Half Human: Spaceship Huey

Adventures Book One (A Shifter Space

Opera) John Hundley
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 Half Human
Spaceship Huey Adventures Book One
(A Shifter Space Opera)
Copyright © 2021 John Hundley
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in
any printed or electronic form without permission of the author.
Contents
Half Human
Prologue
Escape
Sanctuary
Scientists, Technicians, and Forgotten Heroes
Orientation
It’ll Never Work
Face Lift
Mission (Out of) Control
Mission (Damage) Control
The Pleasure Dome
Dungeons and Werewolves
A Gilded Invitation
Lloyd’s Gala
It Hits the Fan
Good News/Bad News
It’s the Stick I’m Going to Beat You With
Exclusive Content for Subscribers
The Forward at the End
About the Author
 Half Human

“Everyone who is half human claims to come from Earth.”

-Ancient Proverb
The saying, in common use throughout human colonized space,
has several layers of meaning. On the surface, it refers to the
propensity of those who can trace their ancestry back to Old Earth
having a sense of superiority and entitlement. It has also taken on a
“buyer beware” connotation, warning the listener to be wary of
grandiose claims that cannot be verified or substantiated.
Example: The tour guide says he grew up here and knows the
area better than anyone, but I’m not sure. Like they say, everyone
who is half human claims to come from Earth.

Fae (def) -
The generic term used for an eclectic group of non-humans that
lived or vacationed on Old Earth before humans evolved. Among
those included in the group are the dragons and the elves.
 Prologue

