THE ACTIVITY OF CHILDREN.
In order rightly to understand the true nature of that extraordinary
activity which is so noticeable in all children that are in a state of
health, so as to be able to deal with it on the right principles and in a
proper manner, it is necessary to turn our attention somewhat carefully to
certain scientific truths in respect to the nature and action of force in
general which are now abundantly established, and which throw great
light on the true character of that peculiar form of it which is so
characteristic of childhood, and is, indeed, so abundantly developed by
the vital functions of almost all young animals. One of the fundamental
principles of this system of scientific truth is that which is called the
persistence of force.
_The Persistence of Force_.
By the persistence of force is meant the principle--one now established
with so much certainty as to command the assent of every thinking man who
examines the subject--that in the ordinary course of nature no force is
either ever originated or ever destroyed, but only changed in form.
In other words, that all existing forces are but the continuation or
prolongation of other forces preceding them, either of the same or other
forms, but precisely equivalent in amount; and that no force can terminate
its action in any other way than by being transmuted into some other force,
either of the same or of some other form; but still, again, precisely
equivalent in amount.
It was formerly believed that a force might under certain circumstances
be _originated_--created, as it were--and hence the attempts to contrive
machines for perpetual motion--that is, machines for the _production_
of force. This idea is now wholly renounced by all well-informed men as
utterly impossible in the nature of things. All that human mechanism can do
is to provide modes for using advantageously a force previously existing,
without the possibility of either increasing or diminishing it. No existing
force can be destroyed. The only changes possible are changes of direction,
changes in the relation of intensity to quantity, and changes of form.
The cases in which a force is apparently increased or diminished, as well
as those in which it seems to disappear, are all found, on examination, to
be illusive. For example, the apparent increase of a man's power by the use
of a lever is really no increase at all. It is true that, by pressing upon
the outer arm with his own weight, he can cause the much greater weight
of the stone to rise; but then it will rise only a very little way in
comparison with the distance through which his own weight descends. His own
weight must, in fact, descend through a distance as much greater than that
by which the stone ascends, as the weight of the stone is greater than his
weight. In other words, so far as the balance of the forces is concerned,
the whole amount of the _downward motion_ consists of the smaller weight
descending through a greater distance, which will be equal to the whole
amount of that of the larger one ascending through a smaller distance; and,
to produce a preponderance, the whole amount of the downward force must be
somewhat greater. Thus the lever only _gathers_ or _concentrates_ force, as
it were, but does not at all increase it.
It is so with all the other contrivances for managing force for the
accomplishment of particular purposes. None of them, increase the force,
but only alter its form and character, with a view to its better adaptation
to the purpose in view.
Nor can any force be extinguished. When a bullet strikes against a solid
wall, the force of its movement, which seems to disappear, is not lost; it
is converted into heat--the temperature of both the bullet and of that part
of the wall on which it impinges being raised by the concussion. And it is
found that the amount of the heat which is thus produced is always in exact
proportion to the quantity of mechanical motion which is stopped; this
quantity depending on the weight of the bullet, and on the velocity with
which it was moving. And it has been ascertained, moreover, by the most
careful, patient, and many times repeated experiments and calculations,
that the quantity of this heat is exactly the same with that which, through
the medium of steam, or by any other mode of applying it, may be made to
produce the same quantity of mechanical motion that was extinguished in the
bullet. Thus the force was not destroyed, but only converted into another
form.
And if we should follow out the natural effects of this heat into which the
motion of the bullet was transferred, we should find it rarefying the air
around the place of concussion, and thus lifting the whole mass of the
atmosphere above it, and producing currents of the nature of wind, and
through these producing other effects, thus going on forever; the force
changing its form, but neither increasing or diminishing its quantity
through a series of changes without end.
_The Arrest and temporary Reservation of Force_.
Now, although it is thus impossible that any force should be destroyed, or
in any way cease to exist in one form without setting in action a precisely
equal amount in some other form, it may, as it were, pass into a condition
of _restraint_, and remain thus suspended and latent for an indefinite
period--ready, however, to break into action again the moment that the
restraint is removed. Thus a perfectly elastic spring may be bent by a
certain force, and retained in the bent position a long time. But the
moment that it is released it will unbend itself, exercising in so doing
precisely the degree of force expended in bending it. In the same manner
air may be compressed in an air-gun, and held thus, with the force, as it
were, imprisoned, for any length of time, until at last, when the detent is
released by the trigger, the elastic force comes into action, exercising in
its action a power precisely the same as that with which it was compressed.
