OBEDIENCE.
In the chapters you have now read, I have endeavored to show you how
much your own happiness, and that of your parents, depend upon your
conduct. And I trust every child who has read thus far, has resolved
to do all in his power to promote the happiness of those who have
been so kind to him. But you will find that it is a very different
thing to resolve to do your duty, from what it is to perform your
resolutions when the hour of temptation comes. It requires courage
and firmness to do right, when you are surrounded by those who urge
you to do wrong. Temptations to do wrong will be continually arising;
and, unless you have resolution to brave ridicule, and to refuse
solicitation, you will be continually led into trouble. I knew a
young man who was ruined entirely, because he had not courage enough
to say no. He was, when a boy, very amiable in his disposition, and
did not wish to make any person unhappy; but he had no mind of his
own, and could be led about by his associates into almost any
difficulties, or any sins. If, in a clear moonlight winter evening,
his father told him he might go out doors, and slide down the hill
for half an hour, he would resolve to be obedient and return home at
the time appointed. But if there were other boys there, who should
tease him to remain longer he had not the courage to refuse. And thus
he would disobey his kind parents because he had not courage to do
his duty. He began in this way, and so he continued. One day, a bad
boy asked him to go into a store, and drink some brandy. He knew it
was wrong, and did not wish to go. But he feared that, if he did not,
he would be laughed at; and so he went. Having thus yielded to this
temptation, he was less prepared for temptation again. He went to the
bottle with one and another, till at last he became intemperate, and
would stagger through the streets. He fell into the company of
gamblers, because he could not refuse their solicitations. He thus
became a gambler himself, and went on from step to step, never having
resolution to say no, till he ruined himself, and planted within him
the seeds of disease, which hurried him to a premature grave. He died
the miserable victim of his own irresolution.
Thousands have been thus ruined. They are amiable in disposition, and
in general mean well, but have not courage to do their duty. They fear
that others will laugh at them. Now, unless you are sufficiently brave
not to care if others do laugh at you; unless you have sufficient
courage to say no, when others tempt you to do wrong, you will be
always in difficulty: such a person never can be happy or respected.
You must not expect it will be always easy to do your duty. At times
it will require a great mental struggle, and call into exercise all
the resolution you possess. It is best that it should be so, that you
may acquire firmness of character and strength of integrity. Near a
school-house in the country, there was an apple-tree. One summer it
was covered with hard, and sour, and green apples, and the little
girls who went to that school could hardly resist the temptation of
eating those apples, though they knew there was danger of its making
them sick. One girl, who went to that school, was expressly forbidden
by her mother from eating them. But when all her playmates were
around her, with the apples in their hands, and urging her to eat,
telling her that her mother never would know it, she wickedly yielded
to their solicitation. She felt guilty, as, in disobedience to her
mother's commands, she ate the forbidden fruit. But she tried to
appease her conscience by thinking that it could do no harm. Having
thus commenced disobedience, she could every day eat more freely, and
with less reluctance. At last she was taken sick. Her mother asked
her if she had been eating any of the green apples at school. Here
came another temptation to sin. When we once commence doing wrong,
it is impossible to tell where we shall stop. She was afraid to
acknowledge to her mother her disobedience; and to hide the fault she
told a lie. She declared that she had not eaten any of the apples.
Unhappy girl! she had first disobeyed her mother, and then told a lie
to conceal her sin. But she continually grew more sick, and it became
necessary to send for the physician. He came, and when he had looked
upon her feverish countenance, and felt her throbbing pulse, he said
there was something upon her stomach which must be removed. As he was
preparing the nauseous emetic, the conscience-smitten girl trembled
for fear that her disobedience and her falsehood should both be
brought to light. As soon as the emetic operated, her mother saw, in
the half-chewed fragments of green apples, the cause of her sickness.
What could the unhappy and guilty girl say? Denial was now, of
course, out of the question. She could only cover her face with her
hands, in the vain attempt to hide her shame. We hope that this
detection and mortification will teach that little girl a lesson
which she will never forget. And we hope that the relation of the
story will induce every child, who reads it, to guard against
temptation, and boldly to resist every allurement to sin. Temptations
will be continually coming, which you will find it hard to resist.
