for my two eyes, so far apart." Then he looked at the little star and at the big moon, and slowly said, "They are so very, very, very small."

But the little boy roguishly pulled down the small end and peered through it. "Am I too so very, very small? Why, you are very, very big." Haec fabula docet, 'tis easy to get things t'other end to.

There once was a man (perhaps there has been more than one), who, looking through the big end of the university, said, "I will now view the child in Nature." So he wrote in a book:

"Science teaching for a few years past has been gradually working itself downward from the colleges and high schools into those of lower grades." And realizing that the thing did not work, he proceeds apologetically to state that "In most cases, the plans followed, while fairly well adapted to the demands of advanced pupils, have been poorly fitted to the needs of beginners." So this book (Professor Jackman's "Nature Study ") starts out with "the aim to furnish a guide for teachers in the common schools who wish their pupils to pursue an adequate and symmetrical course in Nature Science."

In other words, he pulled out the object glass from "the college and high school" end that seemed to be "poorly fitted," and substituted another in the form of a series of chapters on technical science, diluted and labeled, botany, zoology, chemistry, and mineralogy.

I am not asserting that this is not a helpful book. It is. It has many excellencies, but it is wrong end to, and in this misfortune it is not alone.

But recently a few educators have pulled the telescope sharply around. Probably the most marked and efficient movement has been made by Professor Bailey. Here is his acute vice

versa:

"Nature study is a revolt from the teaching of mere science in the elementary grades.

Nature study is not science. It is not fact. It is spirit. It is concerned with the child's outlook on the world. On the main thesis, that Nature-study teaching is one thing and that science teaching for science's sake is another, I have no hesitation."

Strange that it took so long to realize this fact in nature-study work, and to get the thing vice versa. For, after all, it is merely applying to

this branch of education the fundamental principles of general pedagogy. What is claimed for nature study is no exception from what is claimed for other studies. Professor Preston W. Search, in "An Ideal School," puts the same thing in this way:

"There may be virtue of a kind in the class room where the teacher carefully plans all the steps of procedure, and insists on the performance of work according to her ideals; but, in educative worth, it cannot compare with that where the pupil feels the glow which comes from personal discovery and accomplishment. It is a little thing to be an imitator; a great thing to be a creator. The father who insists on his son holding the board while he drives the nail may drive the nail well, but he who holds the board while the son drives the nail does better. The nail may not be so well driven, but he educates his son. Even so in the schoolroom the child must be permitted to do his own work. Dead time must give place to active endeavor. The child must be a discoverer, an originator, a creator. He must be permitted to drive the nail.”

This is the same kind of vice versa, or trying to hoist the father over to one side of the board, and

to push the son to the other, where he may use the nail. At first thought it seems as if more can be seen by looking into the big glass, but a trial of both ends of the telescope, or better still an understanding of the optical principles involved in its construction, informs which end is the right end. Perhaps, at first thought, and not understanding the child, it may seem that the right way to teach is to begin with a teacher who can tell a great deal. But the more experience you have with the child, the more firmly will you be convinced that this first impression is not the right impression. Begin and continue with him as an original discoverer, so far as you are able, and as far as he will admit of such treatment.

It may, indeed, be quicker for the father to drive all the nails, yet the purpose in pedagogy is not to do the work, but to teach the pupil how to do it. Telling the boy how to swim, or letting him stand on the bank while you swim, will never teach him the art. Let him get into the water and splash and sink. He will gain strength and skill and pleasure every time he goes under and comes spluttering up.

Even if you have made, and enjoyed some original discovery in natural history, do not tell

the boy about it. Do a little of the vice versa. Skillfully put him in the way to repeat your observation, if possible. At the very least, let him tell you about some of his own personal observations. You hold the board. He may pound his fingers occasionally. It will toughen them. You rest on the bank while he splashes and sinks. He will soon come up for breath. Never fear for the lad. You have only to keep an eye to him and a hand outstretched, as you keep an eye at the right end of the reversed telescope, and a hand on the focusing adjustment.