Children's Rights: A Book of Nursery Logic — A Closer Reading

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Wiggin, Kate Douglas Smith, 1856-1923, Smith, Nora Archibald, 1859-1934 [Contributor] Project Gutenberg 2003 Not confirmed
Child rearing; Children; Children's rights Readers of public-domain and historical texts
Project Gutenberg digital edition en

Edition facts

Words 44,690
Reading time 195 min
Text sections 4

Before opening Children's Rights: A Book of Nursery Logic — A Closer Reading, the edition data offers a quick orientation: 44,690 words, 3 hr 15 min estimated reading time, and 4 detected text sections.

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Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Child rearing,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

An 1892 collection of essays by Kate Douglas Wiggin and Nora Smith arguing for children's rights through nursery logic, using domestic dialogues and Froebelian principles to critique child-rearing and education.
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Editorial Edition Score 4.6/5

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Neither was the morality or sensitiveness of the young women of that day in any respect inferior to what it is at present.

"Now that our country towns are become mere outlying suburbs of cities, these remarks may be read with a smile at the rude simplicity of old-fashioned American life. But the laugh should be directed, not at our own country, but at the bygone age. It must be remembered that in mediaeval Europe, and in England till the end of the seventeenth century, a kiss was the usual salutation of a lady to a gentleman whom she wished to honor.... The Portuguese ladies who came to England with the Infanta in 1662 were not used to the custom; but, as Pepys says, in ten days they had 'learnt to kiss and look freely up and down.' Kissing in games was, therefore, a matter of course, in all ranks....

"In respectable and cultivated French society, at the time of which we speak, the amusements, not merely of young people but of their elders as well, were every whit as crude.

"Madame Celnart, a recognized authority on etiquette, compiled in 1830 a very curious complete manual of society games recommending them as recreation for _business men_.... 'Their varying movement,' she says, 'their diversity, the gracious and gay ideas which these games inspire, the decorous caresses which they permit, all this combines to give real amusement. These caresses can alarm neither modesty nor prudence, since a kiss in honor given and taken before numerous witnesses is often an act of propriety.'"

The old ballads and nursery rhymes doubtless had much of innocence and freshness in them, but they only come to us nowadays tainted by the odors of city streets. The pleasure and poetry of the original essence are gone, and vulgarity reigns triumphant. If you listen to the words of the games which children play in school yards, on sidewalks, and in the streets on pleasant evenings, you will find that most of them, to say the least, border closely on vulgarity; that they are utterly unsuitable to childhood, notwithstanding that they are played with great glee; that they are, in fine, common, rude, silly, and boorish. One can never watch a circle of children going through the vulgar inanities of "Jenny O'Jones," "Say, daughter, will you get up?" "Green Gravel," or "Here come two ducks a-roving," without unspeakable shrinking and moral disgust. These plays are dying out; let them die, for there is a hint of happier things abroad in the air.

The wisest mind of wise antiquity told the riddle of the Sphinx, if having ears to hear we would hear. "Our youth should be educated in a stricter rule from the first, for if education becomes lawless and the youths themselves become lawless, they can never grow up into well-conducted or meritorious citizens; and _the education must begin with their plays_."

We talk a great deal about the strength of early impressions. I wonder if we mean all we say; we do not live up to it, at all events. "In childish play deep meaning lies." "The hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world." "Give me the first six years of a child's life, and I care not who has the rest." "The child of six years has learned already far more than a student learns in his entire university course." "The first six years are as full of advancement as the six days of creation," and so on. If we did believe these things fully, we should begin education with conscious intelligence at the cradle, if not earlier. The great German dramatic critic, Schlegel, once sneered at the brothers Jacob and William Grimm, for what he styled their "meditation on the insignificant." These two brothers, says a wiser student, an historian of German literature, were animated by a "pathetic optimism, and possessed that sober imagination which delights in small things and narrow interests, lingering over them with strong affection." They explored villages and hamlets for obscure legends and folk tales, for nursery songs, even; and bringing to bear on such things at once a human affection and a wise scholarship, their meditation on the insignificant became the basis of their scientific greatness and the source of their popularity. Every child has read some of Grimm's household tales, "The Frog Prince," "Hans in Luck," or the "Two Brothers;" but comparatively few people realize, perhaps, that this collection of stories is the foundation of the modern science of folk-lore, and a by-play in researches of philology and history which place the name of Grimm among the benefactors of our race. I refer to these brothers because they expressed one of the leading theories of the new education.

