The Work of David Wills

THAT DAVID WILLS HAS RECENTLY LEFT Bodeham Manor in Herefordshire, the school he ran for maladjusted children, provides a moment to assess his work over the past 35 years. What have been the essentials of his method in the three places, Hawkspur, Barns, and Bodenham, with which his name is associated, what has been his influence, through them and through his books, outside?

As a young man he was on the staff at the Wallingford Farm Training Colony. Then he was a strict disciplinarian: indeed his toughness with his colleagues has remained, and it has enabled him to wage a continual struggle with the several Ministries concerned with child care. But he has had the humility and courage entirely to change his methods and has made explicit the futility of a discipline based upon fear, the more especially if it is intended to be therapeutic. Then he could walk into a rowdy room and command absolute silence by a mere glance. This had gradually been attained, despite being mobbed and stoned at one point, by superior physical strength and quite vicious, cuffing. He himself in sheer panic at losing control, had ruled by fear.

One is reminded of the admission by Makarenko of the occasions, when he used to patrol the Gorki Colony at night with a gun. Having thus established his authority he dispensed with the gun, but despite the veneration with which succeeding generations regarded him, his work of curing was to this extent vitiated. Notoriously Makarenko was lacking in psychological insight and depended almost exclusively upon the therapy of work. The value of this of course was understood by Homer Lane, independently and before him in time, and has been followed in this country by Wills, Balbernie and Lennhoff. Outside the Soviet Union, Makarenko's influence in conjunction with that of Hermann Lietz and Gustav Wyneken in Germany and Poland at the beginning of the century has found its fullest expression in the "work basis" of Youth Aliyah in settling immigrant adolescents in children's villages and schools within the Kibbutzim in Israel.

From Wallington, Wills went to Woodbrook, the Quaker training college in Birmingham where he met Ruth who was to become his wife, and whence he gained a scholarship to go to the USA to take the course for psychiatric social workers. Though this is not a recognised qualification in Britain it did in fact become the prototype for the Mental Health training for PSWs this side of the Atlantic.

Temperamentally perhaps Wills was incapable of being a drill sergeant. Thus, Quaker that he is, early in 1935, he wrote an article in the Friend suggesting bolder experiment in the treatment of young offenders. And at this time Miss Ciceley Craven of the Howard League for Penal Reform put him in touch with a remarkable psychiatrist, Marjorie Franklin, who had just formed the Q Camps Committee with the same purpose in mind. Together she as part of the Treatment and Selection team in London*, he as Camp Chief in Essex, worked out another kind of discipline.

*With Dr. Norman Glaister of Grith Pioneers, and Dr. Denis Carroll of the Institute for the Scientific Treatment of Delinquency, and Otto Shaw, educational psychologist, already headmaster of Redhill School for maladjusted boys, now at Maidstone.

The purpose of Q Camps was to provide training in a free environment on sympathetic and individual lines, for young men who — mainly through environmental causes — presented difficulties in social adjustment or had been in unfortunate circumstances (whether or not they were actual law breakers).

In the summer of 1936 Q Camps Committee bought a 26 acre field near Great Bardfield in Essex. Wills, his team of helpers and the young men lived in tents while they set themselves about the task of cultivating the land and building themselves living quarters which they began to occupy by November. The element of pioneering thus implied was an essential ingredient in the method of treatment. In the Hawkspur Experiment, from which a long extract follows, Wills describes the four years of this work with pristine freshness, and reveals his famous "attitude" which later writing has only served to elaborate in different forms.

"Protagonists of the 'give him a bit of discipline' school argue" he says, "that discipline gives a chap time for reflection, makes him think a bit, makes him face up to things and so forth. It may give him the opportunity for all these things, but what it dismally fails to provide is the stimulus. Only freedom can do that, and the process is not a painless one. Those who believe in "making it hot" for the offender think they can do so by means of a rigid discipline. They would be surprised if they knew how many there are who simply love it. They will be even more surprised, and, I fear incredulous, when I tell them that by avoiding discipline of the authoritarian type we can make it much "hotter" for them — though that is of course a by-product, and not our aim. Under a system of rigid discipline Tom would simply have groused as he did at Hawkspur and would never have had the opportunity which our freedom gave him of beginning to learn that the fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars but in ourselves, that we are unhappy.

