Head Quarters Gazette, 1912 May (article)

What Thompson Seton Told Us.

How London Scoutmasters met America's Chief Scout.

By Marcus Woodward,

Outside the Memorial Hall, in Farringdon Street, in London, there collected at 7.30 p.m., on March 27th, two knots of people, one comprising London Scoutmasters in uniform, gathered to hear an address on American Scouting principles and practices by America's Chief Scout, Mr. Ernest Thompson Seton, the other made up of the most impudent young heathens in the world – London's street gamins. They were in mischief, as always. Mid-street there stood some kind of municipal shed or shelter, with a sloping roof, and down this the little hooligans were tobogganing, one after the other, as if it were the Cresta run, dropping fearlessly over the precipöce's edge on to a heap of municipal gravel below. They kept one eye open for the coming of their enemy, the policeman, and with their other eye they looked in derisive scorn to where the group of Scoutmasters, in their full panoply, white and red ribbons fluttering, were chatting and laughing, and one of the imps of darkness called mookingly, at intervals, “Yah, bo! Yah, bo!”

Then came a tramp of feet; a line of white staves formed a barrier across the street, and with a modest swing and swagger, that crack City of London Troop, the Lord Mayor's own, brashed past these unclaimed gamins and eatered the hall.

We followed, leaving the gamins to their games, and soon there came on the platform a lithe, slender figure, suggesting rather, with the mass of long, black hair, carelessly flowing, some painter of pictures. A painter he was, and more than that, a story-teller, and more then that, he was the man who knows the animals and birds, and can talk their language, and make them understand — like St. Francis of Assisi – one who can whistle with the nightingale, or sing yor(?) the moon-aceg(?) of the wolf until your blood rans cold. Far more than all be was, to borrow the phrase of the chairman of his meeting, the man who understands boys’ nature perhaps better than anyone else in the world. And I thought of the gamins outside, tobogganing down the municipal erection, and wondered if even be, Thompson Seton, Chief Scout of America, could show London Scoutmasters a way to charm those little savages.

On the platforms was a brave company. Sir George Wyatt Truscott, Bart., President of the City of London Association, was in the chair, supported by “Headquarters,” in strong force; and ranged before them, momentarily eclipsing all, stood the Scouts of the City of London Troop, waiting for the sign to begin singing, “The Road to Maresfield.” Sweet and true rang out the boys' trebles. And then the chairman:

“I am empowered by the Lord Mayor of Londen to voice a welcome to Mr. Thompson Seton from the City of London.”

Scoutmasters and Scouts of London made were there was no doubt about the heartiness of the welcome.

“Though from America, he is a fellow-countryman.” This brought another cheer; America’s Chief Scout, after all, hails from South Shields — a strange place to rear an artist-naturalist; “Naturalist to the Govermment of Manitoba, Associate Member of the Royal Canadian Academy of Art,” but we remember that he went to Canada at the age of five “We are exchanging Chief Scouts just now.” A cheer for our Chief. And Thompson Seton was on his feet.

The Address.

He would begin, be said, by telling us some things which we all knew perfectly well — the underlying principles of Scouting.

Why should we take up Scouting! He would give us one concrete reason — out of every 1,000 boys born — in America, and, no doubt, in this country — 500 were going to wreck their lives. Yet not more than I in 2,000 was born bad. There was an awful mill grinding out criminals. What were we going to do to stop it! He would give us the Scouting answer to the question, and he would give it in the_nature of a parable.

Suppose you were to see a boy tying a tin to a dog's tail. Would you think the boy deliberately intended to torture the dog! Not a bit – he merely wanted to have some fun. Suppose you were to say to the boy: “Oh, you bad, wicked boy — come here, and I will read you a lovely story about a nice kind boy, who died and went to Heaven.” What then would that boy care for you, or story, or your Heaven! He would be quite resolved to leave all three alone.

Bat suppose you were to say to him: “See here, my boy, that is not the way to tie a string on to a dog’s tail. Why, that knot you have tied won't stay on for three streets. I'll show you how to tie a knot that will stick. Never mind the dog now — we'll come back to him when we are ready.”

At first the boy would distrust you. But (unlike the dog) he would not go away. You would have caught his attention. Right there you would tie two knots – one on the string, the other on the boy. And neither of these knots would slip if you were a Scoutmaster who knew your business, and you might lead the boy wheresoever you pleased.

In that illustration lay the whole Scouting proposition. The Scouting idea was to go into the boy's world, to accept his point of view, and to make use of the activities which really interested him, but selecting and guiding.

Taking Advantage of Impulse.

He would pass on now to some ideas not so commonplace, to come of activities they made use of with success in America, not familiar here.

There were the things which appealed to the imagination. He thought we did not deal enough in the pisturesque – in song, poetry, dance, and drama. We should endeavour always to keep the beautiful in sight. This was the first cardinal principle, and the second was, to make full use of the impulses already in being.

Thus, by way of illustration, he would take that common impulse among any boys banded together which drove them, when a newcomer came among them, to “initiate” him. The animals had this impulse for initiation — a new hound is a pack, put a strange chicken in a fowl-yard, there would be initiation ceremonies. Boys want to know which boys a newcomer can lick – by which he will be licked. This was a deep, strong impulse in boys' nature – to initiate. At first he had tried to restrain it, because of the mischief done by the American boys; but then he remembered how we had come by our Easter ceremonies, and our Christmas ceremonies, how these had been pagan festivatls of which the church had taken charge, and he had applied that principle. “Very well,” he had said, “I allow initiation – but I take charge.” And now they got plenty of fun out of their initiation ceremonies, and good results as well.

