My mummy took me to school the first day I went. After we got into the school she took me to the teacher who put me in a seat. The teacher drew a house on the blackboard and told the class about it. After a little, I started to cry because I wanted home to mummy to help her with the work. The teacher said that mummy would manage without me and I must stay at school.

For most children, this initial strangeness soon passed and they settled down to enjoy their first acquaintance with school life.

At Park Place, great stress had been placed on the "3 R's" but the staff had also tried to make the day enjoyable as well as instructive. This tradition, which had served generations of pupils so well, was carried over into the Perth Road primary. Great importance was laid on reading, writing and arithmetic and teaching was characterised by a considerable amount of learning by rote:

When I was in the infants class, I hated standing up and saying tables, or adding an £.s.d. sum, which was beyond my thinking power then. Of course it is different now, but I am still not too fond of repeating a table which has not been learned the night before.

Doubtless many former pupils would echo these sentiments for the homework task of learning the "six times table" or memorising "ten new spelling words" was an essential part of a pupil's day in the primary. The school day was not just a dreary round of repetitive exercises, however, for it was interspersed with other more enjoyable pursuits:

Art is one of the subjects where you can get a shock. For instance, one draws a house and is asked if it is an elephant without any legs, and with its trunk on its back. The artist sometimes finds the painting that he (or she) did blobbed all over the page by some "kind friend" who has leaned over a little too far.

Such pastimes made a welcome break in the school day but the need to acquire a high standard of literacy, numeracy and other vital skills was considered of paramount importance and these skills were rigorously checked by regular examinations.

For children in the primary department, the most important of these regular exams was the Qualifying or "eleven-plus" examination. This was a com bination of written tests in English and Mathematics and an intelligence test, and was particularly important since the mark scored determined the level of secondary class into which a pupil was transferred. While most pupils in the Harris primary were expected to continue their secondary education within the school, this was not an automatic process. Anyone failing to attain a high enough standard in the Qualifying exam would be refused admission into the senior school and instead be transferred to one of the junior secondary schools in the town.

For pupils gaining entry to the secondary department, the move to the south block brought both new surroundings and new subjects:

The art rooms with their delightful pictures posted on the walls; the English room with its drawing of the Canterbury Pilgrims and the chart of English authors and their dates which has done yeoman service to many a leaving certificate candidate; the Maths rooms, their only mural decorations consisting of the cube of x + y, the graph of y = sin x and similar works of art. The middle corridor will chiefly be remembered for the odours, pleasant or otherwise, which issue from its science labs.

The move also brought new classmates. To present-day pupils, accustomed to mixed-ability form groups based around the house system, the organisation of classes would appear strange. Classes were organised on the basis of ability with the mark attained in the Qualifying exam at the end of primary determining the form group in which a pupil was placed. Thus a pupil might have found himself or herself in classes such as 1A Boys or 1B2 Girls. Although many subjects were common to all classes, there was some variation in curriculum. The more academic "A" stream, for example, would normally have studied Latin while the "B" stream spent more time at practical subjects such as domestic science or woodwork.

Present-day pupils would also find the division of classes by sex unusual. This policy of separate boys and girls classes began in the primary department and continued through the early years of secondary, although some of the smaller groups for more specialised subjects might be mixed. This policy of segregation was not confined to the classroom for the boys and girls had separate playgrounds divided by an iron railing and cloakroom and toilet facilities for each sex were located at opposite ends of the building.

Classes tended to be large. This was particularly true of the first three years of secondary for many pupils left when they reached the school leaving age of fourteen. To accommodate these large numbers, classrooms normally had about forty desks but, at times, even this was inadequate:

Classes were very large and I well remember a class of 48 first year girls in what is now room 41. It had precisely 36 desks and, in two double rows, every three girls had to share two desks. It was particularly hard on the middle girl, for often the seats were at different levels !

For those staying on after the school leaving age, however, classes were much smaller for the total number continuing their education was only a fraction of the large numbers in the senior school of today.

One element of school life was common to all pupils, however, for no one escaped the mental exertions of the three-times-yearly exams. These could be a slightly intimidating exercise. One former pupil, for example, can still remember vividly the feeling of trepidation with which she approached her first exam in the "big hall", a feeling which was intensified by the discovery that the passage used for the dictation test was to be read, not by her English teacher, but by the Rector. After the exams themselves came the wait for the results. These were formally entered into a record card which had to be inspected and signed by the parents, and woe betide any pupil whose conduct was recorded as unsatisfactory.

For the senior pupils, the pressure of exams was even more intense for they had to prepare for the vital leaving certificates, which were still taken in groups of subjects. As always, the pupils indulged in the time-honoured custom of "spotting" questions, a process sometimes tinged with a touch of desperation:

You may remember that in March, 1938 there was a certain craze which held sway in both fifth and fourth year cloakrooms, namely, the foretelling of the future by means of a moving tumbler. A tumbler is placed on a smooth, flat surface and round about are pieces of paper bearing the letters of the alphabet and the words "yes" and "no". All those interested in the art, or who believe they are psychic, place their index finger lightly on the rim of the upturned tumbler. Somebody, preferably the sweetest of those present, begs the tumbler in honeyed tones to reveal to them the hidden mysteries of the future. By what means I do not yet know, the tumbler moves from letter to letter spelling out the answer.

