story told by the best 

 primary teacher I have ever known. Miss Sara Arnold, while 

 supervising the primary schools of Boston came one morning 

 into a room where one of the teachers under her charge was hearing 

 a class in geography recite a lesson on Newfoundland. "John," 

 said the teacher, "what is fishing?" Now John had been sitting 

 listlessly before he heard this question. The teacher had thus 

 far failed to win him. But at this he wakened. This was the 

 first sensible question he had heard since he got into that school. 

 With light in his eye he started, "You git a hook — " "Next," 