But if you once yield, you have entered that downward path which
leads inevitably to sorrow and shame. How much wiser would it have
been in the little girl, whose story we have just related, if she had
in the first instance resolutely refused to disobey her mother's
command! How much happier would she have been, when retiring to sleep
at night, if she had the joy of an approving conscience, and could,
with a grateful heart, ask the blessing of God! The only path of
safety and happiness is implicit obedience. If you, in the slightest
particular, yield to temptation, and do that which you know to be
wrong, you will not know when or where to stop. To hide one crime,
you will be guilty of another; and thus you will draw down upon
yourself the frown of your Maker, and expose yourself to sorrow for
time and eternity.
And think not that these temptations to do wrong will be few or
feeble. Hardly a day will pass in which you will not be tempted,
either through indolence to neglect your duty, or to do that which
you know your parents will disapprove. A few years ago, two little
boys went to pass the afternoon and evening at the house of one of
their playmates, who had a party, to celebrate his birth-day. Their
parents told them to come home at eight o'clock in the evening. It
was a beautiful afternoon, late in the autumn, as the large party of
boys assembled at the house of their friend. Numerous barns and
sheds were attached to the house, and a beautiful grove of beach and
of oak surrounded it, affording a most delightful place for all kinds
of sport. Never did boys have a more happy time. They climbed the
tree, and swung upon the limbs, And as they jumped upon the new-made
hay in the barns, they made the walls ring with their joyous shouts.
Happiness seemed, for the time, to fill every heart. They continued
their sports till the sun had gone down behind the hills, and the
last ray of twilight had disappeared. When it became too dark for
outdoor play, they went into the house, and commenced new plays in the
brightly-lighted parlor. As they were in the midst of the exciting
game of "blind man's buff," some one entered the room, and requested
them all to take their seats, for apples and nuts were to be brought
in. Just as the door was opened by the servant bringing in the waiter
loaded with apples and nuts, the clock struck eight. The boys, who
had been told to leave at that hour, felt troubled enough. They knew
not what to do. The temptation to stay was almost too strong to be
resisted. The older brother of the two faintly whispered to one at
his side, that he must go. Immediately there was an uproar all over
the room, each one exclaiming against it.
"Why," said one, "my mother told me I might stay till nine."
"My mother," said another, "did not say any thing about my coming
home: she will let me stay as long as I want to."
"I would not be tied to my mother's apron-string," said a rude boy, in
a distant part of the room.
A timid boy, who lived in the next house to the one in which these
two little boys lived, came up, and said, with a very imploring
countenance and voice, "I am going home at half past eight. Now do
stay a little while longer, and then we will go home together. I
would not go alone, it is so dark."
And even the lady of the house where they were visiting, came to
them and said, "I do not think your mother will have any objection to
have you stay a few moments longer, and eat an apple and a few nuts.
I would have sent them in earlier, if I had known that you wanted to
go."
Now, what, could these poor boys do? How could they summon
resolution to resist so much entreaty? For a moment they hesitated,
and almost yielded to the temptation. But virtue wavered only for a
moment. They immediately mustered all their courage, and said, "We
must go." Hastily bidding them all good night, they got their hats as
quick as they could, for fear, if they delayed, they should yield to
the temptation, and left the house. They stopped not a moment to look
back upon the brightly-shining windows, and happy group of boys
within, but, taking hold of each other's hands, ran as fast as they
could on their way home. When they arrived at home, their father and
mother met them with a smile. And when their parents learnt under
what strong temptations they had been to disobey, and that they had
triumphed over these temptations, they looked upon their children
with feelings of gratification, which amply repaid them for all their
trial. And when these boys went to bed that night, they felt that
they had done their duty, and that they had given their parents
pleasure; and these thoughts gave them vastly more happiness than
they could have enjoyed if they had remained with their playmates
beyond the hour which their parents had permitted. This was a noble
proof of their determination to do their duty. And, considering their
youth and inexperience and the circumstances of the temptation, it
was one of the severest trials to which they could be exposed.
