Let us remember that what may
appeal to the adult as an effective motive does not always appeal to the
child as such. Economic motives are the most effective, probably, in our
own adult lives, and probably very effective with high-school pupils,
but economic motives are not always strong in young children, nor should
we wish them to be. It is not always true that the child will approach a
school task sympathetically when he knows that the task is an essential
preparation for the life that is going on about him. He may work harder
at a task in order to get ahead of his fellow-pupils than he would if
the motive were to fit him to enter a shop or a factory. Motive is
largely a matter of instinct with the child, and he may, indeed, be
perfectly satisfied with a school task just as it stands. For example,
we all know that children enjoy the right kind of drill. Repetition,
especially rhythmic repetition, is instinctive,--it satisfies an inborn
need. Where such a condition exists, it is an obvious waste of time to
search about for more indirect motives. The economical thing to do is to
turn the ready energy of the child into the channel that is already open
to it, so long as this procedure fits in with the results that we must
secure. I feel like emphasizing this fact, inasmuch as the terms
"problem interest" and "motivation" seem most commonly to be associated
in the minds of teachers with what we adults term "real" or economic
situations. To learn a lesson well may often be a sufficient
motive,--may often constitute a "real" situation to the child,--and if
it does, it will serve very effectively our purposes in this other
task,--namely, getting the pupil to see the worth of the method that we
ask him to employ.
IV
There are one or two points of a general nature in connection with the
art of study that should be emphasized. In the first place, the
upper-grade and high-school pupils are, I believe, mature enough to
appreciate in some degree what knowledge really means. One of the
fallacies of which I was possessed on completing my work in the lower
schools was the belief that there are some men who know everything. I
naturally concluded that the superintendent of schools was one of these
men; the family physician was another; the leading man in my town was a
third; and any one who ever wrote a book was put, _ex officio_ so to
speak, into this class without further inquiry. One of the most
astounding revelations of my l
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