At the time of the Leaving Exam., the popularity and belief in the tumbler were at their height and every day we gathered round anxiously saying, "Will we get Bismarck in the History?" The tumbler said, "Yes". "Will we get Wordsworth or Coleridge in the Literature?" The tumbler swithered and eventually went to Wordsworth. Fifth year were overjoyed. Here was a simple means of discovering what subjects to swot up without undue waste of effort.

By the time the exams came round, we knew the History and English questions off by heart, but we had not calculated with the perverse natures of the examiners. Consequently, no Bismarck appeared, Wordsworth got lost, and Barrie of all people appeared instead of him.

Perhaps this tale holds some kind of moral for pupils sitting the "O" Grades (Standard Grades) and Highers nowadays?

All classes were fee-paying, ranging from £4 a year in the infants to £6 a year for the early years of secondary. Although these amounts seem small to modern eyes, they could represent a burden to parents with several children at the school for, in addition, all textbooks and required materials had also to be purchased. This had the unfortunate result that many pupils did not continue beyond the statutory leaving date. Concern over this problem soon resulted in change. In 1937, school fees were ended for pupils in the secondary department and books etc. were to be provided free. Fees were still charged in the primary department, however, and continued to be paid until the primary was finally closed in the 1960s.

While many parents would have welcomed this change, the end to fee­paying in the secondary did not mean an end to all payments since parents still had to bear the cost of school uniform. For pupils in the 1930s, this was a relatively recent development, as the distinctive maroon blazer and school tie had not always been worn in the school. A glance at photographs from Park Place provides ample evidence that school wear was far from standardised. Among the younger boys, a wide variety of clothing was worn, ranging from knickerbockers to an occasional sailor suit, while the girls wore dresses in a variety of styles and colours. Older pupils tended to be more formally dressed. The boys often wore a sober, dark suit, white shirt with starched collar, and a variety of ties while the girls followed the fashion of the times in wearing long, dark dresses with an attractive blouse.

This began to change in the 1920s. School colours first appeared in connection with the sports sides and this soon developed into the idea of a standard school uniform. This process was well underway when Park Place closed and the early years of Perth Road saw the maroon blazers of today firmly established. These blazers were decorated with the school badge but, again, this has altered over the years. In addition to the school motto, the original badge bore a representation of a crane and an outline of the Park Place building. The move to Perth Road necessitated a change and a new, tripartite design was introduced. The crane clutching a piece of gold was retained to commemorate the school's founder, since this was the arms of the Harris family. A pot of lilies, the emblem of the city of Dundee, was added and, to symbolise the value of academic excellence, the badge was completed with the lamp of learning. This design was increasingly used in the 1930s and, following the approval of the Lord Lyon King of Arms in 1935, it was universally adopted and has remained in the same form until the present day.

Although the introduction of a distinctive uniform was desirable in many ways, more than a few parents must have regretted the extra expense this involved. Then, as now, the cost of outfitting a family of growing youngsters was no small matter:

Harris Academy Blazers in best quality all-wool flannel with badge on pocket ....from 18/6

Harris Academy Jerseys and Slipovers in correct shades and settings ....from 9/6

Harris Academy stockings .... from 2/ 11 a pair

Harris Academy wool wraps .... 3/6, 4/11

Harris Academy Silk Ties .... 2/-, 2/6

Harris Academy Belts .... 2/-

While such prices might cause current parents to shake their heads in disbelief, they were in fact a considerable expenditure for the period.

The move to Perth Road also brought other changes. For many years, the dux medal awards had recognised the most academic pupils in the school but there was a need for an honour to recognise the pupils who contributed most in areas other than the purely academic. To solve this problem, the honour of school captain was introduced. At the same time, the contribution of others to the life of the school was recognised by the setting up of the Prefect system. The responsibilities resting on their shoulders have been summed up, in rather whimsical manner, by a pupil of 1932:

Sentinels of the army, motionless and grim, they stand at attention at their posts determined to do or die, imitating the brave Roman guard who fell on duty, refusing to desert in time of danger. They are the upholders of law and order and, for that cause, would willingly lay down their lives. Every forty-five minutes, there are fierce attacks on their kingdom. They see the wild batallions rush from cover at a given signal, the shrill blast of a whistle, but no sign of fear or anguish crosses their peaceful countenances. Disdainful of arms, erect and stiff, they prepare to repel the charge. Their sharp voices, like the shrill screams of deadly shells, howl over the noise of the crowds, and fear stricken silence descends on the cowed mobs. "Right! Single file!" - the sharp orders, like the cracks from rifles, have the desired effect, the attackers pass, order reigns until the next fierce assault. The severe punishments meted out to those captured deter further defaulters and so, covered with honour and glory, proudly displaying the medals won in many a hard fight - there they stand, the ghosts of the stairways - "our Prefects."

The prefects were in fact a considerable help to the staff in matters such as playground and corridor supervision and in organising the large numbers taking lunch in the dining hall. Such duties are still performed today but many current prefects must occasionally wish that they too could impose a "fear stricken silence" on the "cowed mobs" of the lunch queues.