Education: THE YOUNGEST GENERATION

The Youngest GenerationProfessional educators often make poor interpreters of the youngest generation; novelists often succeed where the teachers fail. A pithy example: the following story, A Special Occasion, by British Novelist Joyce Gary (who also drew the picture), in the current Harper’s Magazine.*

‘T’HE nursery door opened and Nurse’s voice said, in the — sugary tone which she used to little girl guests, “Here you are, darling, and Tommy will show you all his toys.” A little brown-haired girl in a silk party frock, sticking out all round her legs like a lampshade, came in at the door, stopped, and stared at her host. Tom, a dark little boy aged five, also in a party suit, blue linen knickers and a silk shirt, stared back at the girl. Nurse had gone into the night nursery, next door, on her private affairs.

Tom, having stared at the girl for a long time as one would study a curiosity, rare and valuable, but extremely surprising, put his feet together, made three jumps forward and said, “Hullo.”

The little girl turned her head over one shoulder and slowly revolved on one heel, as if trying to examine the back of her own frock. She then stooped suddenly, brushed the hem with her hand, and said, “Hullo.”

Tom made another jump, turned round, pointed out of the window, and said in a loud voice something like “twanky tweedle.” Both knew that neither the gesture nor the phrase was meant to convey a meaning. They simply expressed the fact that for Tom this was an important and exciting, a very special occasion.

The little girl took a step forward, caught her frock in both hands as if about to make a curtsy, rose upon her toes, and said in a prim voice, “I beg your pardon.”

They both gazed at each other for some minutes with sparkling eyes. Neither smiled, but it seemed that both were about to smile.

Tom then gave another incomprehensible shout, ran round the table, sat down on the floor and began to play with a clockwork engine on a circular track. The little girl climbed on a tricycle and pedaled round the floor. “I can ride your bike,” she said.

Tom paid no attention. He was trying how fast the engine could go without falling off the track.

The little girl took a picture book, sat down under the table with her back to Tom, and slowly, carefully, examined each page. “It’s got a crooked wheel,” Tom said, “that’s what it is.” The little girl made no answer. She was staring at the book with round eyes and a small pursed mouth—the expression of a nervous child at the zoo when the lions are just going to roar. Slowly and carefully she turned the next page. As it opened, her eyes became larger, her mouth more tightly pursed, as if she expected some creature to jump out at her.

“Tom.” Nurse, having completed her private business, came bustling in with the air of one restored to life after a dangerous illness. “Tom, you naughty boy, is this the way you entertain your guests? Poor little Jenny, all by herself under the table.” The nurse was plump and middleaged; an old-fashioned nanny.

“She’s not by herself,” Tom said.

“Oh Tom, that really is naughty of you. Where are all your nice manners? Get up, my dear, and play with her like a good boy.”

“I am playing with her,” Tom said, in a surly tone, and he gave Nurse a sidelong glance of anger.

“Now Tom, if you go on telling such stories, I shall know you are trying to be naughty. Get up now when I ask you.” She stooped, took Tom by the arm, and lifted him up. “Come now, you must be polite, after you’ve asked her yourself and pestered for her all the week.”

At this public disclosure, Tom instantly lost his temper and yelled, “I didn’t —I didn’t—I won’t—I won’t!”

“Then I’ll have to take poor little Jenny downstairs again to her mummy.”

“No—no—no.”

“Will you play with her, then?”

“No, I hate her—I never wanted her.”

At this the little girl rose and said, in precise, indignant tones, “He is naughty, isn’t he?”

Tom flew at her and seized her by the hair; the little girl at once uttered a loud scream, kicked him on the leg, and bit his arm. She was carried screaming to the door by Nurse, who, from there, issued sentence on Tom, “I’m going straight to your father, as soon as he comes in.” Then she went out, banging the door.

Tom ran at the door and kicked it, rushed at the engine, picked it up and flung it against the wall. Then he howled at the top of his voice for five minutes. He intended to howl all day. He was suffering from a large and complicated grievance.

All at once the door opened and the little girl walked in. She had an air of immense self-satisfaction, as if she had just done something very clever. She said, in a tone demanding congratulation, “I’ve come back.”

Tom gazed at her through his tears and gave a loud sob. Then he picked up the engine, sat down by the track. But the engine fell off at the first push. He gave another sob, looked at the wheels, and bent one of them straight.

The little girl lifted her party frock behind in order not to crush it, sat down under the table, and drew the book onto her knee.

Tom tried the engine at high speed. His face was still set in the form of anger and bitterness, but he forgot to sob. He exclaimed with surprise and pleased excitement. “It’s the lines too—where I trod on ’em.”

The little girl did not reply. Slowly, carefully, she opened the book in the middle and gazed at an elephant. Her eyes became immense, her lips minute. But suddenly, and, as it were, accidentally, she gave an enormous sigh of relief, of happiness.

*Copyright 1951, Harper and Brothers; reprinted by special permission.