From the expan

creatures, and in the movements depending on form. sion and contraction of protozoa up to the flying of birds, and the walking, running, or dancing of men, this is so common that we rarely think of it, except when some deformity, some lack of completeness in the form, breaks the rhythm and makes irregular movements instead.

Turning to the arts and productions of men: the cradle, the swing, the rocker, the bicycle, the sewing machine-everything, indeed, that has treadles; the steam engine, the printing press, the saw, the loom, even the rubbing of clothes on the washboard, have rhythmic movement and sound, and bear testimony to its necessity and naturalness, both in force and form. The form of our music and musical instruments, the sound and measure rhythms, and, still further, the contrast and comparison of ideas and the recurrent alternation of certain ideas in our poetry and literature, make us wonder whether the intellect, too, is not built upon a law of rhythm. And it would puzzle us to say exactly how much of this is natural and how much artificial; how much of it is because we like and choose it, and how much because it fits our natural ways of acting and physical make-up; how much because the balance of applied force and material acted upon can come out in no other way. Two interesting questions which were suggested as a basis for today's discussion are these: "Is there a necessary 'must, have to' element in both work and play, and also a spontaneous cr may, want to' element?" "Should the 'may, want to' element predominate in the first years of childhood ?"

Surely, the principle or law of rhythm in both form and force, if we took no other, proves that there is a "must, have to" or necessary element in both work and play, even if but the physical one. Any arm or leg movement, or even finger or tongue movement, must depend for its swiftness and strength partly upon the length and proportion of parts in the body, governing movement, as with a pendulum, and also upon the force and good condition of the vital organs, e. g., the regularity of movement of the heart and lungs, and must be subject with them to the alternation of activity, without which no movement can continue. Again, the rhythm or regular alternation of breaking-down and building-up processes in the body, while variable, does result from the fact that activity of any kind maintained for a certain time requires a certain amount of rest and sleep; that a certain quantity of waste of tissue and nerve material necessitates a certain amount of nutrition for its repair, even tho we are not yet sure of the exact measure of either.

The same story is told in another way when we consider education; for the one difficulty to which we are always trying to find the clue is the need of harmony between spontaneity and control, between personal rights and wishes and the good of the greatest number; or, in other words, the individual and the social whole. We have to find out how to balance taking in and giving out, doing what you choose or what you

do because of the pressure of others; in physiology and psychology we see it as the balance that is struck between heredity and environment, between what you as a human being possess, irrespective of your surroundings, and what you get from them-what you absorb and are nourished upon, whether physical or psychical. Each child possesses from species, from race, from sex, from ancestral inheritance, such and so much endowment of body and limbs, sight and hearing, and other senses; such and so much activity and quickness or delicacy of brain, limited and influenced in such and such directions, by certain other phases of natural endowment or lack of it, and in such other ways and degrees by the food, experiences, general stimuli, and nutrition from environment, whether good or bad. The complex result is apparent in all his work and play.

All this rhythm or balance of forces is to a great extent natural and inevitable; but the most important balance is that between work and play. Just here our power of selection for the children affects the matter. I will try to make the distinction between work and play, that is, true work and play, for we have grown to have a false ideal of work as mere drudgery. I believe that play begins with activity for the sake of pure joy in it, as a kitten plays, or a little child moves its limbs and shouts for the mere joy in moving and shouting. Gradually some purpose, and the use of intelligence to guide it, creep in, but always joy in the activity remains the most prominent element; the child continues it for the sake of that. In other words, play is its own end. The ideal of work seems to me just the opposite of this; it is the realization of a purpose, an end outside of the activity; it may be, and often is, accompanied by joy in the activity, even among adults. Such work, we say, is congenial. I believe children's work ought always to be accompanied by this joy in the activity; as in the case of a tiny child, who, beginning parquetry pasting for the first time, said to me: "Oh, don't you wish Ralph was here to have this lovely fun?" But the purpose is the end, not the activity. This is true work. It not only gives room for creativeness, but stimulates it, for if the accomplishment of a purpose is joined with joy. in the activity, it is not burdensome; we put our whole selves into it, and try every means to do it better and better. This is what Ruskin meant when he said that no good work was ever done unless the person would choose to do it, even apart from the living he earned by it. The earning is a consideration, but holds the second place. This is what I think Dr. Dewey means by saying that true interest lies in self-realization thru the accomplishment of a purpose, and the end being bound up with selfrealization, any amount of effort, struggle, or difficulty will be acceptable for its achievement. This is what Froebel means when he speaks of disciplining the hands and fingers by means of an activity wherein are blended body and soul, feeling and thought; where there is purpose, but

Here, I

also emotion-joy in activity. Now, I admit that it is often difficult to distinguish this sort of work from play, especially such play as shows some purpose, with the activity as an end, too. But work and play differ, as we see when we remember for how short a time a child can hold to a definite purpose in work, and for how long a time he can play. think, we have the true clue to the rhythm of educational work and play -the alternation of activity with a purpose, and activity for the pure delight in it. The basis for its alternation is very simple. It is the length of time a child can healthily and happily hold to and carry out a purpose; of course, this varies with his age, his growth in intelligence and concentration, and his range of power and choice among possible ends and activities. With the infant it is perhaps the alternation of a minute of effort with hours of unconscious joyous movement, tho I have known of a child of two and a half years working for half an hour in the attempt to tie up a pinafore into a parcel with a piece of paper and a string. I believe the change in rhythm is simply the shortening of the periods of impulsive activity and lengthening the periods of purposive effort.

