School on Pitcairn

THE first school-teacher on Pitcairn’s Island was Alexander Smith, a hardened and illiterate sailor of H. M. S. Bounty. The terrible carnage on this island which followed the mutiny resulted in the murder of all the Tahitian native men, and of all but two of the mutineers, Alexander Smith and Edward Young. The former came to realize that the offspring of the mutineers should be taught Christianity, and to read and write. Not possessing sufficient learning, and feeling incapable of performing this task, he asked the assistance of his companion, a former midshipman who at this time was sick and on his deathbed. Thus it happened that Alexander Smith became a teacher of Pitcairn’s rapidly rising generation of twenty-three children.

This was ten years after the landing of the mutineers in 1790, and for eight years Smith taught alone and unaided his limited store of knowledge so lately acquired from his deceased companion. But at the end of these years ‘he had the satisfaction of seeing the children of such disreputable parentage growing up around him, quiet, peaceable, industrious, and happy, and with an increasing love of virtue and strict morality.’

Now I will attempt to communicate an eye picture of school life on Pitcairn Island as it is to-day. We will begin with the school house.

A few yards inland from a fringe of native trees and shrubs, which grow to the very edge of a cliff rising almost perpendicular from the rocky shore below, the schoolhouse stands, surrounded by sugar cane and pandanus trees. The playground faces the sea, and has an opening leading to the cliff’s edge, where the island flagpole is situated. There a small area of gently sloping surface covered with grasses forms an ideal gathering place for the children and teachers in the early morning hours and at recess. From this site one has a magnificent and charming view of our northern coast line, including Christian’s Rock to the west and Bounty Bay to the east. Directly below is the island’s swimming pool, called Big Pool, and a little distance farther inland is another smaller pool where the little children swim and sail their tiny boats.

In the bright sunshine of the early morning before school begins, it is invariably the custom for a group of children to congregate on the sloping grassy area and sit at the very edge of the cliff overlooking the rocks and the deep blue waters of the Pacific. It is, and always has been, a wonder and marvel to me that none of the children have ever gone over the edge and rolled to their certain death. They come running with laughter and play from the school grounds, past the flagpole, down the grassy slope, and halt so precariously near the edge of the cliff that at various times I have stood spellbound with fear that one or more would topple over. I have witnessed some actually over the edge clinging to tufts of grass or some projecting stones with not a trace of fear or danger, not realizing that if they once should start rolling they would be mangled upon the jagged rocks some eighty feet below.

I suppose that every teacher has warned, and threatened, and punished the daring ones from time immemorial, but to no avail. The youth and children are accustomed to such dangers, and have some natural instinct of sure-footedness (such as mountain goats have) that appears to warn them just how far they may go without endangering their lives.

In the summertime the first school bell rings at 6.30 A.M.; in the winter months at 7 A.M. The large community bell sends its warning peals throughout the village, giving the first call to the school children. Twenty minutes later the second warning call is rung, and now you may see a few dilatory children come running pell-mell down the winding pathway leading from the village to the schoolhouse, so as not to be late.

After the notice of the second bell has sounded there remain only ten minutes before school commences, and the punishment for tardiness without a good excuse is to ‘block in’ for twenty minutes. At seven o’clock the head teacher rings his desk bell and calls, ‘Ranks up!’ At this command the children line up for their calisthenic exercise, after which they march into the schoolhouse in single or double file.

The opening exercises comprise a hymn and prayer. The hymn is selected by one of the teachers or the older scholars. All rise and sing. The hymn over, all kneel in prayer while one of the teachers invokes God’s blessing on the school and the lesson study period. Then for half an hour the schoolmaster instructs the whole school in ethics or science (made plain), or perhaps tells an interesting story that has a moral. At the conclusion of this study period the different divisions separate for their respective studies.

There are four divisions, and a teacher for each division, two women and two men: the kindergarten with ten of the smallest children, the primary with eleven older ones, the intermediate with twelve, and the senior division with twelve more advanced scholars. Because of the disparity in ages we find it necessary to have just four divisions, for among the older scholars there are not more than three that have the identical studies, so that in one division there would be four grades. Besides, none of the school children are ever required to pass an examination. I did try the first term I taught, but the children simply looked at the report cards and then threw them aside, and I do not believe that one was carried home to parents.

As the different divisions are preparing for their respective lessons let us take cognizance of the schoolroom — a building some forty feet long by eighteen feet in width and consisting of sixteen windows, one partially builtin partition not completed, an old locker for books, three tables, three forms, four blackboards (one on an easel and three attached to the clapboard walls), a few disheveled pictures scattered here and there without order, and twenty-odd old and defaced desks.

In the summertime the windows are always open during school hours, and the pure Pacific breeze ventilates the room. In winter, if the weather is cold, the windows are closed and the children keep warm the best way they can. We have no school in excessively bad or cold weather.

The kindergarten teacher patiently and laboriously drills her division in learning the alphabet. In the next division is heard a rather subdued monotone of voices studying the multiplication tables by rote. This droning or chanting pervades the entire room, but unless the childish voices are pitched too high the older children are not annoyed or hindered in their studies, as they have become accustomed to this method of learning in their own childhood days.

The scholars of the older divisions are more quiet and study their allotted lessons as if they were the only occupants of the room. Their lessons are as follows: Old Testament Bible history, grammar, the three R’s, English history (the lesson they most enjoy), and geography. Usually once a week there is a singing class where the children are taught music and new songs. These are the complete studies of our island school.

The allotted time for recess is from twelve to fifteen minutes, but often when the play is exciting and the boys are at a critical point in a ball game (cricket) a longer recess is allowed.

Immediately after recess the kindergarten is dismissed; shortly after, the next oldest children, and then at 10.30 or 11 A.M. the older boys and girls are free and school is over for the day.

The native teachers use the common island vernacular, which is a mixture of English and the Tahitian language, but as spoken to-day is not nearly so corrupt and difficult to understand as it was two generations back. Probably this is due to the frequent intercourse and mingling with the passengers and crews of the steamers that call here. Many words of the islanders’ vocabulary, though, are words they have themselves coined, and are neither English nor Tahitian. All the efforts that teachers and missionaries have put forth to discourage our ‘slang’ have been in vain, and it still ‘sticks.’

Let me give you a few examples of our idiom: —

Two months of the year are set aside for vacation months — January and July, with possibly the last week of December. On ' ship days ’ — that is, when one of the scheduled passenger boats lies off the island in school hours — school is dismissed. It would be less difficult to control the children and keep them quiet and attentive if the schoolhouse were on fire than to do so when a passenger boat is off Bounty Bay. And why should we blame the children and restrain their excitement and pleasure when teachers and all the men and women on the island are overflowing with excitement and joyful pleasure?

‘Ship days’ are the only events that give a change to both old and young in their too monotonous existence. Imagine how excited you yourself would be when the long-drawn-out. call of ‘Sail ho!’ sounds and resounds throughout the island telling all within hearing that a steamer has been sight ed! You cannot conceive what the sound means to every inhabitant of the island. All secular work is laid aside, and even religious meetings are dismissed or postponed; so, we reason, why not the school also?