Probably, in all their after life, they would not be under stronger
temptations to swerve from duty. Now, every child will often be
exposed to similar temptations. And if your resolution be not strong,
you will yield. And if you once begin to yield, you will never know
where to stop but, in all probability, will go on from step to step
till you are for ever lost to virtue and to happiness.
But perhaps some child, who reads this, thinks I make too serious a
matter of so slight a thing. You say, It cannot make much difference
whether I come home half an hour earlier or later. But you are
mistaken here. It does make a great difference. Think you God can
look upon the disobedience of a child as a trifling sin? Is it a
trifle to refuse to obey parents who have loved you, and watched over
you for months and for years; who have taken care of you in sickness,
and endeavored to relieve you when in pain; who have given you
clothes to wear, and food to eat, and have done all in their power to
make you happy? It is inexcusable ingratitude. It is awful sin. But
perhaps you ask, What positive harm does it do? It teaches your
parents that their child is unwilling to obey them; and is there no
harm in that? It makes your parents unhappy; and is there no harm in
that? It tempts you to disobey in other things; and is there no harm
in that? It is entering upon that career of sin which led the girl,
whom we have, in the first chapter, described to you, to the house of
correction, and the wretched boy to the gallows. Oh, beware how you
think it is a little thing to disobey your parents! Their happiness
is in a great degree in your hands; and every thing which you
knowingly do that disturbs their happiness in the least degree, is
sin in the sight of God; and you must answer for it at his bar.
If you go into any state prison, you will see a large number of men
working in silence and in gloom. They are dressed in clothes of
contrasted colors, that, in case of escape, they may be easily
detected. But the constant presence of vigilant keepers, and the high
walls of stone, guarded by an armed sentry, render escape almost
impossible. There many of these guilty men remain, month after month,
and year after year, in friendlessness, and in silence, and in
sorrow. They are in confinement and disgrace. At night, they are
marched to their solitary cells, there to pass the weary hours, with
no friend to converse with, and no joy to cheer them. They are left,
in darkness and in solitude, to their own gloomy reflections. And,
oh! how many bitter tears must be shed in the midnight darkness of
those cells! How many an unhappy criminal would give worlds, if he
had them to give, that he might again be innocent and free! You will
see in the prison many who are young--almost children. If you go
around from cell to cell, and inquire how these wretched persons
commenced their course of sin, very many will tell you that it was
with disobedience to parents. You will find prisoners there, whose
parents are most affectionate and kind. They have endeavored to make
their children virtuous and happy. But, oh! how cruelly have their
hopes been blasted! A disobedient son has gone from step to step in
crime, till he has brought himself to the gloomy cell of the prison,
and has broken his parents' hearts by his disobedience.
The chaplain of the Massachusetts state prison recently communicated
to the public the following interesting narrative of the progress of
crime.
"A few weeks since, I addressed the congregation to which I
minister, on the importance of a strict attention to what are usually
denominated little things; and remarked, that it is the want of
attention to these little things, which not unfrequently throws a
disastrous influence over the whole course of subsequent life. It was
also further remarked, that a large proportion of the events and
transactions, which go to make up the lives of most men, are, as they
are usually estimated, comparatively unimportant and trivial; and
yet, that all these events and transactions contribute, in a greater
or less degree, to the formation of character; and that on moral
character are suspended, essentially, our usefulness and happiness in
time, and our well-being in eternity.
"I then remarked, that I could not doubt, but, on sober reflection,
many of that assembly would find that they owed the complexion of a
great portion of their lives, and their unhappy situation as tenants
of the state prison, to some event or transaction comparatively
trivial, and of which, at the time, they thought very little. I
requested them to make the examination, and see whether the remark I
had made was not correct.
"This was on the Sabbath. The next morning; one of the prisoners, an
interesting young man, came to me, and observed, that he should be
glad to have some conversation with me, whenever I should find it
convenient. Accordingly, in the afternoon of the same day, I sent for
him. On his being seated, and my requesting him to state freely what
he wished to say, he remarked, 'that he wished to let me know how
peculiarly appropriate to his case were the observations I had made,
the previous day, on the influence of little things; and if I would
permit him, he would give me a brief sketch of his history; and,
particularly, of the transaction, which, almost in childhood, had
given a disastrous coloring to the whole period of his youth, and, in
the result, had brought him to be an occupant of his present dreary
abode.'