Clifford sat in the co-pilot’s seat, peering out the side window of
the shuttle as the vessel settled to the ground with a shudder. The
pilot cut the thrusters but kept the engines running. He looked over
Clifford’s shoulder at the desolate view. “Good news and bad news,”
he announced. “Bad news is, we’re in the middle of nowhere.”
Clifford turned to look at him.
The pilot grinned. “That’s the good news, too. Whoever’s looking
for you, they’ll have a hell of a long way to come find you.” He pulled
from his pocket a small plastic card. Clifford recognized it as one of
the chits issued to the crew of which he’d recently been a member,
used for communication and financial transactions. He held it out to
Clifford.
“This one hasn’t been registered,” explained the pilot. “I synched
the map software with the planet’s GPS. It’s not likely anyone will
track the signal but use it sparingly.”
Clifford took the chit. “Thanks,” he mumbled, feeling the
inadequacy of his gratitude as he uttered the words. He didn’t know
the shuttle jockey but he was aware the man was taking a huge risk
making this clandestine side-trip. So was Clifford’s friend, Ensign
Sarah Delorencia, who had talked the pilot into it. Clifford wished
them both the best for their efforts.
“And, speaking of being tracked,” the pilot hinted, “the sooner I
get out of here, the better.”
Clifford took the hint, unbuckling his seat belt and extricating
himself from the co-pilot’s seat. As the hatch slid open he gathered
his duffle and another, more awkward-looking bundle, a large, framed
piece of art wrapped in a paint-spattered drop cloth. The painting was
the only thing he had left to remind him of Emily, a shapeshifting alien
with whom he never should have gotten involved, and of their
unfortunate affair, which had left him jobless, penniless, and hunted
once more. Clutching the items in each hand, he paused in the
hatchway and looked back over his shoulder at the pilot. “Thanks,
again, for everything, um …. Sorry, I don’t know your name.”
The pilot reached for the throttle. “No, you don’t,” he agreed.
“Good luck.”
Clifford nodded, stepping through the hatch and dropping lightly
to the ground a few feet below. As the hatch closed behind him, he
felt the hot splash wind from the thrusters. He scampered towards a
huge tree about fifty yards away to get clear of the inevitable blast.
The pilot must have been watching, because as soon as Clifford
was clear, he hit the throttle. A great cloud of dust kicked up,
obscuring the shuttle for a second or two before the vehicle lifted
above the cloud, slowly ascended for a few hundred feet, then hurtled
into the empty sky. Clifford watched the shape of the vessel become
a distant speck and disappear completely from view. He stood still as
the dust cloud settled and dissipated in the light breeze before taking
in his surroundings.
The tree under which he stood looked to be the sole survivor of a
huge clear cut of forest. It stood three-quarters of the way up a
denuded slope outlined with dense vegetation on three sides, the
closest of which was downhill, two or three hundred yards away. The
tree provided shade from a white-hot sun in a cloudless sky and
cover from any possible overhead surveillance, so he decided to stay
put for a while as he assessed his situation.
Downhill was the most likely direction to find a stream for both
water and to follow towards civilization, but he should probably
ascend the hill to see what the view afforded before risking the GPS.
Either way, it would involve hiking, for which neither of his bundles
was designed. He looked at the painting, the one thing he had saved
from among his possessions on the ship, the rest of which would
most likely be auctioned off by the Trump, Hendrix, and Eng
Corporation as salvage. Cursing THE Corporation for the umpteenth
time, he dropped to his knees and began to rummage through his
duffle for the spool of twine he had packed.
“That painting is going to be awkward if we have to move
fast.”
 He jumped, startled despite himself. The voice spoke to him from
his own mind. The ghost that had been his almost constant
companion for centuries, having abandoned him for over twenty-four
hours, had suddenly returned. “I was thinking of strapping it to my
back, somehow,” he answered, silently thinking his words. “Christ,
you scared me. Where the hell have you been, Claire?”
“Assessing our options.”
“Anything good?”
“I think so. Not sure how you’ll like it, though.”
“Any idea where the hell we are now?”
“In relation to our general position in the galaxy and the
CSS Aberdeen, yes. In relation to civilization on this planet, no.”
He tapped his breast pocket where he had stored the chit the
pilot gave him. “Supposedly, I have maps, but I don’t want to risk
using GPS just yet. I thought I’d hike to the top of the hill first.”
“Good thinking. Even if we can’t see anything, the elevation
will make it easier for me to cast about for something. Let’s go.”
He looked at the painting. “Let me see what I can do about this
first.”
“You’re wasting time.”
“We’ve got all the time in the world,” he argued. He stiffened.
Maybe not.
“I smell it, too,” she said.
He lifted his nose to the breeze. “Human,” he assessed. His
nostrils flared. “And not human,” he added.
“I’ll check it out,” she volunteered. She was gone.
He stood and faced the breeze wafting down the slope. There
was a slight metallic tang mixed with the organic.
She was back. “Cyborgs,” she announced, her tone urgent,
“six of them. They’re wearing uniforms with the Lloyd crest,
headed this way.”
Gerald Lloyd, the most powerful oligarch on the planet and the
original owner of Emily’s contract, was the reason he’d had to sneak
off the cargo freighter, Aberdeen, before it landed on Corsair. “Shit,”
he muttered, “that was fast.”
“So are they,” she said. “Look, up there.”
 Claire couldn’t point, but she didn’t need to. His gaze rose up the
slope, just in time to see a line of six tall humanoid figures crest the
hill.
“If we can make it to the bottom of the hill, I bet I can lose them in
the woods,” he speculated. He reached down and hoisted the duffle
over one shoulder. He grabbed the painting with his other hand.
“It’ll just be in the way. Leave it here,” Claire urged.
“I want to keep it,” he said, through gritted teeth, turning his back
to the cyborgs and heading downhill. He took two steps and stopped,
dead in his tracks, as six more figures emerged from the line of forest
at the bottom of the hill.
“Yeah, moot point,” Claire noted. “What do you want to bet
we’re surrounded?”
He looked left and right. Sure enough, two more groups emerged
from the forest on both sides, breaking into a run as soon as they
cleared the trees. His stomach knotted. I’ve been set up!
“Looks like it,” Claire agreed. “Stay alive as long as you can,
okay? I’m going for help.”
“Help? Where are you going to find help?” he asked.
There was no answer and no time for speculation. The four
groups had formed a ring and were closing fast. There was no
chance of escape and it was two-dozen-to-one. He could see they
wore burgundy uniforms, but he saw no evidence they were carrying
weapons. Hell, they were cyborgs; they were weapons.
He wasn’t great at talking his way out of a fight, but it was worth
a try. He dropped the duffle, leaned the painting carefully against the
tree, and stepped out of the shade to great them. “Hello, officers. I
hope I’m not trespassing, or anything. I should have suspected the
shuttle pilot wasn’t on the up-and-up when he quoted such a low
price. Sure enough, he dropped me here and took all my valuables
except these,” he indicated the stuff at the base of the tree trunk. “I
have no idea where I am.”
The largest of what he could now discern, despite the conformity
of their uniforms, was a very motley crew, spoke up. “Cut the crap,
Crane. We ain’t cops,” he grinned, “and we know who you are.”
“Crane who? You must be mistaken, I’m …”
 The cyborg stepped forward and backhanded him. White light
