He has
nothing to give them, no bubbling water of life, no geniality, no such
graces of the spirit as appeal to buoyant childhood. He lacks a sense of
humor, and that lack makes arid the exuberant sources of life. He may
solve problems in arithmetic, but he cannot compass the solution of the
problem of life. The children pity him, and no greater calamity can
befall a teacher than to deserve and receive the pity of a child. He
might, in a way, teach anatomy, but not physiology. He might be able to
deal with the analytic. He might succeed as curator in a museum of
mummies, but he will fail as a teacher of children.
=Story of a boy.=--A seven-year-old boy who was lying on his back on the
floor asked his father the question, "How long since the world was
born?" The father replied, "Oh, about four thousand years." In a few
moments the child said in a tone of finality, "That isn't very long."
Then after another interval, he asked, "What was there before the world
was born?" To this the father replied, "Nothing." After a lapse of two
or three minutes the child gave vent to uncontrollable laughter which
resounded throughout the house. When, at length, the father asked him
what he was laughing at, he could scarcely control his laughter to
answer. But at last he managed to reply, "I was laughing to see how
funny it was when there wasn't anything."
=The child's imagination.=--The philosopher could well afford to give
the half of his kingdom to be able to see what that child saw.
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