Force or power may be thus, as it were, stored up in a countless variety of
ways, and reserved for future action; and, when finally released, the whole
amount may be set free at once, so as to expend itself in a single impulse,
as in case of the arrow or the bullet; or it may be partially restrained,
so as to expend itself gradually, as in the case of a clock or watch. In
either case the total amount expended will be precisely the same--namely,
the exact equivalent of that which was placed in store.
_Vegetable and Animal Life_.
There are a vast number of mechanical contrivances in use among men for
thus putting force in store, as it were, and then using it more or less
gradually, as may be required. And nature, moreover, does this on a scale
so stupendous as to render all human contrivances for this purpose utterly
insignificant in comparison. The great agent which nature employs in this
work is vegetation. Indeed, it may truly be said that the great function
of vegetable life, in all the infinitude of forms and characters which it
assumes, is to _receive and store up force_ derived from the emanations of
the sun.
Animal life, on the other hand, exists and fulfills its functions by
the _expenditure_ of this force. Animals receive vegetable productions
containing these reserves of force into their systems, which systems
contain arrangements for liberating the force, and employing it for the
purposes it is intended to subserve in the animal economy.
The manner in which these processes are performed is in general terms as
follows: The vegetable absorbs from the earth and from the air substances
existing in their natural condition--that is, united according to their
strongest affinities. These substances are chiefly water, containing
various mineral salts in solution, from the ground, and carbonic acid from
the air. These substances, after undergoing certain changes in the vessels
of the plant, are exposed to the influence of the rays of the sun in the
leaves. By the power of these rays--including the calorific, the luminous,
and the actinic--the natural affinities by which the above-mentioned
substances were united are overcome, and they are formed into new
combinations, in which they are united by very weak affinities. Of course,
they have a strong tendency to break away from the new unions, and fall
back into the old. But, by some mysterious and incomprehensible means,
the sun has power to lock them, so to speak, in their new forms, so as to
require a special condition of things for the releasing of them. Thus
they form a reserve of force, which can be held in restraint until the
conditions required for their release are realized.
The process can be illustrated more particularly by a single case. Water,
one of the substances absorbed by plants, is composed of oxygen and
hydrogen, which are united by an affinity of prodigious force. It is the
same with carbon and oxygen, in a compound called carbonic acid, which is
also one of the principal substances absorbed by plants from the air. Now
the heat and other emanations from the sun, acting upon these substances in
the leaves, forces the hydrogen and the carbon away from their strong bond
of union with oxygen, and sets the oxygen free, and then combines the
carbon and hydrogen into a sort of unwilling union with each other--a union
from which they are always ready and eager to break away, that they may
return to their union with the object of their former and much stronger
attachment--namely, oxygen; though they are so locked, by some mysterious
means, that they can not break away except when certain conditions
necessary to their release are realized.
_Hydrocarbons_.
The substances thus formed by a weak union of carbon with hydrogen are
called hydrocarbons. They comprise nearly all the highly inflammable
vegetable substances. Their being combustible means simply that they have
a great disposition to resume their union with oxygen--combustion being
nothing other than a more or less violent return of a substance to a union
with oxygen or some other such substance, usually one from which it had
formerly been separated by force--giving out again by its return, in the
form of heat, the force by which the original separation had been effected.
A compound formed thus of substances united by very weak affinities, so
that they are always ready to separate from each other and form new unions
under the influence of stronger affinities, is said to be in a state of
_unstable equilibrium._ It is the function of vegetable life to create
these unstable combinations by means of the force derived from the sun; and
the combinations, when formed, of course hold the force which formed them
in reserve, ready to make itself manifest whenever it is released. Animals
receive these substances into their systems in their food. A portion of
them they retain, re-arranging the components in some cases so as to form
new compounds, but still unstable. These they use in constructing the
tissues of the animal system, and some they reserve for future use. As
fast as they require the heat and the force which are stored in them they
expend, them, thus recovering the force which was absorbed in the formation
of them, and which now, on being released, re-appears in the three forms of
_animal heat, muscular motion_, and _cerebral_ or _nervous energy_.
