Keats’ Naughty Boy and a Teacher’s Influence

There was a naughty boy,
And a naughty boy was he,
He ran away to Scotland
The people for to see-
There he found
That the ground
Was as hard,
That a yard
Was as long,
That a song
Was as merry,
That a cherry
Was as red-
That lead
Was as weighty
That fourscore
Was as eighty,
That a door
Was as wooden
As in England-
So he stood in his shoes
And he wondered,
He wondered,
He stood in his shoes
And he wondered.

I just googled this poem after a fragment of it came strongly into my mind this evening.

I remember having it read to me at primary school by an elderly and very old fashioned teacher who had the reckless habit of reading to us small children whatever she felt like, whether it was AA Milne or George Orwell. She was our class teacher in Class 3 and again in Class 5.  I would say that this woman had a profound influence on the person I grew into for both good and ill.

On the positive side; Mrs B nurtured my love of books and writing; she allowed me to spend all day writing my diary or stories and poems or let me while away the entire afternoon in the book corner. This was before the coming of the National Curriculum when teachers could seemingly do more or less as they liked. She often read my work aloud to the class because it pleased and amused her. This encouraged me to entertain the idea that I could be clever or funny.

On the debit side, when I was in class 3, Mrs B would scream at me terrifyingly and almost daily, in despair at my huge, painfully scrawled, often reversed handwriting. Were they taught in 1950s teacher training colleges that ‘screaming at children will make them write better’? I also often heard her being cruelly and destructively critical of other children, reducing one boy to tears when he asked what a word meant that she had written on the board with the dismissive comment that he was ‘too stupid’ to attempt to use words from the hard list in his writing and should stick to the easier choices.

Mrs B definitely had favourites and those held in blatant and arbitrary disfavour, and by Class 5, I was established among the former. This had the downside that as she was happy to let me spend the day as I pleased, I passed the entire year without doing any maths at all, a deficit I never (yet) remedied.

But the original point of this blog post was the poem quoted above. I was surprised to learn tonight that the poem was by John Keats; I had imagined all these years that it was by AA Milne.

I think it’s a poem that has a lot to say to many of us, myself included. We can all find ourselves thinking that if only we lived somewhere better, did a different job, found a group of sympathetic people exactly on one’s wavelength everything would be different and our lives would begin properly. Even our own past can become a Scotland of the mind (and so can actual Scotland).

There are, of course, times when it is right and necessary to move on or to make radical changes in one’s situation, but often I think we need to remind ourselves that the life we have is our finite outpouring of ‘real life’ and we have the choice to live it to the fullest and explore all it has to offer or to stand back and say ‘somewhere, real life is just waiting for me. There, things will be different.’

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