American children are restless and mischievous.  They are on the alert for any sign of overstepping the limits of lawful authority on the part of the teacher, and they have no compunctions about forcing him to recognize that he rules by the consent of the governed, and that he must not mistake their complaisance for servility.  On the other hand, they have, with rare exceptions, a respect for the value of a teacher’s opinion in the subjects which he teaches, and will seldom contradict or oppose him in matters that pertain wholly to learning.  A class of American children which would support in every possible way one of their number in defying authority would not hesitate to make that same companion’s life a burden to him if he should set up his own opinion on abstract matters in contradiction to his teacher’s.  Except when a teacher signally proves his incapacity, American children are willing to grant the broad premise that he knows more than they do, and that, if he does not, he at least ought to know more.  Filipino children reverse this attitude.  They are quite docile, seldom think of disputing authority as applied to discipline, but they will naively cling to a position and dispute both fact and philosophy in the face of quoted authority, or explanation, or even of sarcasm.  The following anecdote illustrates this peculiarity.  It happened in my own school and is at first hand.

One of the American teachers was training a Filipino boy to make a recitation.  The boy had adopted a plan of lifting one hand in an impassioned gesture, holding it a moment, and of letting it drop, only to repeat the movement with the other hand.  After he had prolonged this action, in spite of frequent criticism, till he looked like a fragment of the ballet of “La Poupee,” the teacher lost patience.

“Domingo,” she said, “I have told you again and again not to make those pointless, mechanical gestures.  Why do you do it?  They are inappropriate and artificial, and they make you look like a fool.”

Domingo paused and contemplated her with the pity which Filipinos often display for our artistic inappreciativeness.

“Madame,” he replied in a pained voice, “you surprise me.  Those gestures are not foolishness.  They are talent.  I thought they would please you.”

In my own early days I was once criticised by one of the young ladies of Capiz for my pronunciation of the letter c in the Spanish word ciudad.  I replied that my giving the sound of th to the letter was correct Spanish, whereupon she advised me to pay no attention to the Spanish pronunciation, as the Filipinos speak better Spanish than do the Spanish themselves.  What she meant was that the avoidance of th sounds in c and z, which the Filipinos invariably pronounce like s, is an improvement to the Spanish language.  I imagined some of that young lady’s kindred ten years later arguing to prove that the Filipino corruption