Short stories and selections for use in the secondary schools — Key Ideas to Explore

Contrast as a Pedagogical Tool

The editorial questions repeatedly foreground contrast. In the excerpt from John Hay's Life of Lincoln, the footnote directs: "Point out instances of contrast in this selection." Hay's own prose builds on oppositions—"the fire of a reformer and a martyr" versus "cautious and practical statecraft," a hope for "absolute justice" paired with a patience "like that of nature." The question invites students to see how Hay structures his tribute through antithesis. Similarly, in the selection from Samuel White Baker's "The Elephants That Struck," the narrative contrasts the elephants' physical might with their growing despondency: "the elephants' intelligence was acting against them—they had reasoned, and had become despondent." The implied pedagogical move is to treat contrast not as a decorative device but as a key to meaning.

The Elephant's Reasoning: Animal Agency in Baker's Anthology

One of the most striking excerpts is Samuel White Baker's account of elephants on a mountain road in Ceylon. The animals sicken and die not from lack of food but from despair: "they had reasoned, and had become despondent." The narrative attributes to them a capacity for inference—they concluded "that there was no summit to the mountain, and no end to the steep and horrible ascent." This moment of animal cognition is unusual in early twentieth-century school readers, which often present animals as instinct-driven. Baker's prose grants the elephants a form of tragic awareness. The accompanying footnote (not shown in the excerpt) likely would have asked students to consider how the elephants' intelligence shapes the story's outcome. The selection thus offers a case study in how nonhuman perspectives can drive narrative tension.

The Editor's Voice in the Footnotes

Baker's editorial presence is felt most directly in the footnotes appended to each selection. These are not mere comprehension checks but interpretive prompts. After the Hay excerpt, the footnote asks: "Do you know any facts of Lincoln's life that would support some of these statements?" and "What qualities of Lincoln seem most to impress the writer?" The questions assume that students will move between the text and external knowledge, and that they will distinguish between the author's claims and their own inferences. Another question—"Can you point to anything in Lincoln's addresses that proves the correctness of the popular judgment of him?"—treats the addresses as evidence to be weighed. The footnotes thus model a method of reading that is analytical, comparative, and evidence-based, rather than passive or appreciative.

Baker's anthology is best approached not as a treasury of great works but as a document of early twentieth-century literary pedagogy. The selections are chosen for their teachability, and the footnotes reveal a consistent emphasis on close reading, contrast, and evidence-based argument. Readers interested in the history of education or in the construction of literary canons will find here a concrete example of how texts were framed for classroom use. The excerpts, though incomplete, offer a window into the intellectual habits that Baker sought to cultivate.

I found myself thinking of my old school anthology the other day, and how its gentle questions about character lingered with me. That patient weighing of choices felt strangely familiar, like a conversation I’d had before. It led me back to A Compilation of the Messages and Papers of the Presidents. Volume 1, part 2: John Adams — Context and Discussion, where the quiet dignity of public duty seemed to echo the same old-fashioned care for conduct.