Chapter XII: To the Teacher

I should like to repeat here the suggestions in “The Fall of the
Year” for this corresponding chapter. I will repeat only: “that
_you_ are the teacher, not the book. The book is but a
suggestion. You begin where it leaves off; you fill out where it
is lacking.” For these are not all the sounds of winter; indeed
they may not be the characteristic sounds in your neighborhood.
No matter: the lesson is not this or that sound, but that your
pupils _learn to listen_ for sounds, for the voices of the
season, whatever those voices may be in their own particular
region. The trouble is that we have ears, and literally hear
not, eyes and see not, souls and feel not. Teach your pupils to
use their eyes, ears, yes and _hearts_, and all things else will
be added unto them in the way of education.

FOR THE PUPIL

I

It is the stilling of the insects that makes for the first of
these silences; the hushing of the winds the second; the magic
touch of the cold the third.

II

The voice of the great spring storm should be added to these,
and the shriek of the wind about the house.

III

You should not only _hear_, but you should also _feel_ this
split--passing with a thrilling shock beneath your feet.

V

How many other of the _small_ voices do you know? The chirp of
the kinglets; the scratching of mice in a shock of corn; the----
but you write a story about them. So listen for yourself.

VI

Do all you can to preserve the quail. Don’t shoot.

VIII

Along toward spring you should hear him “drumming” for a mate--a
rapid motion of his wings much like the hollow sound of a
distant drum.