There are other modes besides the processes of animal life by which the
reserved force laid up by the vegetable process in these unstable compounds
may be released. In many cases it releases itself under ordinary exposures
to the oxygen of the atmosphere. A log of wood--which is composed chiefly
of carbon and hydrogen in an unstable union--lying upon the ground will
gradually _decay_, as we term it--that is, its elements will separate from
each other, and form new unions with the elements of the surrounding air,
thus returning to their normal condition. They give out, in so doing, a low
degree of heat, which, being protracted through a course of years, makes
up, in the end, the precise equivalent of that expended by the sun in
forming the wood--that is, the power expended in the formation of the wood
is all released in the dissolution of it.
This process may be greatly accelerated by heat. If a portion of the wood
is raised in temperature to a certain point, the elements begin to combine
with the oxygen near, with so much violence as to release the reserved
power with great rapidity. And as this force re-appears in the form of
heat, the next portions of the wood are at once raised to the right
temperature to allow the process of reoxidation to go on rapidly with them.
This is the process of combustion. Observations and experiments on decaying
wood have been made, showing that the amount of heat developed by the
combustion of a mass of wood, though much more intense for a time, is
the same in _amount_ as that which is set free by the slower process of
re-oxidation by gradual decay; both being the equivalent of the amount
absorbed by the leaves from the sun, in the process of deoxidizing the
carbon and hydrogen when the wood was formed.
The force imprisoned in these unstable compounds may be held in reserve for
an unlimited period, so long as all opportunity is denied them of returning
the elements that compose them to their original combinations. Such a case
occurs when large beds of vegetable substances are buried under layers
of sediment which subsequently become stone, and thus shut the
hydrocarbonaceous compounds beneath them from all access to oxygen. The
beds of coal thus formed retain their reserved force for periods of immense
duration; and when at length the material thus protected is brought to
the surface, and made to give up its treasured power, it manifests its
efficiency in driving machinery, propelling trains, heating furnaces, or
diffusing warmth and comfort around the family fireside. In all these
cases the heat and power developed from the coal is heat and power derived
originally from the sun, and now set free, after having lain dormant
thousands and perhaps millions of years.
This simple case of the formation of hydrocarbons from the elements
furnished by carbonic acid and water is only adduced as an illustration of
the general principle. The modes by which the power of the sun actually
takes effect in the decomposition of stable compounds, and the formation
of unstable ones from the elements thus obtained, are innumerable, and
the processes as well as the combinations that result are extremely
complicated. These processes include not only the first formation of the
unstable compounds in the leaf, but also an endless series of modifications
and re-arrangements which they subsequently undergo, as well in the other
organs of the plant as in those of the animal when they are finally
introduced into an animal system. In all, however, the general result is
substantially the same--namely, the forcing of elements into unnatural
combinations, so to speak, by the power of the sun acting through the
instrumentality of vegetation, in order that they may subsequently, in the
animal system, give out that power again by the effort they make to release
themselves from the coercion imposed upon them, and to return to the
natural unions in which they can find again stability and repose.
One of the chief elements employed in the formation of these
weakly-combined substances is _nitrogen_--its compounds being designated as
nitrogenous substances, and noted, as a class, for the facility with which
they are decomposed. Nitrogen is, in fact, the great _weak-holder_ of
nature. Young students in chemistry, when they learn that nitrogen is
distinguished by the weakness of its affinities for other elements, and its
consequent great _inertness_ as a chemical agent, are often astonished
to find that its compounds--such as nitric acid, nitre, which gives its
explosive character to gunpowder, nitro-glycerine, gun-cotton, and various
other explosive substances which it helps to form--are among the most
remarkable in nature for the violence and intensity of their action, and
for the extent to which the principle of vitality avails itself of them as
magazines of _force_, upon which to draw in the fulfillment of its various
functions.
186 _GENTLE MEASURES_.
But this is really just what should be expected. It is the very _weakness
of the hold_ which nitrogen maintains upon the elements combined with it
that facilitates their release, and affords them the opportunity to seize
with so much avidity and violence on those for which they have a strong
attraction.
It is as if a huntsman should conduct a pack of ferocious dogs into a field
occupied by a flock of sheep, quietly grazing, holding the dogs securely
by very strong leashes. The quiet and repose of the field might not be
seriously disturbed; but if, on the other hand, a child comes in, leading
the dogs by threads which they can easily sunder, a scene of the greatest
violence and confusion would ensue.