Two things contribute to the discomfort of the campers. One is that they come to us hating themselves, and displace their hatred onto the camp. The other is the very fact of being free, of having to discipline one's self, instead of being disciplined by others is a burden. So we have to temper the wind to the shorn lamb by providing just as much discipline as they need — and they create it themselves through the medium of the Camp Council. So now we see self government in a new light. It is not merely a privilege that is bestowed upon them because we superior mortals think the experience might be useful for them. It is an absolute necessity to enable them to set a term to the horrors of personal self-discipline which we have thrust upon them by refusing to be authoritarian. And as they control the machinery they can roughly suit it to their needs. Thus we have the man who is notoriously the untidiest, himself suggesting that there be a fine of one penny for untidy bunks.

But there is still more than all that in this freedom. Probably the most important aspect is one upon which I have not yet touched.

The youths who come to Hawkspur Camp are in some sense disordered. They are not whole. When I say they are not whole I do not mean they are not all there. 1 do not mean their minds are deranged (though we have had some of those). I mean that they are — if you like — socially sick. More accurately, they are emotionally deranged or disordered. In so far as they are sick, we have to get as complete a clinical picture as possible in order to know how to set about the cure. We get to know as much about their past history as we can. But the amount we are able to get is limited, and not always reliable. We must therefore rely in a large measure upon our own observation of the symptoms. What would you think of a doctor who tried to blind himself to the symptoms of his patient and then had the temerity to say that as he could see no symptoms there was nothing wrong with the patient? That is what we should be doing if we were to subject our members to an imposed discipline. By making it impossible for them to diverge from a certain pattern of behaviour we should make it impossible to see when and where, and with how much force, they would diverge under normal circumstances. It is possible for a person under discipline never to display a single symptom, and go out into the world again quite untouched. But in the freedom of Hawkspur we see them as they really are. Very often the symptom complained of in the lad's history does not show itself even at Hawkspur, where we usually bring out the worst in everybody, but others, usually more revealing, take their place. We must never lose sight of the fact that delinquency is not in itself the thing we are out to cure. The delinquency is only the symptom, and when the disease is cured, the symptom will disappear.

Let us take a few examples of boys who were sent to us with apparently the same symptom but in whom, in the freedom of the camp, totally different "diseases" were discovered and treated.

"Slosher" Hare stole from cigarette machines; Charley Horsfall stole from his employer; Hans Schmidt stole from his schoolfellows. All had the same outstanding symptom, and if we had known no more about them than that — how little should we have known. Actually we did know, even when they first came, a little more about them than that — we knew something of their backgrounds. Slosher had been brought up in a "home". Charley came from a highly respectable, religious, lower middle-class family with a nice house in the suburbs of a provincial town. Hans was a German Jew, whose mother was the widow of an impecunious professor. Well-meaning friends had brought him over from Hitler's Germany and sent him to a well-known public school.

We watched them.

If he had had to stand to attention, or say "sir" every time he spoke to me, I should never have known that Hans was wearing a mask. Everyone who stands to attention wears a mask. Everyone who speaks to a "superior" wears a mask. But masks at Hawkspur are unusual. Hans had been dreadfully hurt and was ashamed to show any sign of it. At sixteen, he was, apparently, cold, sophisticated, and unapproachable. But you can't keep that up for long at Hawkspur, and when he found that I could talk to him about his misdemeanours with no hint of condemnation he began to thaw.

We continued to watch.

We found him showing off. We found him at all points trying to show his superiority to other members of the camp. What, under "discipline", do you do with the swanker? You take him down a peg. Not so us — we all we could to give him something to swank about. This showing off helped us to interpret his background, and confirmed our suspicions. Tall, well built, handsome, he had been in Germany an object of contempt and worse because of his race. Then he came to England and lived among a lot of young gentlemen whose chief criterion of excellence seemed to be the amount of money a fellow could throw about. He had practically none. His crushed ego was crying out for approbation, after his experiences in Germany, and now it could be acquired by means of money. So he got the money. Then he was discovered and the last state was worse than the first. He sank to the depths of misery and shame, and was hurt so cruelly that he had to wear a mask to hide his pain and shame. All his efforts to secure approbation had brought him only lower than ever, but with a little sympathy he was ready to start again — one is pretty resilient at sixteen. Once he was ready to start again we had to put in his way opportunities for restoring his self-respect. As they came along, he took them with avidity. It worked. He has never looked back since. But we were only able to discover so much about him because we had no artificial barriers separating us. He "did as he liked," and we were able to get to know him. Charley Horsfall and Slosher Hare were contemporaries at the camp — Hans had been much earlier. But like Hans they had both been pilferers — and we watched them, too. Hans never stole anything all the time he was with us, but Charley and Slosher did. Slosher, brought up in an orphanage, stole exotic ties and shirts from Adrian. Charley pilfered money all over the place, and always took pains to be found out. Slosher was a dreadful little bully. Charley, ten years older and nearly twice as big, was his chief victim. Slosher then was probably passing on what he had earlier received. A little enquiry proved this to be true — a bullying father, a mother no better than she should be, before he went to the "home". He had never been loved, and his stealing was probably the symbolical stealing of affection. A rough-and-ready diagnosis? Perhaps so. But one for which the appropriate medicine can never do anyone any harm. We gave it to Slosher, and it cured him.

