19
The Opening of Another Term
Passing over vacation, for the two reasons that it is impossible to keep track of each individual member of the silent throng, and that all vacations are spent in much the same manner as the vacations of children who are not deaf and dumb, we come again to the beginning of another term of school.
There had been some improvements made about the buildings and grounds during the students’ absence. The long rows of red desks and stationary chairs in the girls’ study room had been removed, and in their place were six long tables, with chairs ranged around them. Racks for newspapers had also been placed along one side of each of the study rooms, and upon these were to be filed various weekly newspapers sent to the institution from different parts of the state. One of the girls’ large dormitories had been divided by partitions into small apartments. Some of these apartments would accommodate two persons; others three persons.
From among the girls, a number of the more experienced were chosen to take charge of the small girls who needed to be helped in order to learn to dress neatly, keep clean, and mend and arrange their wardrobes. These older girls, with the small girls placed under their care, were to occupy the new apartments. Similar arrangements had been made for the small boys. Other little changes and improvements had been made, both indoors and out.
The school term was begun under very propitious circumstances. Though many faces that had grown familiar were missed from the silent throng that gathered to resume work, many new faces were seen, some with dreary, apathetic looks that suggested the lack of mental stimulus. On other faces the gleams of intelligence were already visible. In general, there was a marked contrast between those who had been under instruction for some time and those who were but just entering upon their tasks. The former showed signs of refinement, intelligence, and sprightliness of demeanor not, as a rule, seen in the latter.
When the classes were constructed, Carrie found herself in grade number four, with Mr. Vance—the deaf-mute teacher whose skill in imitative pantomime has been already mentioned—as teacher. This arrangement was thoroughly satisfactory to her, for Mr. Vance, in addition to being a first-class teacher, was a man of very pleasant temperament and was much liked by the pupils.
The studies for this grade were scarcely more than a continuation of the studies of the previous term; but there had been one new book added to the list—a reader containing many pleasing and instructive stories. These stories were made very entertaining by Mr. Vance’s charming method of making them plain to the minds of his pupils. This he did by acting them out in pantomime, almost as if the scenes they portrayed were actually transpiring at the time. It would no doubt have amused visitors to see him, at times, apparently in deep conversation with some invisible person, or deftly performing household duties with invisible articles.
The lessons explained in the entertaining manner above narrated, were studied by the pupils and then written from memory on the large slates ranged around the wall. The mistakes made in writing them were then noted down in a book kept for the purpose.
This term it was decreed by the superintendent that the advanced classes, one after another, should write short, original compositions, and on certain evenings fixed upon for the purpose, recite them in the presence of the whole school.
Mr. Vance’s class was included in this requirement. One day, just before the closing of school for the day, instead of giving a lesson for the evening, Mr. Vance directed his class to employ the evening study hour in writing compositions. The following morning there appeared upon his desk for inspection and correction a large pile of original productions. These showed various degrees of proficiency in the art of expressing thought in the English language. After they had been read, and the mistakes corrected, they were returned to the writers along with sheets of paper on which to copy them. The pupils were then required to study these compositions at odd moments and prepare to recite them.
There were some who considered the task of writing compositions decidedly irksome, but they enjoyed reciting in public. Carrie was not one of this class. She took real pleasure in writing compositions, but shrank from the task of reciting. Her naturally shy disposition rendered her liable to become confused, and she looked forward with dread to the time when she would have to stand up in public and deliver her theme.
A few weeks after the beginning of the term, a gentleman was appointed to teach articulation to such of the pupils who had not altogether lost the power of speech. After tests had been made to ascertain who among the pupils might obtain benefit from instruction in vocal language, several classes were organized. Each class was to receive, each day, an hour’s instruction in “lip reading” and other forms of speech. The gentleman entered upon his work with commendable energy; but after a while he apparently began to consider the difficulties in his way too great to be overcome. After some but partially successful efforts to teach “lip reading,” or the art of understanding what is said by watching the motion of the lips, he, in the cases of most of those under his instruction, gave up the attempt and confined himself chiefly to hearing and correcting lessons in reading.
Carrie Raymond, who was one of his pupils, was a reasonably correct reader. She had a habit, however, of reading on and on, passing over the periods without stopping to take breath, until her voice became but the faint echo of a sound. To remedy that habit the teacher would sometimes place his hand over the book when a period was reached. At other times Carrie would string the words together in such a manner that they became but a jumble of sounds. Modulation of the voice proved very difficult for these silent ones. So after a while the teacher seemingly grew discouraged. Sometimes he would give Carrie or someone else a lesson to read and then lay his head down upon his desk while the reader proceeded until the end of the lesson was reached. The teacher’s head would still remain pillowed upon his desk until his pupils almost fancied him asleep. After a while he would straighten up and resume his duties, but in a rather weary, dispirited manner.
Once, he asked before raising his head from his desk, “Do you see any gray hairs on my head?” Carrie looked sharply among the raven locks, discovered a few silver hairs, and answered accordingly. After these sleepy, and consequently profitless, exercises, Carrie was glad to get back to Mr. Vance’s schoolroom and enter into more active duties. Like many another deaf persons, though still in the possession of the power of speech, she had become so accustomed to the use of the silent language of signs that it seemed more natural to her than speech.
Doubtless one of the principal reasons of the failure of all attempts to teach deaf persons to use vocal language fluently arises from the fact that the attempt is not made until they have become accustomed to silent modes of expression. A deaf child in possession of good vocal powers needs, from the very beginning of its education, to have these powers well trained in order to make speech the most natural mode of expression. It has been proved that if this is neglected for any great length of time, and the silent language (which, of course, every deaf person should learn) alone taught, the pupil will be likely to ever afterward choose silent modes of expression.
A hearing and speaking teacher who is engaged in teaching the deaf and dumb, writing in regard to the use of vocal language by deaf persons, says, “It is not natural for persons who are deaf to communicate with those whom they meet, by sounds which they themselves cannot hear; and when this is attempted, the sounds uttered are often so unlike those of ordinary speech as to be difficult to be understood, and disagreeable, and even painful, to the listener.”
It is a very common error for deaf-mutes to pronounce words much as they see them spelled, and without the proper accent; when people fail to comprehend their meaning, as is frequently the case, a word or a sentence has to be repeated several times, and, perhaps, then it is not understood. But give an intelligent deaf-mute a pencil and a piece of paper, and he will readily make himself understood.