In the same manner, when nitrogen, holding the particles of oxygen with
which it is combined in the compounds above named by a very feeble control,
brings them into the presence of other substances for which they have a
very strong affinity, they release themselves at once from their weak
custodian, and rush into the combinations which their nature demands with
so much avidity as to produce combustions, deflagrations, and explosions of
the most violent character.
The force which the elements display in these reunions is always--and this
is one aspect of the great discovery of modern times in respect to the
_persistence_ or _constancy_ of force which has already been referred
to--precisely the same in amount as that which was required for dissevering
them from their original combinations with such substances at some previous
time. The _processes of vegetation_ are the chief means employed for
effecting the original separations, by the power of the sun, and for
forming the unstable compounds by which this power is held in reserve. The
_animal system_, on the other hand, takes in these compounds, remodels them
so far as is required to adapt them to its structure, assimilates them, and
then, as occasion requires quires, it releases the concealed force, which
then manifests itself in the forms of _animal heat_, of _muscular motion_,
and of _cerebral and nervous power_.
In what way, and to what extent, the knowledge of these truths should
influence us in the management and training of children in respect to their
extraordinary activity, is the question we have next to consider.
_Practical Applications of these Principles_.
If we watch a bird for a little while hopping along upon the ground, and up
and down between the ground and the branches of a tree, we shall at first
be surprised at his incessant activity, and next, if we reflect a little,
at the utter aimlessness and uselessness of it. He runs a little way along
the path; then he hops up upon a twig, then down again upon the ground;
then "makes believe" peck at something which he imagines or pretends that
he sees in the grass; then, canting his head to one side and upward, the
branch of a tree there happens to strike his eye, upon which he at once
flies up to it. Perching himself upon it for the moment, he utters a burst
of joyous song, and then, instantly afterwards, down he comes upon the
ground again, runs along, stops, runs along a little farther, stops again,
looks around him a moment, as if wondering what to do next, and then flies
off out of our field of view. If we could follow, and had patience to watch
him so long, we should find him continuing this incessantly changing but
never-ceasing activity all the day long.
We sometimes imagine that the bird's movements are to be explained by
supposing that he is engaged in the search for food in these evolutions.
But when we reflect how small a quantity of food his little crop will
contain, we shall be at once convinced that a large proportion of his
apparent pecking for food is only make-believe, and that he moves thus
incessantly not so much on account of the end he seeks to attain by it, as
on account of the very pleasure of the motion. He hops about and pecks,
not for the love of any thing he expects to find, but just for the love of
hopping and pecking.
The real explanation is that the food which he has taken is delivering up,
within his system, the force stored in it that was received originally from
the beams of the sun, while the plant which produced it was growing. This
force must have an outlet, and it finds this outlet in the incessant
activity of the bird's muscles and brain. The various objects which attract
his attention without, _invite_ the force to expend itself in _certain
special directions_; but the impelling cause is within, and not without;
and were there nothing without to serve as objects for its action, the
necessity of its action would be none the less imperious. The lion, when
imprisoned in his cage, walks to and fro continuously, if there is room for
him to take two steps and turn; and if there is not room for this, he moves
his head incessantly from side to side. The force within him, which his
vital organs are setting at liberty from its imprisonment in his food, must
in some way find issue.
Mothers do not often stop to speculate upon, and may even, perhaps, seldom
observe the restless and incessant activity of birds, but that of their
children forces itself upon their attention by its effects in disturbing
their own quiet avocations and pleasures; and they often wonder what can be
the inducement which leads to such a perpetual succession of movements
made apparently without motive or end. And, not perceiving any possible
inducement to account for it, they are apt to consider this restless
activity so causeless and unreasonable as to make it a fault for which the
child is to be censured or punished, or which they are to attempt to cure
by means of artificial restraints. They would not attempt such repressions
as this if they were aware that all this muscular and mental energy of
action in the child is only the outward manifestation of an inward force
developed in a manner wholly independent of its will--a force, too, which
must spend itself in some way or other, and that, if not allowed to do this
in its own way, by impelling the limbs and members to outward action, it
will do so by destroying the delicate mechanism within. We see this in the
case of men who are doomed for long periods to solitary confinement. The
force derived from their food, and released within their systems by the
vital processes, being cut off by the silence and solitude of the dungeon
from all usual and natural outlets, begins to work mischief within, by
disorganizing the cerebral and other vital organs, and producing insanity
and death.
_Common Mistake_.
We make a great mistake when we imagine that children are influenced in
their activity mainly by a desire for the objects which they attain by it.