Charley was a tougher nut to crack. He always saw to it, by some silly mistake or unconscious slip, that his pilferings were discovered. He took merciless beatings from little Slosher without a murmur. He was anxious to become an evangelist. What did all these symptoms point to? They pointed to a tremendous accretion of guilt feelings, crying out for punishment. He wanted to be an evangelist because he had identified himself with all the sinners who need to be saved — a very frequent kind of mental somersault. His silly mistakes leading to his thefts being discovered betokened a wish for punishment. But we never gave it to him. On the contrary I, a Quaker and a pacifist, even encouraged him to hit back when Slosher sloshed him. I even went so far as to encourage him to use bad language. Why? Because although I am not an authoritarian I did represent authority to Charley. And Authority told him there's nothing to feel guilty about in sticking up for yourself; there's nothing very frightful, meriting eternal damnation, in using a few cuss words. Authority even went so far as to give him the money he stole from time to time, so that he could replace it before it could be discovered, and Authority — from whom he first got ideas about guilt — (though Authority then spoke through other lips) was now telling him that he really did not deserve all that punishment. All that, I admit, was mere scratching at the surface, and we needed also the help of the psychotherapist. But gradually — oh, very gradually — we were able to undermine the idea that Charley was a sinful creature who must continually seek punishment. When he began to use bad language freely, and with a sense of enjoyment, we were positively pleased, because it meant that he was no longer piling up future punishments for himself every time he committed some trifling offence.

It had been Charley's practice to procure punishment for himself by getting himself sacked from his jobs. He's been holding one down for nearly two years now, so we hope the trick is done.

Now — here were three pilferers. Three youths whose manifest symptom was the same. But they had three totally different "diseases". Only by watching for their other symptoms in an atmosphere in which they were quite free to display them could we find those other symptoms, relate them to what we knew of their history, make a diagnosis, and effect a cure."

As hinted at above, the Camp Council was the forerunner of the several forms of shared responsibility which Wills developed both at Barns and at Bodenham. It provided a means of maintaining a modicum of order which, releasing the adults from the role of authority figures, set them free to exert other influences. There were several occasions when shared responsibility broke down, and the consequent period of "anarchy" as Wills calls it, was eventually replaced by the boys themselves reconvening the Council in order to re-establish "law and order". Similar experiences are reported by A. S. Neill at Summerhill who nevertheless says that everybody is heartily glad when "anarchy" comes to an end on account of the discomfort and disorganisation. Yet they then look back to the interim as a sort of golden age when everybody did everything he should and everything went smoothly, for they love the feeling that they no longer have the responsibility of anything at all, and can sit back and watch things slide with no accretion of guilt. "One of the greatest difficulties about self government," says Wills, "is that in the main people do not care to accept responsibility unless they are very well rewarded." And it is clear that he advocates it as a therapeutic measure, not because it is an efficient method of administration.

This raises the question of what we mean by self-government and what are its positive educational benefits? Though there was a Citizens Court at the Little Commonwealth, for similar reasons as those advocated by Wills, Homer Lane constantly pointed out that by self-government he meant self regulation which could be applied to a baby in his eating, in his playing with fire, or to an adolescent in his responsibility for his own studies or bread and butter work. Obviously this is not the same thing as the administration of a community — for many people's minds do not work in terms of committee procedures. Indeed Wills himself confesses that, after more than 30 years, the type of questions and the suggested solutions that arise at Children's Councils have been repeated so often that they have become utterly boring to him. George Lyward (in Problems of Child Development), interestingly enough writes: "Children's committees and courts can be misleading. We mustn't imagine we are creating good democrats when we are merely training debaters and lawyers … It is as recurring opportunities of breaking up the institutional soil that self government should chiefly be welcomed and emulated."