"It appears, from the sketch which he gave, that he was about ten
years of age, when his father moved from a distant part of the state
to a town in the vicinity of Boston. In this town was a respectable
boarding-school, not a great distance from the residence of his
father; and to this school he was sent. Having always lived in the
country, he had seen very few of those novelties, and parades, and
shows, which are so common in and near the city; and it is not
wonderful, that, when they occurred, he should, like most children,
feel a strong desire to witness them.
"Before he had been long at school, he heard there was to be a
"Cattle Show" at Brighton. He had never seen a Cattle Show. He
presumed it must be a very interesting spectacle, and felt a very
strong desire to attend. This desire, on the morning of the first day
of the show, he expressed to his father, and was told that it would
be a very improper place for him to go to, unless attended by some
suitable person to watch over and take care of him; and that such was
the business of the father, that he could not accompany him, and, of
course, his desire could not be gratified. He was sorely
disappointed, but resolved not to give up, without further effort, an
object on which his heart was so much set.
"The next morning he beset his father again on the subject. His
father seemed anxious to have his son gratified, but told him that he
could by no means consent to have him go to such a place without
suitable company; and, though his business was urgent, he would try to
go in the afternoon; and, if he did, he would call at the school-
house, and take him with him. This was all he could promise.
"But here was an uncertainty, an if, which very illy accorded with
the eager curiosity of the son. Accordingly, he resolved that he
would go at all hazards. He doubted much whether his father would go,
and if he did not, he concluded he might, without much difficulty,
conceal the matter from him. Having formed his determination and laid
his plan, he went, before leaving home in the morning, to his
father's desk, and took a little money to spend on the occasion; and,
instead of going to school, went to Brighton. Contrary, however, to
his expectations and hopes, his father, for the sake of gratifying
him, concluded to go to the show, and, on his way, called for him.
But no son was to be found, and no son had been there that day. The
father, during the afternoon, saw the son, but took care that the son
should not discover him. After the return of both at evening, the
father inquired of the son whether he had attended school that day.
His reply was that he had. My youthful readers will perceive how
readily and naturally one fault leads to another. But the son was
soon satisfied from further questions, and from the manner of his
father, that he knew where he had been; and he confessed the whole.
"The father told him that he should feel himself bound in duty to
acquaint his teacher with the affair, and to request him to call him
to account for absenting himself thus from the school without
permission, and to inflict such punishment on him as might be thought
proper.
"He was, accordingly, sent to school, and, in his view, disgraced in
the estimation of his teacher and of his school-fellows; and he
resolved not to submit to it for any great length of time. A few days
after this, he left home, under pretence of going to school, and ran
away. He travelled on, until he reached the town from which his father
had removed, and had been absent for several weeks before his parents
ascertained what had become of him. He was, however, discovered, and
brought back to his home.
"Some time after this, he was sent to another school, in a
neighboring town; but, not being altogether pleased, he resolved, as
he had run away once, he would try the experiment again; and this he
did. He had been absent six months before his parents ascertained
what had become of him. He had changed his name; but, getting into
some difficulty, in consequence of which he must go to jail, unless
he could find friends, he was constrained to tell his name, and who
were his parents; and in this way his good father, whom he had so
much abused, learning his son's condition, stepped in to his aid, and
saved him from confinement in a prison.
"But I should make this story much too long, were I to detail all
the particulars of his subsequent life until he became a tenant of
the state prison. Suffice it to say, that he went on from one
misstep to another, until he entered upon that career of crime which
terminated as before stated.
"And now, beloved reader, to what do you think this unhappy young man
ascribes his wanderings from home, and virtue, and happiness, and the
forlorn condition in which he now finds himself? Why, simply, to the
trivial circumstance of his leaving school one day, without his
father's consent, for the purpose of going to a cattle show! And what
do you think he says of it now? 'I feel,' said he, 'that all I have
suffered, and still suffer, is the righteous chastisement of heaven. I
deserve it all, for my wicked disobedience both to my earthly and my
heavenly Father; and I wish,' said he, further, 'that you would make
such use of my case as you shall think best calculated to instruct and
benefit the young.'