It is not the ends attained, but the pleasurable feeling which the action
of the internal force, issuing by its natural channels, affords them, and
the sense of power which accompanies the action. An end which presents
itself to be attained invites this force to act in one direction rather
than another, but it is the action, and not the end, in which the charm
resides.
Give a child a bow and arrow, and send him out into the yard to try it, and
if he does not happen to see any thing to shoot at, he will shoot at random
into the air. But if there is any object which will serve as a mark in
sight, it seems to have the effect of drawing his aim towards it. He shoots
at the vane on the barn, at an apple on a tree, a knot in a fence--any
thing which will serve the purpose of a mark. This is not because he has
any end to accomplish in hitting the vane, the apple, or the knot, but only
because there is an impulse within him leading him to shoot, and if there
happens to be any thing to shoot at, it gives that impulse a direction.
It is precisely the same with the incessant muscular activity of a child.
He comes into a room and sits down in the first seat that he sees. Then he
jumps up and runs to another, then to another, until he has tried all the
seats in the room. This is not because he particularly wishes to try the
seats. He wishes to _move_, and the seats happen to be at hand, and they
simply give direction to the impulse. If he were out of doors, the same
office would be fulfilled by a fence which he might climb over, instead of
going through an open gate close by; or a wall that he could walk upon with
difficulty, instead of going, without difficulty, along a path at the foot
of it; or a pole which he could try to climb, when there was no motive for
climbing it but a desire to make muscular exertion; or a steep bank where
he can scramble up, when there is nothing that he wishes for on the top of
it.
In other words, the things that children do are not done for the sake of
the things, but for the sake of the _doing_.
Parents very often do not understand this, and are accordingly continually
asking such foolish questions as, "George, what do you wish to climb over
that fence for, when there is a gate all open close by?" "James, what good
do you expect to get by climbing up that tree, when you know there is
nothing on it, not even a bird's nest?" and, "Lucy, what makes you keep
jumping up all the time and running about to different places? Why can't
you, when you get a good seat, sit still in it?"
The children, if they understood the philosophy of the case, might answer,
"We don't climb over the fence at all because we wish to be on the other
side of it; or scramble up the bank for the sake of any thing that is on
the top of it; or run about to different places because we wish to be in
the places particularly. It is the internal force that is in us working
itself off, and it works itself off in the ways that come most readily to
hand."
_Various Modes in which the Reserved Force reappears_.
The force thus stored in the food and liberated within the system by
the vital processes, finds scope for action in several different ways,
prominent among which are, First, in the production of animal heat;
Secondly, in muscular contractions and the motions of the limbs and members
resulting from them; and Thirdly, in mental phenomena connected with the
action of the brain and the nerves. This last branch of the subject is yet
enveloped in great mystery; but the proof seems to be decisive that the
nervous system of man comprises organs which are actively exercised in the
performance of mental operations, and that in this exercise they consume
important portions of the vital force. If, for example, a child is actually
engaged at play, and we direct him to take a seat and sit still, he will
find it very difficult to do so. The inward force will soon begin to
struggle within him to find an issue. But if, while he is so sitting, we
begin to relate to him some very surprising or exciting story, to occupy
his _mind_, he will become motionless, and very likely remain so until the
story is ended. It is supposed that in such cases the force is drawn off,
so to speak, through the cerebral organs which it is employed in keeping in
play, as the instruments by which the emotions and ideas which the story
awakens in the mind are evolved. This part of the subject, as has already
been remarked, is full of mystery; but the general fact that a portion of
the force derived from the food is expended in actions of the brain and
nervous system seems well established.
Indeed, the whole subject of the reception and the storing up of force from
the sun by the processes of vegetable and animal life, and the subsequent
liberation of it in the fulfillment of the various functions of the animal
system, is full of difficulties and mysteries. It is only a very simple
view of the _general principle_ which is presented in these articles. In
nature the operations are not simple at all. They are involved in endless
complications which are yet only to a very limited extent unravelled. The
general principle is, however, well established; and if understood, even as
a general principle, by parents and teachers, it will greatly modify their
action in dealing with the incessant restlessness and activity of the
young. It will teach them, among other things, the following practical
rules:
_Practical Rules_.