exploded behind Clifford’s eyeballs as the force of the blow hurled
him several feet in the air. He landed on his back with a grunt.
“Ha,” laughed the cyborg. “Clifford Crane, the big, tough
werewolf. By trying to sneak down here, you just saved Mr. Lloyd the
trouble of having to drag you through the courts. We’re taking you
directly to him.” He clapped his hands together. “And I get to watch.”
Clifford raised himself to his elbows and shook his head to clear
it. He could feel his wolf, now, close to the surface. Calm down, he
told it. These aren’t the greatest odds. Let’s choose our battles
carefully.
Clifford could tell by the cyborg’s stance he was itching for a
fight. But something was holding him back. They probably had orders
to bring him in alive, since they hadn’t killed him already. Clifford
rubbed his jaw. “You pack quite a wallop, there, friend,” he said. He
held up his hand. “Not necessary, though. If your boss wants to see
me, I’ll go peacefully. I won’t cause you any trouble.”
The cyborg’s face fell. “Shit,” he sneered, “that’s too bad. I was
hoping you’d put up a fight.” He turned and motioned to some of the
others. “Get some cuffs on him. You two, grab his shit.”
One of the cyborgs reached over his shoulder, disconnected
something attached to his back, and walked over to Clifford,
unraveling what turned out to be four metal shackles connected by a
chain. “Hold out your arms,” the cyborg said. Clifford obliged.
He tensed as the cyborg began shackling his wrists and ankles
together, then relaxed when the first metal clamp closed against his
skin. Whatever the alloy was, it contained no silver. He wouldn’t have
any trouble breaking free, for whatever good it would do him. Most
likely, the chance of outrunning these things was minimal.
From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the other two
gathering up his things. “Careful with that,” he called to the one who
grabbed the cloth-wrapped painting. “Please,” he added.
“Careful?” questioned the cyborg in charge. “Give that to me,” he
said, striding towards the one holding the painting.
“Don’t,” Clifford warned.
 The cyborg stopped and turned. Something between a grin and a
sneer spread across his face. “I want to see what’s so precious.” He
turned back to the painting. “Hope I don’t damage anything cutting
this twine,” he added, lifting his forearm into the air. He opened his
hand and a six-inch blade shot from his wrist and locked in place.
Clifford reacted without thinking. His wolf burst forth, shredding
his clothing, and bursting the three shackles clamped around his
hands and ankles. His would-be shackler shouted a warning as he
scrambled away from the eight-foot monster that had taken Clifford’s
place.
“Don’t touch that,” Clifford said. Of course, no one understood his
words, since it came out as a snarl, but he got his point across. The
cyborg in charge turned from the painting and smiled. “That’s more
like it,” he said. He held up a hand to the others as dozens of
weapons suddenly appeared in the hands of the cyborgs who
remained in a ring around them.
“Come on, Joe,” one of the weapon holders pleaded. “Don’t
mess around with this thing. Let’s just taser him and take him back to
Mr. Lloyd.”
Joe shook his head. “Don’t you dare. It looks like he wants to
play. And so do I.” He began to peel off the blouse of his uniform. His
chest and torso rippled with muscle where not covered in metal.
Clifford dropped to all fours. He lowered his head and snarled.
“That’s a fuckin’ werewolf, Joe,” warned the weapon holder.
“Don’t underestimate him.”
Joe chuckled. “I’ve been wantin’ a challenge. I’m tired of beatin’
up on you pussies.” He crouched and flexed. “Watch this.” He
launched himself, low and fast.
Clifford figured the cyborg was quick, and based on the blow
he’d already received, he knew the thing was powerful. He had no
intention of meeting him head-on. He side-stepped, twisted, and
drove a set of claws into one of the fleshy spots on the cyborg’s side.
There was a bone-jarring shock to Clifford’s forearm as his claws hit
something hard instead of the expected internal organ, but Joe’s eyes
widened with a grunt of pain.
 Clifford used the cyborg’s momentum to fling him into the air,
planted himself by digging his rear claws into the hard soil, and
slammed Joe’s body to the ground. Before the cyborg could gather
himself, Clifford’s jaws closed on his jugular, tearing half his throat
away and releasing a geyser of blood and other fluids. Clifford spat
out a mouthful of flesh, bone, wiring, and arteries as the first taser
blast hit him.
Every muscle in his body spasmed as the voltage ran through
him. He heard a voice yell, “Hold your fire. Lloyd wants him alive.” He
crumpled in a heap on the ground and lay still. He could feel the
vibrations of their heavy footsteps through the ground as the ring
closed in on him.
“Check him out,” ordered a voice.
“Me?” another voice complained.
“Be careful,” the first voice encouraged.
Clifford felt the hard muzzle of some weapon prod his shoulder.
He remained perfectly still. He felt a hand grip the same shoulder. He
sprang into action.
“What th’ …,” exclaimed the cyborg, as Clifford clamped his jaws
onto his forearm and jerked him off his feet. The two rolled across the
ground several times before Clifford jumped to his hind legs, gripping
the cyborg to his chest as a shield.
“Wait, don’t shoot!” pleaded the cyborg, in vain, as high voltage
from several tasers hit him at once.
Clifford hurled the limp body at the nearest in the circle and dove
in the opposite direction, rolling under the legs of another and
upending him. A few taser blasts missed Clifford but found their mark
with other cyborgs. “Hold your fire, you idiots!” rose a voice above the
screams.
Having broken through the ring and bolstered by the luck he was
having so far, Clifford decided to make a run for it, after all. He took
off full speed in the direction of the closest line of trees.
He hadn’t taken three strides when he remembered. The
painting! Dammit, I can’t leave it here. He pivoted back in the
direction of his belongings just as an explosion blew a gaping hole in
the ground behind him.
 That wasn’t a taser, he realized. So much for taking me in alive.
The painting lay on the ground near the base of the big tree, still
wrapped and bound. He skidded to a halt, scooped it up, and ducked
behind the tree trunk as a second explosion took off a low-lying limb.
Hugging the bundle to his chest, he pressed his back against the
trunk as the cyborgs opened fire in earnest. Tremors rocked the
ancient wood as projectiles took off chunks and blasted holes in the
ground on all sides.
He looked across the denuded landscape to the forest and
fading promise of escape. Unlike his original destination, the line of
trees on this side of his cover was much further away. Carrying the
painting, he’d have to go on hind legs only, which would slow him
down. If I run in a zig-zag pattern …? He winced as another projectile
brought a limb crashing next to him.
A fearsome and ancient war cry split the air, sending a tremor
through his bowels.
The firing stopped. “What the hell was that?” asked a shaky
voice.
Clifford knew that cry, all too well. Claire had found help after all.
Not the kind he’d hoped for, of course, but it would do the job, for
sure. Claire, what the hell have you done?
The war cry reverberated through the air once again, and Clifford
peeked from behind the tree trunk just in time to see a huge pair of
wings swoop over the crest of the hill. The white sun reflected off
shiny dark green scales, temporarily blinding him, as, perched at the
top of a long, graceful neck, the head of a huge dragon scanned the
landscape, spotted its target, and dove.
Frozen in awe but for a moment, the cyborgs turned their
ineffectual weapons on the creature as it bore down upon them. The
dragon drew a deep breath.
Oh, shit. Clifford broke from the cover of the tree and bounded
clear, on all fours, as dragon fire swept over the hapless cyborgs and
engulfed the tree.
