oning with society, and he uses society as a background
against which he may play the hero. Thus be bleeds Jack's nose for no
reason in the world other than that he thus asserts himself. If he
plays horses with the boy next door he insists upon being the driver.

It is at this period that he should be free from authority. If
authority in the shape of father or teacher or policeman steps in to
suppress his self-assertion the boy becomes an enemy of all authority
and very often anti-social. The "rebel" in the Socialist camp is a
good specimen of the man whose self-assertive period was injured by
authority, and I suspect that the truculent drunk is letting off the
steam that he should have let off at the age of eight.

The third stage in the evolution of a child is the adolescent stage.
For the first time the boy becomes a unit in society. Hitherto he has
played for his own hand; his games have been games in which personal
prowess was the desired aim. Now he feels that he is one of a team.
Even before puberty the team-forming impulse is seen; Putter, for
instance, in _The Boy and his Gang_, gives ten to sixteen as the gang
age.

These divisions are purely arbitrary, and children differ much in
evolution. The teacher, however, should have a general knowledge of
these three phases. I have often seen a school prescribe cricket or
hockey for boys who are still in the self-assertive stage. The result
was that, having no team impulse, each boy had no further interest in
the game when the umpire shouted: "Out!"

I used to umpire for boys and girls of eight to eleven, and it was a
tiresome business. Quite often when a boy had been bowled with the
first ball, he would throw down the bat in disgust and refuse to give
the other side an innings. There was nothing wrong with the children;
what was wrong was that a team phase game was being forced on a
self-assertive phase group.

* * * * *

Duncan and two other dominies were in to-night and we got on to golf
yarns. I remarked that there were very few good ones, and they all
trotted out their favourites. I liked Duncan's best.

An oldish man was ploughing his way to the tenth hole at St. Andrews,
and, when he ultimately holed out in nineteen, he turned to his caddie.

"Caddie," he cried in disgust, "this is the worst game I ever played."

The caddie stared at him open-mouthed.

"So ye _have_ played afore, have ye?" he gasped in amazement