Later. First, I would go across the street to the Hall of North America, among the bear and the bison, and catch up on America flora and fauna. I made my way to the Hall. More children, sitting in rows on canvas chairs. An elementary class from a city school, under the control of an elderly teacher. A museum attendant holding a basket, and all eyes gazing at the basket.
“Oh,” I said. “Is this a private lesson? Is it all right for me to be here?” The attendant was brisk. “Surely. We’re having a lesson in snake handling,” he said. “It’s something new. Get the children young and teach them that every snake they meet is not to be killed. People seem to think that every snake has to be knocked on the head. So we’re getting them young and teaching them.” May I watch?” I said. “Surely. This is a common grass snake. No harm, no harm at all. Teach the children to learn the feel of them, to lose their fear.” He turned to the teacher. “Now, miss-mrs. He said. Miss Aitcheson.