The opening essay of Children's Rights immediately establishes its method through a pair of reported conversations. Wiggin first asks her window washer Dennis what he thinks of children's rights; he replies that if adults don't give them, children take them anyway. Then a French dressmaker, fitting a collar, responds to the same question with “Mon Dieu! he has them!” These two voices—one pragmatic, one dismissive—set up the book's central rhetorical strategy: using everyday speech to expose the gap between children's privileges and their actual rights. The essays that follow, several originally delivered as talks to child-study societies, apply this same blend of anecdote and argument to topics from playthings to kindergarten reform.

Dennis and the Dressmaker: Voices from the Nursery

Wiggin repeatedly stages conversations with servants, tradespeople, and children themselves to ground her arguments in lived experience. The window washer Dennis appears twice: first to shrug off the whole question of rights, later to observe that children “take” what they want regardless. The French dressmaker, scissors poised, dismisses the American child as already possessing all rights. These vignettes are not decorative; they serve as a kind of field research, testing abstract principles against the blunt opinions of people who work with children daily. The book's title promises “nursery logic,” and Wiggin delivers it by treating the nursery as a site of genuine intellectual inquiry, where a child's refusal to eat or a parent's exasperated command carries as much weight as a pedagogical treatise.

Froebel's Staff and the Creative Instinct

The kindergarten essays, contributed by Nora Smith, focus on the practical application of Friedrich Froebel's ideas. Smith describes the teacher's initial directions as “a sort of staff, by which the child can steady himself until he can walk alone.” The goal is always to reach and vivify the creative instinct; finished work is only a symbol of something more valuable acquired in the process. Smith contrasts this with “so-called 'busy work'” where pupils stick pegs in holes while another class recites arithmetic. The Froebelian method, she argues, invests labor with dignity by bringing all higher faculties into action. Her prose is precise and critical, warning that manual training can become as mechanical as the mind training it aims to replace.

A Room with a Canary: The Kindergarten as Domestic Interior

One of the most vivid passages in the collection describes an ideal kindergarten room: “quantities of pictures and objects of interest, growing plants and vines, vases of flowers, and plenty of light, air, and sunshine.” A canary chirps in one corner; a cat or dog may be curled up. The kindergartner looks glad to be there; the children are smiling. Work lies “cosily about,” neat and artistic. The children move to music, playing games that replace the “mawkish sentimentality of 'Sally Walker'” with “healthful, poetic, childlike fancies.” This is not mere scene-setting: it is a deliberate argument that environment shapes behavior. The room itself becomes a pedagogical tool, and the description serves as a rebuke to dreary schoolrooms where children's senses are starved.

The Rights of the Child as a Problem of Language

Throughout the book, Wiggin and Smith attend to the words adults use with and about children. The preface notes that the essays were originally talks, and the informal, conversational tone persists in print. Wiggin reports that she “interviewed” Dennis and the dressmaker, treating them as informants. She quotes a child who might say, “I will forego all my privileges, if you will only give me my rights.” The book's title itself is a kind of linguistic intervention: “nursery logic” implies that the nursery has its own coherent system of reasoning, one that adults ignore at their peril. By foregrounding dialogue—the window washer's “Lor', mum,” the dressmaker's “Mon Dieu!”—the authors insist that children's rights are not an abstraction but a matter of daily, spoken negotiation.

Readers coming to Children's Rights from a modern perspective will find its arguments both dated and startlingly fresh. The book does not pretend to offer a complete system; it is a collection of occasional pieces, each rooted in a specific audience and occasion. The best approach is to read slowly, attending to the voices Wiggin and Smith have preserved: the window washer, the dressmaker, the child who wants rights instead of privileges. These voices, more than any theory, carry the book's enduring claim that how we speak to children reveals what we truly think they deserve.

The rain kept time against the window while Wiggin and Smith’s nursery logic softened my own sharp edges. Their gentle insistence on honoring a child’s inner life lingered, and I set the book down, reaching absently for another volume from the shelf. That is when I found Sketches and Studies — Context and Discussion, its quiet essays carrying the same unhurried breath of thought, as if the room itself had exhaled.

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