“Are you alright?” Claire asked.
Clifford followed the dragon’s flight path as it rose above the tree
line at the far end of the clear cut, banked and headed back towards
him.
“Yeah,” Claire continued, in spite of his lack of response, “you
seem okay.”
“What’s he doing here?” Clifford complained.
“Saving our ass,” she explained, “that’s what. Grateful
much?”
Clifford clamped his jaw tight against an angry retort. “I mean,
what’s he doing on this planet? I thought he was off in the center of
the galaxy, looking for his home world.”
The dragon settled gracefully to the ground about fifty yards
away, surveyed the damage, and nodded to himself in satisfaction.
He folded his wings and ambled towards them.
“He was,” Claire answered, “but after what went down at the
hearing, I had a gut feeling we’d need some help, so I went and
called in a favor. He got here yesterday, actually, before the …
um … incident.”
The “hearing” to which she referred was the decision by a three-
judge panel of the Aberdeen’s senior officers to approve the voiding
of Emily’s contract with Gerald Lloyd, allowing Clifford and Emily to
pursue a relationship of their own. Although less than a week had
passed, it now seemed like a lifetime ago. The “incident” Claire
referenced was Emily’s bizarre death the day before, for which
Clifford had been unjustly accused.
“Wait,” he said, confused. “Pieter owed you a favor?”
“Well,” she hemmed, “no, not yet. He has a favor to ask you,
first.”
“Dammit, Claire.”
The dragon settled on his haunches in front of Clifford, angled
his great head so he could fix the werewolf with one eye, and said in
a deep baritone voice that echoed disconcertingly in Clifford’s mind,
“Greetings, Oktallu.”
“Don’t call me that,” Clifford griped.
“Sorry,” Pieter apologized, his great brow ridges descending into
a frown, “I forgot you object to your true name.” He lifted his head and
took in their surroundings. “I was saddened to hear of your recent
difficulties. My condolences.”
 “Thanks,” Clifford muttered begrudgingly.
Pieter fixed him again with a single eye. “I also hear that you are
freshly unemployed. I have a proposal for you.”
“Of course, you do,” Clifford sighed.
“Hear him out, Cliff,” urged Claire. “It’s the least you can do.”
“But first,” said Pieter, lifting his head to the sky, listening, “we
should leave this place quickly, I fear. There are others coming.” He
looked down at Clifford. “Quite a few of them, actually. I suggest you
gather your things.”
“Good idea,” Clifford agreed. He turned and trotted over to the
smoldering tree underneath which his duffle lay, singed but
miraculously intact. The painting, which he had propped against the
tree trunk, had not fared as well. “Oh, hell.”
“Sorry,” boomed the dragon’s voice. “Was that something you
wanted to keep?”
Clifford sighed. “No, it was nothing.”
Pieter flattened himself to the ground and extended a wing in
offering. “Climb aboard, then, and let’s be off.”
“Sorry, Cliff,” whispered Claire.
“Right,” Clifford murmured. He slung the duffle over his shoulder
and climbed onto Pieter’s back. The dragon launched himself into the
air, inadvertently fanning the flames with his great wings. The painting
and its frame collapsed into ashes as dragon and rider shrunk to a
distant speck in the sky.
---
Gerald Lloyd’s eyes narrowed as he watched the video recording
for the second time. The man on the screen, his quarry, was getting
safely shackled before being brought to him, when the prisoner
politely asked someone off-camera to be careful with something. The
camera angle abruptly changed to reveal one of his uniformed
cyborgs holding what might have been a framed piece of art wrapped
in a paint-spattered drop cloth.
“Careful?” asked a voice as the camera approached the object in
question. “Let me see that.”
Lloyd closed his eyes. “You moron,” he muttered, shaking his
head. His eyes remained closed as he listened to the rest of the
recording. He began tapping a slow rhythm on the desktop with the
fingers of one hand.
“Don’t,” said the voice of his quarry.
“I want to see what’s so precious,” sneered the off-camera voice.
There was a pause. “Hope I don’t damage anything cutting this
twine,” the off-camera voice continued. Lloyd’s finger tapping
increased in tempo.
He heard the snarl of a beast, followed by the off-camera voice
saying, “That’s more like it.”
“Come on, Joe,” said a different voice, “Don’t mess around with
this thing. Let’s just taser him and take him back to Mr. Lloyd.”
“Don’t you dare. It looks like he wants to play. And so do I,” said
the first voice. Lloyd’s fingers upped their tempo even more.
“That’s a fuckin’ werewolf, Joe,” warned the second voice. “Don’t
underestimate him.”
The first voice chuckled. “I’ve been wantin’ a challenge,” it said.
“I’m tired of beatin’ up on you pussies.” There was a pause. “Watch
this.”
Lloyd’s fingers abruptly stopped their tapping. He opened his
eyes and swiveled his chair to regard the uniformed officer sitting on
the other side of the desk while the sounds of grunts and snarls
continued in the background. Captain Prine’s face was ashen with
fear. “Why did you put that moron in charge, Captain?” Lloyd asked.
Prine swallowed. “I’ … it was an error in judgment, sir,” he
stammered.
“I know that,” Lloyd snapped. “I asked you why.”
Prine took a deep breath. “It was our most seasoned team, sir.
Joe was their team leader.”
Lloyd looked back at the screen. The camera was angled
towards the sky, a single drifting cloud being the only indication it had
still been recording. Lloyd clicked off the video. “And he was the only
one with a body cam,” he stated, unnecessarily.
Captain Prine chewed at his lip.
Lloyd steepled his hands together and shook his head. “I’m
disappointed in you, Captain Prine. Extremely disappointed.”
“Sir,” began the captain, “I …”
 Lloyd raised a hand to cut him off. He rose slowly from his chair
and began pacing, with his hands clasped behind his back. The
captain remained seated and still, only his eyes following the
movements of his superior. Eventually, Lloyd came to a stop in front
of the captain’s chair and looked down at him.
“I’m relieving you of your duties, of course,” Lloyd said.
“Sir,” repeated the captain, “I …” This time his words were cut
short when he discovered Lloyd’s hand suddenly clasped around his
throat.
“Don’t!” snapped Lloyd, tightening his grasp. “Say!” he spat,
squeezing harder. “Anything!” He watched the captain’s eyes bulge
as he squeezed harder. The man’s face began to redden, then take
on a purplish hue as he clawed in vain at Lloyd’s hand, trying to
loosen the vise-like grip. Abruptly, Lloyd released his hold.
The captain began to gasp and cough. Lloyd waited until his
complexion began to return to its normal color before he delivered the
first blow. He noted the startled look on the captain’s face when the
blood began to spurt from his crushed nose. The second blow
snapped the captain’s head back, and the life dropped out of his
eyes.
Lloyd continued to deliver blow after blow, caving the man’s skull
into a bloody pulp. When his fury was spent, he straightened and held
his fist up in front of his face, inspecting the knuckles where the skin
had been torn away to reveal the metal underneath. He sighed.
He walked calmly to the other side of the desk and took his seat.
He pulled a clean cloth from a drawer and wrapped the damaged
hand. He pressed an icon on his computer screen, and a voice
responded, “Sir.”
“Charon,” he said evenly, “Clifford Crane is running loose,
somewhere on the planet. Call in every favor you have outstanding
with the authorities and get out a global all-points bulletin. I want him
found. Contact the Linham Police Department and have them ready
when the CSS Aberdeen docks. I need everyone on that ship
interrogated.”
“Immediately, sir,” replied the voice.
“And Charon?” Lloyd added.
 “Sir?”
“Get maintenance up to my office right away,” he ordered,
looking across his desk at the bloody corpse slumped in its chair.
“The place is a mess.”
 Escape