Furthermore as A. T. Barron (Bunny of Hawkspur) has hazarded, Wills makes use of shared responsibility as a therapeutic tool which succeeds because it is a method that enables the children to verbalise their problems.

This is a most revealing suggestion. It shows Wills as a patient teacher who excels in the use of words himself. Two points follow from this. One is that as he is not a teacher by profession, and on account of the mis-handling that many children have received at their schools and their consequent distaste and oppositional attitude to them Wills has discounted the influence of school as being narrow (3 Rs only) and negative. Secondly, this in fact takes nothing away from the therapeutic effects of a good teacher of which Wills is a brilliant example — only he has chosen to practise his trade outside the walls of a classroom. Indeed he has often said that schools for Maladjusted Children should be under the Ministry of Health rather than of Education.

In Throw Away Thy Rod (p.130) Wills talks conventionally about the relatively dull round of the classroom where one does "sums" and similar things, while at the same time describing the enormous benefits to be derived from active pursuits like gardening, woodwork, clay modelling; and in the Barns Experiment the therapeutic consequences of oil painting which were taught by his first wife, Ruth. Why are these activities not counted as school? And why no place for drama, from which the study of literature and history may follow, and of dancing in which some children find their most valid form of expression?

In the Barns Experiment, p.102, Wills adds:

"the rest of us had to teach the class for the short afternoon session. We gave them woodwork, poetry, painting, handiwork and what not — in short we undertook to keep them constructively occupied … the position in effect would be that the Citizens' Association would run its own little school … One or two of the older boys began to ask me for individual work in their weak subjects, so that when they left school they would at least be able to meet ordinary situations. Out of this arose a modified form of the sub-Dalton Plan by which there were weekly assignments in each subject, and freedom to arrange work according to individual needs. A balanced minimum of work was required and a weekly meeting of the group was held at which each week's work was considered."

To the present writer such extra-classroom activities lead from play to form the basis for art and comprise the very essence of education which it is the business of the teacher to teach albeit in a persuasive and enlightened manner. Neither Lane nor Neill understood this; and Wills, unwittingly it seems, has taught the power of words through his Council Meetings. Oddly enough the best teachers in L.E.A. schools do develop self government by their pupils in the responsibility and interest they share in their own studies.

Wills admirably describes the qualities needed by a teacher and the contrary characteristics so often found:

"The kind of thing I have in mind" he says "involves a real affective relationship between the teacher and the child in his class. I mean liking — indeed loving — each individual child for himself alone and letting him know it. How many spinster teachers have become sour and withered for no reason than that they were afraid to do just that?

…the fact is that people have forgotten what respect means — if they ever knew; and I think the time has come for a recognition of its real meaning … One does not need to be a profound etymologist to realise that to look again is to respect. A person we respect is one at whom we are willing to look again."

In passing he mentions Pestalozzi:

"You may remember he lived in the most primitive circumstances with the children in his care. He had an inadequate staff (numerically) and little money. He shared their life in every particular, and very little of his life could have been hidden from them. They saw him literally with his trousers down, and I fancy they had a great deal of genuine respect for him."

The mention of Pestalozzi, a child care worker trying to repair the ravages of the Napoleonic wars, and who himself acknowledges his debt to Rousseau — most of whose ideas are to be found in John Locke who died in England in 1704 — at least suggests that Wills' principles are not new — as he himself is inclined to say — but have been forgotten or disregarded.

From the time of Alcuin of St. Peter's School at York in the 8th century, throughout the period of the rise of the Universities in medieval England, and during the 19th century the main provider of education has incontestably been the Church. In the past hundred years responsibility for this provision has been more and more taken over by the Government and the Local Education Authorities.
But the strands of enlightenment, the initiation of reforms, the values underlying a persuasive discipline throughout this time have been promoted outside the world of the Church, by small bands of thinkers and practitioners who have stuck to their independence and undeniably influenced the state system.