1. Never find fault with children for their incapacity to keep still. You
may stop the supply of force, if you will, by refusing to give them food;
but if you continue the supply, you must not complain of its manifesting
itself in action. After giving your boy his breakfast, to find fault with
him for being incessantly in motion when his system has absorbed it, is
simply to find fault with him for being healthy and happy. To give children
food and then to restrain the resulting activity, is conduct very analogous
to that of the engineer who should lock the action of his engine, turn all
the stop-cocks, and shut down the safety-valve, while he still went on all
the time putting in coal under the boiler. The least that he could expect
would be a great hissing and fizzling at all the joints of his machine; and
it would be only by means of such a degree of looseness in the joints as
would allow of the escape of the imprisoned force in this way that could
prevent the repression ending in a frightful catastrophe.
Now, nine-tenths of the whispering and playing of children in school, and
of the noise, the rudeness, and the petty mischief of children at home, is
just this hissing and fizzling of an imprisoned power, and nothing more.
In a word, we must favor and promote, by every means in our power, the
activity of children, not censure and repress it. We may endeavor to turn
it aside from wrong channels--that is, to prevent its manifesting itself in
ways injurious to them or annoying to others. We must not, however, attempt
to divert it from these channels by damming it up, but by opening other
channels that will draw it away in better directions.
2. In encouraging the activity of children, and in guiding the direction
of it in their hours of play, we must not expect to make it available for
useful results, other than that of promoting their own physical development
and health. At least, we can do this only in a very limited degree. Almost
all useful results require for their attainment a long continuance of
efforts of the same kind--that is, expenditure of the vital force by the
continued action of the same organs. Now, it is a principle of nature
that while the organs of an animal system are in process of formation and
growth, they can exercise their power only for a very brief period at a
time without exhaustion. This necessitates on the part of all young animals
incessant changes of action, or alternations of action and repose. A farmer
of forty years of age, whose organs are well developed and mature, will
chop wood all day without excessive fatigue. Then, when he comes home at
night, he will sit for three hours in the evening upon the settle by his
fireside, _thinking_--his mind occupied, perhaps, upon the details of the
management of his farm, or upon his plans for the following day. The vital
force thus expends itself for many successive hours through his muscles,
and then, while his muscles are at rest, it finds its egress for several
other hours through the brain. But in the _child_ the mode of action must
change every few minutes. He is made tired with five minutes' labor. He
is satisfied with five minutes' rest. He will ride his rocking-horse, if
alone, a short time, and then he comes to you to ask you to tell him a
story. While listening to the story, his muscles are resting, and the force
is spending its strength in working the mechanism of the brain. If you make
your story too long, the brain, in turn, becomes fatigued, and he feels
instinctively impelled to divert the vital force again into muscular
action.
If, instead of being alone with his rocking-horse, he has company there,
he will _seem_ to continue his bodily effort a long time; but he does not
really do so, for he stops continually, to talk with his companion, thus
allowing his muscles to rest for a brief period, during which the vital
force expends its strength in carrying on trains of thought and emotion
through the brain.
He is not to be blamed for this seeming capriciousness. These frequent
changes in the mode of action are a necessity, and this necessity evidently
unfits him for any kind of monotonous or continued exertion--the only kind
which, in ordinary cases, can be made conducive to any useful results.
3. Parents at home and teachers at school must recognize these
physiological laws, relating to the action of the young, and make their
plans and arrangements conform to them. The periods of confinement to any
one mode of action in the very young, and especially mental action, must
be short; and they must alternate frequently with other modes. That rapid
succession of bodily movements and of mental ideas, and the emotions
mingling and alternating with them, which constitutes what children call
play, must be regarded not simply as an indulgence, but as a necessity for
them. The play must be considered as essential as the study, and that not
merely for the very young but for all, up to the age of maturity. For older
pupils, in the best institutions of the country, some suitable provision is
made for this want; but the mothers of young children at home are often at
a loss by what means to effect this purpose, and many are very imperfectly
aware of the desirableness, and even the necessity, of doing this. As for
the means of accomplishing the object--that is, providing channels for the
complete expenditure of this force in the safest and most agreeable manner
for the child, and the least inconvenient and troublesome for others, much
must depend upon the tact, the ingenuity, and the discretion of the mother.
It will, however, be a great point gained for her when she once fully
comprehends that the _tendency_ to incessant activity, and even to
turbulence and noise, on the part of her child, only shows that he is
all right in his vital machinery, and that this exuberance of energy is
something to be pleased with and directed, not denounced and restrained.