The door of the freight elevator opened. Ensign Carolyn Swank

picked up a duffle and a covered birdcage from the floor of the car
and stepped cautiously into the eerie quiet of a darkened and
deserted cargo bay. The elevator doors shushed to a close behind
her, blocking its interior light and leaving her eyes unadjusted to the
dark. A rush of adrenaline coursed through her at the sudden sound
of three chimes, followed by a voice of indeterminant gender, which
broke from a speaker somewhere behind.
“The ship will begin its atmospheric entry and landing sequence
in three minutes. Passengers and crew, please see that yourselves
and your belongings are secure.”
She took a deep breath and let it out, slowly. Easy, girl, she told
herself.
“Hey,” hissed a voice. Carol peered into the gloom to locate the
sound. “Over here,” the voice confirmed, as Carol’s eyes adjusted to
the dim silhouette of her bunkmate, Sarah, waving her forward. Carol
shouldered her duffle and held the birdcage carefully away from her
body as she shuffled over to where Sarah waited.
“What’s that?” whispered Sarah, pointing at the birdcage. “Don’t
tell me you brought the parrots. If those things start squawking and
cursing, it’ll lead someone straight to us.”
“They’ll be fine as long as I keep the cage covered,” Carol
defended herself. “Are you sure we have to do this? Captain Sanchez
is the only one who knows we helped Clifford escape. He won’t rat us
out. But, if we sneak off the ship, we’ll be prime suspects for sure.”
“The captain’s sure someone is leaking information to Gerald
Lloyd,” Sarah insisted. “We’re already prime suspects.”
“Do you think Clifford’s okay?” Carol wondered.
“Probably,” Sarah speculated. “Else why would the cops be
looking for him? But Carol, we need to worry about ourselves. Come
on. We can hide in here until we land.” She opened a small hatch in a
low rounded protrusion from the wall and motioned Carol inside.
 Carol had to unshoulder her duffle and duck sideways to make it
through the hatchway. It was cramped and even darker inside. Sarah
followed, folding herself against her own duffle and closing the hatch
behind her.
“It’s dark as hell in here,” Carol complained. “What is this place,
anyway?”
“It’s one of the wheel wells for the landing gear,” Sarah
explained.
“Are you insane?” Carol hissed. “This is dangerous. Won’t we fall
out when it opens?”
“Not if you stay right where you are.”
“Jesus.”
“This is the safest way to get off the ship. We can crawl down the
landing gear and haul ass away before we get to the docking bay in
the hanger, which will be swarming with police, according to the
captain.”
“We’re going to jump out of a moving spaceship?” Carol
squeaked.
“Don’t worry,” Sarah murmured, “it’ll be fine.”
Three more chimes sounded, followed by the genderless voice,
muffled now, since there was no speaker inside the wheel well.
“Atmospheric entry and landing sequence will begin in fifteen
seconds. Please remain secure until the captain gives the all-clear.”
The two huddled in silence until a shudder ran through the ship.
“What was that?” Carol squeaked.
“We just hit atmo,” replied Sarah. “The Kennington drive doesn’t
monitor the environmental conditions in this part of the ship, so we
felt it,” she explained. “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. Might get a little warm
in here, that’s all.”
“How warm?” Carol inquired, as the floor began to vibrate
disconcertingly.
“Not sure,” Sarah offered. “Not enough to damage the gear, I
guess.”
“What about us?” Carol squeaked again.
Sarah chuckled. “Don’t worry.”
 Carol did her best to stay calm. After all, Sarah was an engineer.
She knew the ship as well as anyone, and Carol trusted her. As the
floor began to vibrate in earnest, however, and the temperature
began to rise, so did her unease and that of her birds. A chorus of
squawks arose from the cage.
“Dammit, Carol, why did you have to bring them?” Sarah
complained.
“They’re my pets,” hissed Carol. She turned to the cage. “It’s
okay, babies,” she cooed.
Suddenly the vibration stopped, and the squawking ceased.
“See?” both women said, in unison.
The pressure in the wheel well plummeted and a blast of cold air
whooshed in as a section of the floor slowly dropped away. Carol
gasped and pulled the cage and her duffle closer for fear they would
be swept out the opening and fall into the forested canopy miles
below. “I really don’t like heights,” she groaned.
“Hang tight. We’ll be on the ground in no time,” Sarah assured
her.
“I just hope we’re still inside the ship when that happens,” Carol
said, noting the muscle tension that extended all the way up her
forearms. She tried to relax the death grip she had on her
possessions.
“Oh, wow!” exclaimed Sarah. “Look at that!”
Carol peeked over the edge of the opening. The forest below
was much closer and there was a sudden break in the tree line
ahead, after which a featureless expanse of tarmac stretched as far
as the eye could see, broken only by a faint skyline of buildings on
the horizon from which a thick plume of smoke ascended into a hazy
layer of sky. She was struck by the stark contrast of human
encroachment against the verdant forest they had just passed over.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered.
A loud thump sent another shudder through the compartment as
the landing gear mechanism jolted into motion. A huge wheel
assembly detached from above and began to descend through the
opening next to them. A high-pitched whistle grew from the air
passing around the descending struts that set the birds to squawking
again. Sarah gave her the evil eye.
“Oh, come on,” Carol shouted over the whistling, “there’s no way
anyone could hear them over this noise!”
Sarah snorted, but she had to admit the truth of Carol’s
assessment. The whistling and squawking reached a crescendo as
their landing path leveled off and a line of buildings grew on the
horizon, the tallest of their structures topped with blinking red warning
lights. She glimpsed a field of long buildings with high arched roofs
that must have been the hangars of the spaceport, just before the
horizon was cut from their view. The ship touched down with a
screech from the wheel coverings as inches of tire tread were torn
away and deposited in long black streaks on the tarmac. The noise
began to die as the ship settled onto each of the wheels of its sixteen
landing struts and its speed diminished.
When Sarah figured she could be heard, she shouted at Carol,
“This port is a little different than the others we’ve been to! The ship
will taxi to a stop and a tug will pull us to an assigned bay in one of
the hangars! Everyone will be distracted while the tug is hooking us
up! That’s our best chance of climbing down without being seen!”
Carol nodded. She began chewing at her bottom lip, glancing at
the tarmac rushing by below them. The ship’s wheels were on the
ground, but the hard concrete was a good two stories below them.
They might not survive a fall. She wondered if it might not be too late
to just return to her quarters and face the music. She took a deep
breath, puffing out her cheeks, and blew it out slowly. Probably too
late, she decided.
The ship jerked to a stop. Sarah slung her duffle across her
shoulders and tightened the strap across her chest, freeing her
hands. Following Sarah’s example, Carol tightened her strap and
peered over the edge of the opening in front of her. Biting her lip, she
looked at her bunkmate. “You go first,” she said.
Sarah eyed the birdcage. “How are you going to climb with that?”
Carol swallowed uncertainly. “I’ll manage.”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Let me get situated on that strut,” she
pointed, “then hand it to me.”
 Carol frowned, then nodded, “Okay.”
Sarah stepped nimbly out of the wheel well and descended
hand-over-hand a few feet below. Checking that her feet and
handholds were secure, she extended one hand back towards Carol,
who cautiously passed the covered birdcage to her. Sarah
acknowledged she had the cage secured with a nod and added,
“Don’t dawdle.”
Easy for you to say, Carol thought. She took a deep breath.
“Here goes nothing,” she muttered as she stepped into empty air. She
was surprised and relieved when her foot found the rung of a ladder
cleverly concealed along the length of the wheel strut assembly,
which explained how Sarah had negotiated it so nimbly. Of course,
the designers of the ship would have anticipated the need for
maintenance and provided a way for someone to access the
assembly when needed. Being an engineer, Sarah had assumed
something like this would have been common knowledge and had not
considered the need to inform her. Carol sighed. She descended to
the rung just above Sarah and took hold of the cage while her
bunkmate descended a bit further.
Slowly, they made their way down the ladder, passing the cage
back and forth and only once nearly dropping it. Surprisingly, the
descent went smoothly, and the birds kept quiet. Nevertheless, by the
time they reached the bottom, Carol’s nerves were shot and her limbs
were shaky from a steady flow of adrenaline. As she handed the cage
one final time to Sarah, who was now on the ground, the ship was
suddenly jerked into motion when the tug, having completed its
attachment, began to haul it away.
Carol’s grip was torn from the rung of the ladder, and she fell,
flailing her arms wildly in midair before landing on her back on the
tarmac, her fall cushioned by her duffle.
“Are you okay?” giggled Sarah.
Carol lay on her back, her eyes closed, sending up a prayer of
thanks to the gods of her youth, with whom she had not
communicated in years. “I’m great,” she sighed.
“Come on,” Sarah said, extending her hand, “Let’s get out of
here.”
 Carol allowed herself to be helped to her feet. She assumed
custody of the birds, and the two of them trotted off in a different
direction from the tug and the ship. Their only witness was a small
inspection drone, sent as standard procedure from the spaceport,
along with the tug, to examine the exterior of the incoming ship. Not
being programmed to look for crew members escaping through a
wheel well, it sent no alarm to its custodians. It merely recorded two
females in THE Corporation fatigues scurrying out from under the
shadow of the ship, and it saved the video for later inspection, if
needed.
---
Clifford had ridden on the back of a dragon only once before.
The one time had been enough, and he cursed the desperate
circumstances that forced him to do so a second time. The smooth,
graceful flight of the creatures when viewed from the ground
translated into the wildest of roller coaster rides when experienced
from his current precarious perch.
Each downstroke of Pieter’s great wings hurled dragon and rider
thirty to forty feet in the air and was followed by a gut-wrenching free
fall of half that on the upstroke. Vertical and horizontal wind shear
threatened to tear Clifford from his seat. There was nothing to hold on
to save the spiny protrusions running the length of the creature’s back
and tail, which were in constant motion as the dragon angled them
back and forth to stabilize his flight. Trying to keep the duffle from
being torn from his grasp added to Clifford’s difficulties.
His wolf was extremely unhappy. Even in an enclosed cockpit, it
was best not to fly in wolf form. This was nothing less than an
exercise in terror for a creature most comfortable with four paws on
the ground. Too bad he had not had time to transform back to human
form before climbing aboard. “Easy boy,” he told his alter ego.
“We’ll be on the ground soon,” echoed Claire’s ethereal voice.
For once, Clifford was grateful for the presence of his ex-lover’s
ghost. Claire was the one who had first turned him four hundred
years ago. She had helped calm his wolf after his first transformation,
and the wolf still responded to her soothing voice.
 “You’re welcome,” she sniggered, reading his thoughts as she
always did.
Thankfully, her observation was correct. Despite the harrowing