The justification for the continuance of fee-paying independent schools such as Bedales, Dartington, King Alfred, Frensham, Summerhill and the rest is that they also demonstrate this, whereas the L.E.A. school does not. The independent school's autonomy in the special field we are considering — Lennhoff's Shotton Hall, Lyward's Finchden Manor, or the Dockar Drysdale's Mulberry Bush near Oxford — safeguards a vitality and individuality outside the tradition of Church and State. Thus it would seem to be shallow thinking on Wills' part to attribute some of the causes of present day delinquency rates, as he does in his latest book Common Sense about Young Offenders (Gollancz 1962) to the decline in religion and consequent looseness of marriage. To grasp the centuries old predicament of the Church and its falling away from Christianity we perhaps need only look at Tolstoy's readings from the Sermon on the Mount, to see that this is not a contemporary decline.

As for the family, along with much else, this has been shaken by the disruptions and uncertainties of the atomic age. But Bowlby and Aichhorn before him have conclusively shown proneness to delinquency and maladjustment to be an outcome of the quality of early relationships, and opportunities for self-assertion, no matter what the family's legal form. Readers of this journal moreover, have recently been reminded of that healthier society envisaged by Charles Fourier (ANARCHY 10) or of Paul Goodman's New Commune (ANARCHY 11). where the economic unit has ceased to be the monogamous family, and where children are valued, enjoyed and accepted whatever their parentage.

It is not surprising that Wills, who in the years before 1936 was Warden of a settlement in Wales under the Worcestershire education authority, and then housemaster in a Borstal, should be able to distinguish clearly between the assumptions of the Approved Schools and Local Authority Home on the one hand, and the independent school for maladjusted children on the other. He shows in chapter II of Throw Away Thy Rod that both, fortuitously, receive the same type of child (delinquent or maladjusted: what is the difference?) but that the Approved Schools are inhibited from making a therapeutic approach by the nature of their origins and tradition — though some individuals in them struggle valiantly towards it.

Extraordinarily clear evidence of this has just been given in R. H. Ward's book The Hidden Boy (Cassell 1962) about the Cotswold Approved School, founded by C. A. Joyce twenty years ago. By the Magistrates and Home Office officials, Joyce is supposed to be exceedingly progressive. Listen to this discussion:

Ward: Would it be true to say that you use corporal punishment more now than you used to?
Joyce: I still use it only for the offences for which I used to use it. But there are more of those offences; there's more violence from the other side. Here, of course, I'm going straight into boiling water with the people who say you can't cure force by the use of force.
Ward: It's a question of boys using violence, here in this school, and of you answering them with it.
Joyce: I don't like violence in any form, on my side or theirs. But the fact remains that I will not have violence on theirs, and 1 have to say to them, 'Now we are no longer discussing something; I am telling you categorically that I just will not have it, and that, if necessary, I will restrain you physically from using it!' Dickens said that those who cannot be persuaded by reason must be compelled by force, and I agree with that. I have to whether I like it or not.
Ward: Isn't it a matter of being realistic — regrettable though the realism of human existence may sometimes be. Of course reason with a chap, if reason will touch him at a particular moment; of course love him, if love will touch him at a particular moment — and if you can love him. But if you're sure that you've nothing with which to touch him but a force superior to his own, then there is nothing else you can do but use that force. It's a pity, but there it is. It won't cure anything I'd say, or prevent a future recurrence. But it's a temporary relief.
Joyce: I'd put it this way too. As a Headmaster or Prison Governor I'm prepared to give you an absolute guarantee that I will not use force on you unless you start it. So, you see the responsibility is yours.
Ward: And that in fact is the line you take here?
Joyce: Yes, except that, when you're dealing with boys the question of deterrence does sometimes enter into things other than violence on their part.
Ward: And corporal punishment is used as a deterrent. For what sort of things?
Joyce: When the nesting season began, a thrush built her nest in the willow tree by our stream. All the boys knew it was there and many of us, as we passed, used to go and take a quiet look at the bird while she was sitting. Then an egg disappeared. I said to the boys. 'Please will you leave the thrush's nest alone; one egg has gone. I hope she won't desert, but if any more are taken, she may.' Almost immediately after Hall, where I'd been talking, the boy who'd taken the first egg went and took another. I was very angry and said 'I asked you to leave the nest alone. Now leave it alone, or else I'll take a hand in the matter'. Within two hours the boy took another egg. 'Right', I said, 'You bend over that chair', and I beat him. When it was over I asked him if he wanted to say anything, and he said 'It's all your fault'. 'All my fault? Why?' 'You should have done this the first time', he said 'then it wouldn't have happened again because I'd have known you meant it'. That story at least illustrates my reluctance to use corporal punishment, without first a request and then an order; and that in this case neither of those was effective. That's an awfully interesting story. There are several things I want to know. First there must have been a particularly powerful element of defiance in the boy to go at once and take another egg — and on two occasions — mustn't there? Then he must have known a lot about himself to say you should have beaten him at once if you wanted to stop him. And would the same course of events have arisen with another boy?
Joyce: I don't think he did it because he was specially defiant. He did it, and went on doing it, because he was banking on the fact that, if I caught him, I'd only jaw. And that partly answers the point about him being knowledgeable about himself. I think it was rather that he was piqued that he'd misunderstood the Old Man when he'd assumed that all he'd do was talk.
Ward: Rather like Hitler on another occasion perhaps.
Joyce: As to whether it would have been the same with another boy, I'd want to know the other boy first.
Ward: I might have known you'd say that.
Joyce: One boy you could talk to very firmly after he'd taken the first egg, and that would be enough. Another you could break down completely by saying 'This poor mother thrush, having lost her offspring, which you can't possibly replace —' and so on. But for this chap his own diagnosis was right. I ought to have been severe the first time, or at any rate, the second. In fact I ought to have known him better. As for other instances of using corporal punishment for offences other than violent ones, I sometimes use it for a persistent absconder. Not because he is a persistent absconder but because a stage may be reached at which you have to say, I've tried every other weapon in my armoury — chatting, advising, pleading, showing you the trouble and worry it is to your mother and a whole lot of other people — but apparently they make no impression. You leave me no option but to beat you. Perhaps that won't work either, but I can't ignore the fact that so far it hasn't been tried.'
Ward: Does beating sometimes not work?
Joyce: Oh, yes. Then you have to fall back on solitary confinement.

