F. G. PATTON. Good morning, Miss Dove (1955). p.7-11, 13-18

At eight-twenty, Miss Dove crossed to the corner of Maple and grant, where Cedar Grove School set - redbrick, stolid with only one cedar left to soften its ugliness, for its grove had been chopped down long before in the interests of the level playgrounds.

By eighty-thirty, some two hundred and fifty children, ranging in age from six to twelve, were safely inside the school building. In various home-rooms they gauged, with the uncanny shrewdness of innocence, the various moods of various teachers. How far dared they go today?

But as the morning progressed and the class went, in turn, to spend forty-five minutes in the geography room with Miss Dove, they dropped their restless speculation.

For Miss Dove had no moods. Miss Dove was a certainty. She would be today what she had been yesterday and would be tomorrow. And so, within limits, would they. Single file they would enter her room. Each child would pause on the threshold as its mother and father had paused, more than likely, and would say- just as the policeman had said- in distinct, formal accents: “Good morning, Miss Dove.” And Miss Dove would look directly upon theirs, and reply: “Good morning, Jessamine,” or “Margaret,” or “Samuel.” (Never “Sam”, never “Peggy,” never “Jess.” She eschewed familiarity as she wished others to eschew it.) They would go to their appointed desks. Miss Dove would ascend to hers. The lesson would begin.

There was no need to waste time in preliminary admonitions. Miss Dove’s rules were as fixed as the signs of the zodiac. And they were known. Miss Dove rehearsed them at the beginning of each school year, stating them as calmly and dispassionately as if she were describing the atmospheric effects of the Gulf Stream. The penalties for infractions of the rules were also known. If a child introduced a foreign object- a pencil, let us say, or a wad of paper, or a lock of hair- into his mouth, he was required to wash out his mouth with the yellow laundry soap that lay on the drain-board of the sink in the corner by the sand table. If his posture was incorrect he had to go and sit for a while upon a stool without a back-rest. If a page in his notebook was untidy, he had to copy it over. If he emitted an uncovered cough, he was expected to rise immediately and fling open a window, no matter how cold the weather, so that a blast of fresh air could protect his fellows from the contamination of his germs. And if he felt obliged to disturb the class routine by leaving the room for a drink of water (Miss Dove loftily ignored any other necessity) he did so to an accompaniment of dead silence. Miss Dove would look at him- that was all- following his departure and greeting his return with her perfectly expressionless gaze and the whole class would sit idle and motionless, until he was back in the fold again. It was easier-even if one had eaten salt fish for breakfast- to remain and suffer.

Of course, there were flagrant offences that were dealt with in private. Sometimes profanity sullied the air of geography room. Sometimes, though rarely, open rebellion was displayed. In those instances, the delinquent was detained, minus the comfort of his comrades, in awful seclusion with Miss Dove. What happened between them was never fully known. (Did she threaten him with legal prosecution? Did she beat him with her long map-pointer?) The culprit, himself, was unlikely to be communicative on the subject or, if he were, to overdo the business with a tale that revolved to an incredible degree around his own heroism. Afterward, as was duly noted, his classroom attitude was subdued and chastened.

Miss Dove had no rule relating to prevarication. A child’s word was taken at face value. If it happened to be false- well, that was the child’s problem. A lie, unattacked and undistorted by defence, remained a lie and was apt to be recognized as such by its author.

Occasionally a group of progressive mothers would contemplate organized revolt. “She’s been teaching too long,” they would cry. “Her pedagogy hasn’t changed since we were in Cedar Grove. She rules the children through fear!” They would turn to the boldest one among themselves. “You go,” they would say. “You go talk to her!”

The bold one would go, but somehow she never did much talking. For there in the geography room, she would begin to feel - though she wore her handsomest tweeds and perhaps a gardenia for courage - that she was about ten years old and her petticoat was showing. Her throat would tickle. She would wonder desperately if she had a clean handkerchief in her bag. She would also feel thirsty. Without firing a shot in the cause of freedom she would retreat ingloriously from the field of battle.

(…) Miss Dove was concerned with facts, not with artistic impressions. She divided the second-grade into activity groups. One group cut scenic photographs from old magazines and pasted them in a scrapbook. Another modeled clay caribou for the sand table. Still another drew a coloured mural on the rear blackboard. The groups did not talk among themselves, asking questions and pooling advice. They had no need to. Miss Dove had told them what to do.

The third grade recited the states of the Union. It was Miss Dove’s experience that the eight-year-old mind learned best by rote.

SECTION V – STUDENTS

Date: 2015-12-11; view: 1821