ride, the flight went quickly. Before long Pieter reduced his speed and
settled into a long glide, banking smoothly into a wide descending arc
as the forest far below began to thin and the ground approached.
They landed gently near a large stand of young trees that looked
like they may have been ornamental replacements for the original
forest that had once covered most of the planet. As soon as the
dragon hit the ground, Clifford leapt from his perch and began
transforming. Thirty seconds later, he stood on two human legs,
stretched, and dug out a rust-colored robe from his duffle, with which
he covered his nakedness, since the clothes he’d worn during his
escape from the CSS Aberdeen now lay in shreds where the shuttle
had dropped him. Fastening the duffle closed, he turned to address
the dragon.
A man he did not recognize stood where the dragon had been.
He was taller than at their last encounter and looked perhaps a few
years younger. He was dressed well but casually in the latest style
from Rhinehold, the planet from which Clifford had shipped out
several weeks before. One of the things Clifford had always resented
about the dragon was how he could shift his clothing, while Clifford
ended up naked whenever he underwent a transformation.
“Who are you supposed to be, now?” Clifford asked.
The man spread his arms and gave a slight bow. “Doctor Leo
Peters,” he said, “at your service.”
Great, Clifford thought, it’s going to be hard to remember what to
call him, now.”
“I’ll help,” Claire offered.
“What happened to Ivan Petros?” Clifford asked.
“Doctor Petros died centuries ago, Clifford,” Leo explained.
“Still a doctor, though.”
Leo inclined his head. “Of course. But not medical, this time,” he
explained. “I have PhD’s in botany and anthropology.”
Clifford grunted. “So, what’s this proposal you have for me?”
“Please be open-minded, Cliff,” Claire entreated.
 “I stay open-minded,” he retorted.
“Sure, you do,” she tossed back, getting the last word in, as
usual.
“I have a vehicle,” Leo pointed, “just through those trees. Come,”
he motioned, “I’ll catch you up on things during the ride to my ship.”
He turned and ducked into the underbrush.
Clifford followed. The path they took looked like a recreational
trail, because they immediately encountered a small mileage marker
and informational posting at a footbridge that had been constructed
over a small stream. It was not the kind of thing he would have
expected to see, given the planet’s reputation for exploitation of its
natural resources.
As if Leo had read his mind, he explained, “Corsair entered a
trade agreement with the Central Authority last year.” He turned and
looked over his shoulder at Clifford. “Did you know?”
“I heard.”
“Some factions here are even in favor of joining the Authority,”
Leo continued, facing forward, “believe it, or not. Anyway, the CA
purchased some land in the hopes of setting up an embassy
sometime in the future. This little park is the work of the Authority.” He
glanced back at Clifford again. “And it provides a convenient cover for
your clandestine rescue.”
Clifford nodded, taking in the carefully landscaped ambience. “It’s
nice,” he admitted. “It reminds me of Old Earth.”
“I believe that’s the effect they were trying to achieve,” Leo
confirmed. He halted, turning to face Clifford. “We’re almost to my
vehicle. Is Claire with you, now?”
Clifford stopped, nodding in affirmation.
“Then,” Leo said, “I suggest we continue our conversation
telepathically from here on.”
Clifford frowned, cocking his head in a question.
The deep baritone voice of the dragon echoed in Clifford’s mind,
“It would only be polite to include Ms. Deerfoot, since she is intimately
involved.”
“How courteous,” Claire commented.
 Clifford grunted. Pieter, the Dragon, had been the one to bring
Claire’s spirit back from beyond the veil, centuries ago. As such, he
was one of only three creatures who could communicate with her
directly. She could also enter his mind, just like she could Clifford’s.
Usually, however, she chose not to, complaining it was too weird in
there.
“Also,” Leo added, placing a finger to his lips, “there is a bug in
my vehicle. There is no video, so the identity of any passengers
cannot be confirmed, but all conversation will be recorded.”
“Okay,” Clifford agreed. He followed Leo the rest of the way in
silence, until they emerged from the woods onto a graveled lot where
a six-passenger rover was parked in a shaded spot. Clifford noticed
the prominently displayed logo on one of its doors. “How is it you’re
driving an official Central Authority vehicle?” he asked.
“Pieter works for them, now,” Claire explained.
“As a cover for what?” Clifford asked.
Leo chuckled. “You’ve become suspicious and cynical as you’ve
aged, Oktallu.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Sorry,” Leo apologized, “Clifford Crane.” He smiled. “You have
also grown more perceptive, which is good.” He strode towards the
vehicle. “Actually, I am currently engaged in a completely open and
above-board diplomatic mission, having offered the services of my
ship to carry Ambassador Darinor here to address Parliament.”
Clifford’s eyebrows rose. “The Elf?”
“The very one,” Leo confirmed. “When Claire suggested you
might be getting yourself into trouble, I mentioned to him I was
thinking of going to Corsair, and he jumped at the chance to ride with
a dragon rather than in close proximity with humans on one of the
standard passenger vessels.”
“He would,” Clifford nodded. “So, you came from Rhinehold? We
saw Darinor there when we signed onto the CSS Aberdeen.”
Claire elaborated, “The purser told us the Elf had opted to
use a cargo vessel to get from Ellindrell to Rhinehold and
assume his new post. He acted like he’d already had enough
human companionship to last a lifetime. He didn’t seem too
crazy to see Clifford, either.”
Leo frowned. “You may have misinterpreted his reaction,” he
suggested. “I hope so, anyway.” He opened one of the rear
passenger doors, turned, and regarded Clifford. “He’ll be aboard for
the return trip.”
“We’re going back to Rhinehold?” Clifford complained. “I may not
be welcome there, anymore.”
“Ah, yes,” Leo agreed, “I heard about the little commotion you
caused at the loading docks before you left. I wouldn’t worry about
that too much. Your subsequent conflict with THE Corporation has
redeemed you somewhat in the eyes of the locals. I think it’s also
earned you points with the Central Authority.”
Clifford wondered why his reputation mattered to the Central
Authority, unless it was justification for using an official vehicle for his
rescue.
“It matters more than you think,” Claire confirmed. Her
comment put him on guard.
Leo was still holding the door open. Clifford leaned forward and
eyed the interior of the vehicle. “Um, you want me to hunker down in
the back, here?”
“No,” Leo said, “that could be hard to explain if we encounter a
checkpoint.” He reached into the vehicle and extracted a pair of sun
hats, complete with insect netting. He handed one to Clifford and
began strapping the other onto his own head. “You should ride in the
front. I doubt there’s an APB out for you, just yet, but this will disguise
you sufficiently from a distance. The sun here is brutal, and it is
natural for someone to be wearing one of these.”
Clifford nodded. He placed the hat on his head and dropped the
netting around his face and neck. It was a good design. He felt cooler
immediately. He opened the front passenger door and climbed in
while Leo circled to the other side and slipped in behind the controls.
“What were you doing on Rhinehold?” Clifford asked. “I thought
you were off in the central bulge of the galaxy, looking for your family.”
Leo gave him a stern look, which was apparently meant for
Claire. “You told him that?” he asked.
 “I thought it was the truth,” she defended herself.
Leo sighed as he pushed a button on the dash and the engine
swooshed to life. The rover rose a few inches from the ground. “It
was,” he confirmed. “But I had hoped to keep it from being common
knowledge.” He guided the vehicle out of its parking space and
accelerated along a winding stretch of graveled road.
“It’s not common knowledge,” Claire replied, still on the
defensive. “I only told Clifford. You should have let me know if it
was supposed to be such a big secret. Anyway, I don’t keep
secrets from Clifford.”
“Since when?” Clifford objected.
“Okay,” Claire qualified, “I don’t like to keep secrets from
you. I try not to, Sweetie. I really do.”
Leo gave a brief glance in Clifford’s direction before turning his
attention back to the road. “I suppose you’re right, Claire,” he
frowned. “Clifford, the truth of it is, I have left Old Earth, the planet of
my birth, for good, this time. The vampire threat is long gone, and
there is nothing more I can do for the humans that remain. It has
been almost thirteen thousand years since I saw my wife and family. I
want to return to them.”
“Will they even remember you?” Clifford wondered.
“Cliff!” Claire admonished.
“No, no,” Leo intervened, “it is a valid question, considering.” He
glanced at Clifford again. “Oktal … er, sorry, Clifford, thirteen
thousand years may seem like a very long time to you. Thirteen of
your lifetimes, I guess. No, more like thirteen hundred lifetimes since
you probably still think in terms of a normal human lifespan.” His face
screwed up in contemplation. “Actually, it would be …”
“Get to the point,” Clifford interrupted.
“My, aren’t we snippy,” Claire commented.
Clifford gritted his teeth. “Sorry,” he apologized, “I’m not exactly
having the best day ever.”
“Hmmm,” Leo acknowledged, “I suppose you’re not. Well, suffice
it to say, dragons live for quite a long time. I am several millions of
years old, myself. My family will surely remember me if I can find
them.”
 “If?” Clifford asked. “I’m sorry, I’m really not trying to be an
asshole about this, but if they didn’t tell you where they were going
when they left …” He left the implication hanging.
“Ah,” said Leo, “you’re implying they may not want me to find
them.” He briefly fixed Clifford with a glare. “You are comparing the
bond formed between a dragon and his mate and offspring to the
results of your own random couplings and fleeting failed
relationships.”
“Touché,” Claire chuckled.
Clifford gritted his teeth again. “Well, did they tell you where they
went?”
“They shouldn’t have needed to,” Leo explained. “The bond
should have been enough to guide me.” He sighed. “The great fear
shared by my Fae brethren, and the reason they created the
vampires to exterminate you humans in the first place, the fear that
association with you would diminish our magic, has come to fruition.”
He shook his head. “I scoffed at that belief. But, over the
millennia, as I continued to aid humanity in the fight for survival, the
bond began to fade. The last significant feat of magic I performed
was bringing you back from the grave, Ms. Deerfoot. I am now almost
entirely dependent on technology. My magic is almost gone. I retain
my shapeshifting abilities, but I can do little else.”
Leo slowed the rover as they approached the gated entrance to
the park and the end of the gravel road. He pulled to a stop and
waved a plastic chit in front of a sensor embedded in a metal post,
which opened the gate. They pulled out onto a tarmac surface that
stretched as far as the eye could see in all directions.
Clifford gave a low, audible whistle. “Wow,” he said, “they
certainly aren’t big on vegetation around here, are they?” He looked
at Leo. “Your Fae brethren were right to want to exterminate us.”
“Clifford!” Claire admonished.
Leo’s chuckle echoed in Clifford’s mind. “Don’t be so hard on
your human side, Clifford,” he chided. “Your evolution is not complete.
I still believe this galaxy will be better off for having your kind around,
in the long run.”
“How many planets will we rape until then?” Clifford wondered.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Parents and
children
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the
laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