The reader will perhaps not need the present writer to comment upon Joyce's "absolute guarantee", nor his attitude that because he can think of nothing else there must be some value in beating; nor his total exclusion of the possibility of regarding the "defiant" birdnesting as symptomatic, nor as a matter to be dealt with by the other boys as part of their own education, nor that thus to punish will either merely change the symptom, or drive it underground to flower again in a more virulent form.

The significance of Wills' method is to be found not merely in the doing away with punishment but in the alternative basis for a persuasive discipline that he laboriously builds up. For this is an example of non-violence in action and provides the beginning of an answer to those who ask how society can be protected from the "criminal", or from a fascist group that threatens to seize power, without resort to police and armed forces.

Bibliographical note:
W. David Wills: The HAWKSPUR Experiment, an informal account of the training of wayward adolescence. 193 pp.
Allen and Unwin, 1941. A/B Ljus Forag, Stockholm, 1943.
W. David Wills: The BARNS Experiment, 148 pp.
Allen and Unwin, 1945.
W. David Wills: Throw Away Thy Rod, living with difficult children. 159 pp.
Gollancz, 1960.
W. David Wills: Common Sense about Young Offenders.
Gollancz, 1962.
Edited by Marjorie E. Franklin: Q Camp, an epitome of experiences at Hawkspur Camp. Articles by C. K. Rutter, Marjorie Franklin, David Wills, T. C. Bodsworth, Arthur Barron, Norman Glaister, Hermann Mannheim. 56 pp. Obtainable from Howard League for Penal Reform, 1943.
W. David Wills: Eliminating Punishment in the residential treatment of troublesome Boys and Young Men. 32 pp. (Includes extracts from the Barns Experiment and from an unpublished work on the place of punishment in a Christian society).
Psychological & Social Series, 10 Nottingham Place, W.1. 1946.
— Problems of Child Development. 94 pp. Several contributors including David Wills on Shared Responsibility and G. A. Lyward In Conclusion.
New Education Fellowship Monograph, 1948.
P. Dockar Drysdale: Some Aspects of Damage & Restitution, British Journal of Delinquency, July 1953. Vol. IV, No.1, p4-13.
W. David Wills: Continuity in Child Care, proceedings of a conference of the Fédération Internationale des Communauteé d'Enfants, 1961. 18 pp.
Obtainable (9d.) from Hon. Sec., HARTFIELD, Roehampton Lane, S.W.15.
John Bowlby: Fourty-Four Juvenile Thieves: their characters and home-life.
56 pp. Baillière, Tindall & Cox, 1947.
August Aichhorn: Wayward Youth. Vienna, 1925. Reprinted London, Imago, 1951. 236 pp.