Suppose that a new boy were about to join a Troop of Scouts in America, and nobody knew anything about him. A camp fire ring would be formed – a ring forty feet in diameter – and in the centre of this there would be a barrel, and on the barrel the newcomer would be stood, and them any test would be applied which mmight be suggested by the genius of the examining board. Perhaps it would be: “You don't come down till you have made every fellow here laugh. Get busy!” Then all those around the ring would try to keep very solemn, while the newcomer would try to make all laugh. One new chum had come through this test with flying colours by singing, “Mary had a Little Lamb” in five different keys. Sometimes a boy would be nervous, would stammer and turn white, and them he would be told: “You are too young to join us. Come back when you are older – come back to-morrow,” and perhaps on the morrow, after somebody had coached him, he would do very well.

And then there was the impulse of the nickname. As long as energy existed, we should work with that energy. We should never crush human energy. If going the wrong way, we should divert it into the right channels. How many boys go through boyhood galled by an ugly nickname! When he had found houw strong was this impulse of the nickname, he had said: “Very well – I will use it, and I will glorify it.” There were now more than two hundred recognised nicknames – titles of honour – among his Scouts. The best runner would be given the honourable nickname of “Deerfoot,” the Scout with the keenest eye would be “Hawkeye.” Some boys would not care for these things, but nearly all did care, and it would be the prayer of the life of some of them who owned ugly nicknames that the new name of honour would wipe out the old one of infamy.

The Story of the Fat Boy.

Some years ago a fourteen-year-old boy came into his camp, who, poor boy, was a monstrosity – he weighed fourteen stone. He was a burden to himself; he knew above all the meaning of the phrase, “the burden of the flesh.” He had been given a horrible nickname — not to be told on any consideration. His mother came one day and said: “I wish you could do something for my poor boy.” Mr. Seton answered: “Madam, I can do nothing for your boy until your boy does something for himself.“ But he took the boy aside, and finding he was good-natured, reasoned with him, and said: “Now, Jack, if you wish to get rid of that nickname, you must make up your your mind to it – you must say, ‘I will.’ For when a man or a boy says, ‘1 will,’ he is setting in force scene wheels for which we have no proper names, and everything he wills in time comes to pass. Good or evil, it comes, to bless or to curse.”

A month later there was to be a cross-country Scouting game; three boys were to go off in three directions, and return, as fast as they might, bringing hack a report of what they had seen by the way, and they were to be awarded points according to their speed and the accuracy and intelligence of their reports. The fat boy was one of the three, and he was the first to come back, steaming, and puffing like a grampus. The other boys, returning, told their stories, and were awarded their points, then fat boy, who had been reeting, told his story. He told how he came to a high fence, and how he was able to pass over by going up a tree on one side and down a tree on the other side; how next he came to a brook, and how there were three turtles on a log in the brook. (Here he was given 15 points for observation.) Them he told how he came into a field where there were sixteen crows. (Twenty points for taking the trouble to count the crows.) Next, how he came to a barnyard, where he saw a big dog awaiting him, so that he thought it wise to go round another way. (Twenty-five points for common-sense.) And finally he described how he reached his destination, and, to prove that he had been to the place, bought a postcard at the post-office, and persuaded the postmaster to affix the post-mark. (Here he was given 30 points for amartness.) When all the points were reckoned, it was to and that the fat boy was far ahead of the other two. He was overjoyed. “Say, Black Wolf,” he said to his chief, “ain't I won a name?” And it was agreed that he should be called Grey Wolf, and that the ceremony of naming him should take place place on Sunday night, when there would be a hundred Scouts assembled, and perhaps 500 neighbours and friends.

On the Sunday night, all the fat boy's people came into Camp, his fat father, his fat mother, and his three fat sisters, all beaming with pride — everybody was happy that night. And then came the ceremony, the rare ceremony, of name-giving. The story of Jack's exploit was told – embellisched in every possible way; it was told how he had borne an ugly nickname, and now was to have his name of honour. And then the ugly name, written on a piece of birch-bark, was put on the fire, and burnt by the flames, and utterly destroyed, never to be mentioned again, and on another piece of birch-bark was written the name of honour, “Mingan — the Grey Wolf,” which was then presented. The mother came to thank the Chief. “Madam,” he said, “I have done nothing, your boy did it all for himself.”

Patrol Calls.

It was a matter of some importance that Scouts should learn how to give their patrol-calls in a natural way.

Mr. Thompson Seton proceeded to tell several Indian camp fire yarns, in which the various calls, as used by the Indians, played a part; and the lecture-hall echoed with the call of the fox, and the answering call of the vixen, with the hooting of owls, the long-drawn wailing of the loon, and the weird moon-song of the wolf. The last story was the story of teacherous, cunning theif named Wolverize, and how one nught he lay on a hill-top, howling the wolf's moon-song, while his enemy was crwaling snakelike nearer and nearer to him, at last to spring upon him unawares and scalp him as he howled.

“That big chief,” said the Indian who did thus deed, “he talked too much.”

With these words, Mr. Thompeon Seton resumed his seat.

To this address, and to these stories, we had listened entranced. No written report could catch the charm of the Indian stories. Mr. Thompson Seton held usin a spell. None of us present that night will ever forget how we heard the moon-song of the wolf in that London hall; how vixen answered fox, loon called to loon, owl hooted to owl, and how the sweet chirruping night song of the American sparrow was answered by the whistling of the little sanderling which runs about the shore.

I wished those gamins of Farringdon Street could have heard those stories; it might have been the begining of their salvation.