Title: Parents and children

Author: Charlotte M. Mason

Release date: December 17, 2023 [eBook #72445]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Kegan Paul, 1897

Credits: Carol Brown, Tim Lindell, Turgut Dincer and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PARENTS

AND CHILDREN ***
PARENTS AND CHILDREN
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR
HOME EDUCATION: A Course of Lectures to
Ladies. By Charlotte M. Mason. Second
Edition, Revised and Enlarged. Demy 8vo, 6s.
STUDIES IN ENGLISH FOR THE USE OF
MODERN SCHOOLS. By H. C. Bowen. Eleventh
Thousand. Small crown 8vo, 1s. 6d.
SIMPLE ENGLISH POEMS. English Literature for
Junior Classes. By H. C. Bowen. 3s. Parts I., II.,
and III. 6d. each. Part IV. . 1s.
ENGLISH GRAMMAR FOR BEGINNERS. By H. C.
Bowen. Fcap. 8vo, 1s.
ON THE STUDY OF WORDS. By the late
Archbishop Trench. Revised by A. L. Mayhew.
Twenty-fifth Edition. Fcap. 8vo, 5s.
ENGLISH PAST AND PRESENT. By the late
Archbishop Trench. Revised by A. L. Mayhew.
Fifteenth Edition. Fcap. 8vo, 5s.
THE MODERN FRENCH READER. Edited by C.
Cassal, LL.D., and Theodore Karcher, LL.B.
Junior Course. Nineteenth Edition. Crown 8vo, 2s.
6d. Senior Course. Seventh Edition. Crown 8vo,
4s. Senior Course and Glossary, in One Vol.
Crown 8vo, 6s.
PRACTICAL FRENCH GRAMMAR. By Mortimer
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Crown 8vo. New Edition, in One Vol., 3s. 6d. Two
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London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner & Co. Lᵀᴰ
P a r e n t s and C h i l d r e n

A SEQUEL TO

“ H O M E E D U C AT I O N ”

BY
 CHARLOTTE M. MASON

LONDON
KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRÜBNER & CO. Lᵀᴰ

PATERNOSTER HOUSE, CHARING CROSS ROAD

1897
The rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved.

Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co.

