27
Some Happenings
One day the articulation teacher, as usual, summoned some of the pupils from different classes to give them an hour’s practice in vocal language. The summons was obeyed, but instead of following them into his schoolroom, he stepped into another schoolroom for a few words with the teacher. The pupils awaited his coming for what seemed to them a long while; then they began to grow impatient at his delay and offered a resolution of adjournment. The resolution was carried, and the pupils scattered to their respective schoolrooms. Soon after the teacher returned to find his schoolroom silent and deserted. He proceeded to again summon the pupils who had so unceremoniously and unauthorizedly adjourned. When they had all returned and resumed their seats, he, with a thundercloud look upon his countenance, demanded to know the reason for their strange conduct. “You were not here, and we got tired of waiting for you and thought we might as well go back to our other work,” replied one. No further inquiries were made, but the neglected lesson was begun.
When Carrie Raymond and Gertie Hawley, who were members of this grade of the articulation class, returned the second time to Mr. Arnold’s schoolroom, that gentleman asked how it happened that they had to take two articulation lessons in a single day. They had to explain how they had deserted on the first occasion.
It was Mr. Arnold’s custom, just before the close of school each day, to have the lesson to be studied in the evening written on the large slates where all could read it and he could explain each sentence. The lesson of that day, which was taken from United States history, was duly explained by means of the sign language. Scarcely was that task completed when the teacher on duty for the day flung open the door and announced, “School is closed.” Gathering up their books, the girls filed slowly out of the room and tripped gaily down the long corridor, the boys rushing pell-mell in the opposite direction, making a tremendous uproar, of which, however, they were entirely unconscious.
A few moments later Mr. Arnold appeared at the door of the girls’ study room and asked, “Where is Carrie Raymond?”
“I do not know,” answered the girl addressed, gazing around the room in search of her.
“Where is Carrie Raymond?” she inquired, making the sign by which Carrie Raymond was designated. Some of the other girls immediately took up the sign, repeating it until Carrie, who, seeing them using her sign, inquired what was wanted. “Mr. Arnold wants you,” said one of the girls, making that gentleman’s sign. It may not be out of place to say here that every person in the institution has a sign which is used instead of his or her name in all cases of personal reference, for the reason that a sign can be more readily understood than the name if spelled out.
When, in obedience to that summons, Carrie approached Mr. Arnold, he said, “There is a box in the library hall for you.”
“You may be joking,” said Carrie, slyly, half fearing that he was.
“No, I am not,” he said. Then he asked, “Is it not the first of April?”
“No,” replied Carrie, and she hurried off to get the box. When she reached the main hall, extending between the library and the reception room, she found there a good-sized wooden box addressed to herself. Joyfully picking it up, she carried it off upstairs. As it was the dinner hour, she had to wait until after dinner before she could open it. The box was at last broken open, and she found it to contain a liberal supply of maple sugar, maple syrup, apples, material for aprons, etc. The contents of that box had to be placed under lock and key to prevent them from being taken by those with pilfering tendencies. So every day for several weeks Carrie and a few friends were to enjoy this treat sent by loved ones at home.
That evening, Carrie learned the history lesson given for the following day before the hour for retiring. Instead of sitting idly gazing around the room, she proceeded to learn a few more paragraphs, knowing that thereby she would gain higher credit-marks.
Next morning the pupils in Mr. Arnold’s class wrote the lesson from memory without any aid from the teacher and without being allowed to glance over the page of the book to refresh the memory. After the lesson had been written, the pupils changed places and corrected each other’s version of it by comparing it with that in the book.
That lesson being over, the arithmetic lesson was then taken up. The pupils were required to work out the examples themselves, after which they conveyed them to the teacher, who corrected any errors that had been made, or illustrated any rule that was not fully understood. Many deaf-mutes acquire a habit of counting on their fingers while solving examples in addition or subtraction. Teachers generally do not approve of that, as they think it hinders mental growth, but many pupils feel at a loss to know how to add or subtract numbers by unaided mental effort. The mental faculties do not seem to work smoothly without the aid of some help from outside; if forbidden to count on their fingers, the pupils, regardless of the rule, will usually continue the habit secretly. Carrie had been in the habit of counting in this way until it seemed more natural to her than any other. She also had a habit of drumming on her desk, or sometimes on the inside of it, with her fingers when counting. Others employed similar means.
To a deaf and dumb person, the fingers are very useful members indeed, serving, as they do, for so many different purposes. But they are often liable to do mischief.
On that day, Mr. Arnold gave permission to those of his pupils who wished to write letters to parents or friends. They accordingly wrote the messages they wished to send, and then placed them on the teacher’s desk for correction. While reading the messages Mr. Arnold was surprised to find some complaint about the bill of fare served out to the pupils. One boy had affirmed that there were worms in the gravy placed on the tables. Upon reading that statement, Mr. Arnold arose and expressed his disbelief of it. Thereupon several other boys undertook to corroborate the statement, saying that they themselves had seen little white worms in the gravy.
Mr. Arnold then left the room and proceeded to the kitchen to investigate the matter. Some minutes elapsed, and he returned with a solution of the mystery. The cook thickened the gravy in the usual way, by putting some flour into it; a small quantity of this flour was, during the process, rolled up into tiny masses somewhat resembling worms. The boys, not being familiar with the culinary art, were not aware of that mode of preparing gravy; hence their mistake.
Some of them, doubtless, began to see the folly and injustice of their complaints, especially when they reflected that there was plenty of good, wholesome food served out to them daily, which kept them strong and well.
“Many poor children would deem the institution fare a real luxury,” said Mr. Arnold. “Instead of complaining over little trials and hardships, you ought to be very thankful to God, who has afforded you this pleasant shelter and the opportunity to secure an education. Remember that God watches over you with all the tenderness of an indulgent father and regards both your spiritual and bodily interests.”
Those uncharitable and complaining letters were revised and abridged, and the writers copied them on sheets of letter paper and prepared them for mailing.
When school closed for the day those little missives were placed in the box intended to receive the mail to be forwarded to persons outside, there to await the coming of the mail carrier.
After supper that evening the girls gathered, as was their wont, in the large, airy, and brilliantly lighted study room, where they awaited with some impatience the distribution of the mail, wondering the while for whom the carrier had brought letters. Presently the teacher who usually conveyed the letters to the girls made his appearance. Almost instantly he was surrounded by a group of eager-looking girls, and four or five hands were simultaneously stretched out to receive the little messages which he held in his hand. After a few tantalizing refusals, he placed the letters in one of the outstretched hands, and the owner of the hand bounded away to a chair, followed by a small swarm of other girls. She mounted the chair, and the other girls crowded around her. The one having the letters proceeded to read the name on the first envelope in the pile. That letter proved to be for Gertie Hawley, and the distributor therefore made the sign by which Gertie was known. Immediately others took up the sign, repeating it eagerly, until Gertie came forward. The name on the next letter was read, and the sign of the girl for whom it was intended was made. That girl happened to be in the crowd, and when her sign was made, she stretched out her hand for the letter. Upon receiving it she danced joyfully away to a cozy nook to read it. The name inscribed on the next envelope was then read, and the letter given to the person to whom it was sent. So one letter after another was distributed, until the pile was exhausted. Many of those who stood in the crowd around the chair had to turn away with empty hands and disappointed looks. The mail carrier, that day, had brought them nothing.