Some students of children and their ways protest against any work at all in childhood, and I am sure their notion proceeds from the false ideal of work as mere drudgery of which I have spoken; for how could anyone urge that a child should make no effort and have no purpose in his efforts of which he was conscious? It is true that such a view has been attributed to the kindergartner by Mr. Fitch in his lectures on teaching. But this is quite opposed to Froebel's urgency that we should never tell a child the whole of the answer to a question, as it will be of more value to him to find out one-fourth of it by his own effort than to know the whole from someone else. It has been foolishly claimed for the kindergarten occupations that they produced the virtues of patience, perseverance, industry, etc. The truth is merely that they furnish an opportunity for the practice of these, which is very valuable if rightly used. Any handwork would do this, but all handwork is not so well planned to provide for progressive effort, new occasions opening out of old ones, with results in pleasure as well. We cannot claim a real educational value for anything which does not train in intelligent and persistent effort, and which, if continued day by day, may not be applied to greater and greater things. That children can understand the value of this was shown by a group whom I heard say to their teacher, who expressed a doubt of her power to draw a picture they wanted: "But if you try very hard and think very well, you surely can, Miss H-." She had been in the habit of saying these words to them, and they made the new application.

The practical consequences for all kindergartners of understanding the value of rhythm in activity should be simply the providing things to

be done, so short and simple, and each new step so founded on previous ones, that the period of effort is but a few minutes at a time, followed by an equal or longer time of pure play with the material—for instance, with the plaything made during the minutes of effort.

We might call co-operation another necessary elements in both work and play. This co-operation must be frequent, and, to be helpful, must be what we may call rhythmic or alternative, both sharing in fair proportion. The impression and expression processes, too, in education must be rhythmic to some extent, or proportioned in their alternation. How much more practical is the alternative recitation than that where the class only talks or the teacher alone lectures! The kindergarten morning talk is perhaps the best example of co-operation of this kind.

Now, in all this we must recognize the real need of a certain amount of suggestion and direction from ourselves to the children, partly as a counter-force to harmful influences from other environments; but we must keep in view the danger of overdoing this. In other words, we must preserve rhythm and balance. Every time we bring the social pressure to bear we act as the mouthpiece of accumulated social knowledge and wisdom, so far as we possess it; and it is right we should. But in so doing we are using the "must, have to" element, no matter how much we think we are working on the lines of natural environment. Our tendency to repeat and to require repetition of the child is strong. We stereotype ideas, and then the child's effort is no longer in the direction of expressing natural feeling, but of exactness, and stereotyped activity is the mere degradation of work. Just here comes in, I think, the need for recognizing the "may, want to" element. This in every child should be present in some measure in whatever he does, either in work or play. The love of experiment, resistance to the pressure of material and circumstances, the inward stimulus, the eagerness of curiosity unsatisfied, the sense of power over our own bodies or over material which makes us greedy for more exercise of it, may be seen in quite little children. The love of completing things which makes us struggle to carry out an idea and to finish what we begin, even against weariness or hunger; the sympathy or pleasure in sharing what others are doing--all these are, I think, the "may, want to" elements of the rhythmic movement. If, however, you notice their psychic character, you will find that, while not so apparently fundamental or primal, these "may, want to" elements are what have made for progress in the whole life of humanity; and if we lose sight of progress, what becomes of education? In biologic development has not spontaneous variation been one of the great means of progress? Shall we not allow the necessity of a parallel element in education, whether in work or play?

If we believe in co-operation as an underlying need of all work, we shall not need to emphasize it each minute. The teacher does not find it

necessary to recite alternate phrases of the multiplication table with the child, nor to read the alternate words of his reading lesson. If rhythm

is truly an underlying law in all things, we are not the only persons to whom it can ever be apparent, nor need we feel, as some kindergartners seem to, that every moment must be spent in carrying out rhythmic exercises which the children would not discover for themselves if we did not teach them. I want to plead for a sane, reasonable attitude toward the practical use of rhythms, as well as other new ideas.

I spent a morning recently in a kindergarten where one hour was occupied in rhythms of some kind, first in movements made to music and then in work jingles. Nearly all the movements were too complex to have been developed by the children, and most of them were stepdances requiring small and complex detail, and with changes requiring keen observation and perception. During the hour not one was suggested or originated by the children. Our modern tendency to take up a new idea with such enthusiasm as to forget for the time that any others exist was well satirized in a recent article in Lippincott's Magazine, called "The American Fondness for New Movements." I think our young kindergartners need more to be told "how not to do it" than urged to take up new ways of doing anything; and I urge, therefore, that we spend more time in studying what already exists of rhythm in work and play than in devising new forms of it.

RHYTHM IN THE KINDERGARTEN

ETHEL ROE LINDGREN, DIRECTOR IN CHICAGO KINDERGARTEN INSTITUTE, CHICAGO, ILL.

May I ask you to bear with me if I speak to you primarily as a musician rather than as a kindergartner—that is, as one who, after a varied musical experience of twenty-five years, has come to share the viewpoint and become heartily committed to the principles of the new education?

I am in sympathy with an eminent music educator (not music teacher) who recently said to a class of teachers: "I am not interested in musicI may say not nearly as much so as I was many years ago; but I am interested in education, and in music as one means of education." Such a frank statement reminds us that there are an old and a new attitude toward the entire subject of music, toward its place, its meaning, and its power in life.

How often we hear, after a possibly sincere attempt to interpret a musical masterpiece, such remarks: "Oh, how can you remember all that without your notes!" How little we hear about music, and how much