At the Ballantyne Press
 TO THE MEMBERS OF

THE PARENTS’ NATIONAL EDUCATIONAL UNION

THIS VOLUME

is inscribed by the author

as an expression of the affection and
reverence with which their
efforts inspire her

Ambleside,
November 1896.
 PREFACE
The following essays have appeared in the Parents’ Review, and
were addressed, from time to time, to a body of parents who are
making a practical study of the principles of education—the “Parents’
National Educational Union.” The present volume is a sequel to
Home Education (Kegan Paul & Co.), a work which was the means
of originating this Union of Parents. It is not too much to say that the
Parents’ Union exists to advance, with more or less method and with
more or less steadfastness, a definite school of educational thought
of which the two main principles are—the recognition of the physical
basis of habit, i.e. of the material side of education; and of the
inspiring and formative power of the Idea, i.e. of the immaterial, or
spiritual, side of education. These two guiding principles, covering as
they do the whole field of human nature, should enable us to deal
rationally with all the complex problems of education; and the object
of the following essays is, not to give an exhaustive application of
these principles—the British Museum itself would hardly contain all
the volumes needful for such an undertaking—but to give an
example or a suggestion, here and there, as to how such and such
an habit may be formed, such and such a formative idea be
implanted and fostered. The intention of the volume will account to
the reader for what may seem a want of connected and exhaustive
treatment of the subject, and for the iteration of the same principles
in various connections. The author ventures to hope that the
following hints and suggestions will not prove the less practically
useful to busy parents, because they rest on profound educational
principles.
 CONTENTS

BOOK I

THEORY

CHAPTER I
page
the family 3

CHAPTER II
parents as rulers 12

CHAPTER III
parents as inspirers (part i) 20

CHAPTER IV
parents as inspirers (part ii ) 29

CHAPTER V
parents as inspirers (part iii) 39

CHAPTER VI
parents as inspirers (part iv ) 48
 CHAPTER VII
the parent as schoolmaster 58

CHAPTER VIII
the culture of character (part i) 66

CHAPTER IX
the culture of character (part ii ) 79

CHAPTER X
bible lessons 88

CHAPTER XI
faith and duty (part i) 96

CHAPTER XII
faith and duty (part ii ) 111

CHAPTER XIII
faith and duty (part iii) 122

CHAPTER XIV
the heroic impulse 134

CHAPTER XV
is it possible? 143

CHAPTER XVI
discipline 160
 CHAPTER XVII
sensations and feelings (part i) 169

CHAPTER XVIII
sensations and feelings (part ii ) 181

CHAPTER XIX
“what is truth?” 192

CHAPTER XX
show cause why 201

CHAPTER XXI
herbartian pedagogics 211

CHAPTER XXII
the teaching of the “parents’ national
educational union” (part i) 220

CHAPTER XXIII
the teaching of the “parents’ national
educational union” (part ii ) 228

CHAPTER XXIV
whence and whither (part i) 242

CHAPTER XXV
whence and whither (part ii ) 250
 CHAPTER XXVI
the great recognition 260

CHAPTER XXVII
the eternal child 271

BOOK II

ESSAYS IN PRACTICAL EDUCATION

CHAPTER I
the philosopher at home 283

CHAPTER II
“attention” 303

CHAPTER III
an educational experiment 312

CHAPTER IV
dorothy elmore’s achievement: a forecast 320

CHAPTER V
consequences 346

CHAPTER VI
mrs. sedley’s tale 355
 CHAPTER VII
ability 367

CHAPTER VIII
poor mrs. jumeau! 376

CHAPTER IX
“a happy christmas to you!” 386

CHAPTER X
parents in council (part i) 395

CHAPTER XI
parents in council (part ii ) 405

CHAPTER XII
a hundred years after 413

note 429
BOOK I
THEORY
 PARENTS AND CHILDREN

CHAPTER I

THE FAMILY
“The family is the unit of the nation.”—F. D. Maurice.

It is probable that no other educational thinker has succeeded in

affecting parents so profoundly as did Rousseau. Emile is little read
now, but how many current theories of the regimen proper for
children have there their unsuspected source? Everybody knows—
and his contemporaries knew it better than we—that Jean Jacques
Rousseau had not enough sterling character to warrant him to pose
as an authority on any subject, least of all on that of education. He
sets himself down a poor thing, and we see no cause to reject the
evidence of his Confessions. We are not carried away by the charm
of his style; his “forcible feebleness” does not dazzle us. No man can
say beyond that which he is, and there is a want of grit in his
philosophic theories that removes most of them from the category of
available thought.
But Rousseau had the insight to perceive one of those patent
truths which, somehow, it takes a genius to discover; and, because
truth is indeed prized above rubies, the perception of that truth gave
him rank as a great teacher. “Is Jean Jacques also among the
prophets?” people asked, and ask still; and that he had thousands of
fervent disciples amongst the educated parents of Europe, together
with the fact that his teaching has filtered into many a secluded
home of our own day, is answer enough. Indeed, no other
educationalist has had a tithe of the influence exercised by
Rousseau. Under the spell of his teaching, people in the fashionable
world, like that Russian Princess Galitzin, forsook society, and went
off with their children to some quiet corner where they could devote
every hour of the day, and every power they had, to the fulfilment of
the duties which devolve upon parents. Courtly mothers retired from
the world, sometimes even left their husbands, to work hard at the
classics, mathematics, sciences, that they might with their own lips
instruct their children. “What else am I for?” they asked; and the
feeling spread that the bringing up of the children was the one work
of primary importance for men and women.
Whatever extravagance he had seen fit to advance, Rousseau
would still have found a following, because he had chanced to touch
a spring that opened many hearts. He was one of the few
educationalists who made his appeal to the parental instincts. He did
not say, “We have no hope of the parents, let us work for the
children!” Such are the faint-hearted and pessimistic things we say
to-day. What he said was, in effect, “Fathers and mothers, this is
your work, and you only can do it. It rests with you, parents of young
children, to be the saviours of society unto a thousand generations.
Nothing else matters. The avocations about which people weary
themselves are as foolish child’s play compared with this one serious
business of bringing up our children in advance of ourselves.”
People listened, as we have seen; the response to his teaching
was such a letting out of the waters of parental enthusiasm as has
never been known before nor since. And Rousseau, weak and little
worthy, was a preacher of righteousness in this, that he turned the
hearts of the fathers to the children, and so far made ready a people
prepared for the Lord. But alas! having secured the foundation, he
had little better than wood, hay, and stubble to offer to the builders.
Rousseau succeeded, as he deserved to succeed, in awaking
many parents to the binding character, the vast range, the profound
seriousness of parental obligations. He failed, and deserved to fail,
as he offered his own crude conceits by way of an educational code.