"And now, beloved reader, I have drawn up this sketch--and I can
assure you it is no fictitious one--for your perusal. You here see
what has been the result of a single act of disobedience to a parent;
what it has already cost this unhappy man to gratify, in an unlawful
way, his youthful curiosity even in a single instance.
"May He, who giveth wisdom to all who ask it, lead and guide you
safely through the journey of life, and cause that even this humble
sketch shall serve to strengthen you in virtue, and to deter you from
the paths of the Destroyer."
Can any child read this narrative without trembling at the thought
of disobedience, even in the most trifling affair? If you once
disobey your parents, it is impossible to tell to what it will lead.
Crime follows in the steps of crime, till the career is closed by
irretrievable disgrace and eternal ruin. The consequences reach far,
far beyond the grave. They affect our interests and our happiness in
that eternal world to which we are all rapidly going. Yes; the child
who utters one falsehood, or is guilty of one act of disobedience,
may, in consequence of that one yielding to temptation, be hurried on
from crime to crime, till his soul is ruined, and he is shut up, by
the command of God, in those awful dungeons of endless despair
prepared for the devil and his angels.
And how ungrateful is disobedience! A noble-hearted boy would deny
himself almost any pleasure; he would meet almost any danger; he
would endure almost any suffering, before he would, in the most
trifling particular, disobey parents who had been so kind, and had
endured so much to make him happy. How different is such a child from
one who is so ungrateful that he will disobey his parents merely that
he may play a few moments longer, or that he may avoid some trifling
work, that he does not wish to perform! There is a magnanimity in a
child who feels so grateful for his parents' love that he will repay
them by all the affection and obedience in his power, which attracts
the respect and affection of all who know him.
Suppose you see a little boy walking before his mother. The boy's
father is dead; he has been killed in battle. You see the orphan boy
carrying upon his shoulder his father's sword and cap. You look at his
poor mother. She is weeping, for her husband is dead. She is returning
in sorrow to her lonely house. She has no friend but her dear boy. How
ardently does she love him! All her hopes of earthly happiness are
depending upon his obedience and affection. She loves her boy so well,
that she would be willing to die, to make him happy. She will work
night and day, while he is young, to supply him with clothes and with
food. And all she asks and hopes is, that her boy will be
affectionate, and obedient, and good.
And, oh! how ungrateful and cruel will he be, if he neglect that
mother, and by his unkindness cause her to weep! But you see that he
looks like a noble-hearted boy. His countenance seems to say, "Dear
mother, do not cry; if ever I grow up to be a man, you shall never
want, if I can help it." Oh, who can help loving the boy who loves his
mother!
There was a little boy about thirteen years old, whose name was
Casablanca. His father was the commander of a ship of war called the
Orient. The little boy accompanied his father to the seas. His ship
was once engaged in a terrible battle upon the river Nile. In the
midst of the thunders of the battle, while the shot were flying
thickly around, and strewing the decks with blood, this brave boy
stood by the side of his father, faithfully discharging the duties
which were assigned to him. At last his father placed him in a
particular part of the ship to be performing some service, and told
him to remain in his post till he should call him away. As the father
went to some distant part of the ship to notice the progress of the
battle, a ball from the enemy's vessel laid him dead upon the deck.
But the son, unconscious of his father's death, and faithful to the
trust he posed in him, remained in his post, waiting for his father's
orders. The battle raged dreadfully around him. The blood of the
slain flowed at his feet. The ship took fire, and the threatening
flames drew nearer and nearer. Still this noble-hearted boy would not
disobey his father. In the face of blood, and balls, and fire, he
stood firm and obedient. The sailors began to desert the burning and
sinking ship, and the boy cried out "Father, may I go?" But no voice
of permission could come from the mangled body of his lifeless
father. And the boy, not knowing that he was dead, would rather die
than disobey. And there that boy stood, at his post, till every man
had deserted the ship; and he stood and perished in the flames. O,
what a boy was that! Every body who ever heard of him thinks that he
was one of the noblest boys that ever was born. Rather than disobey
his father, he would die in the flames. This account has been written
in poetry, and, as the children who read this book, may like to see
it, I will present it to them here:
CASABIANCA.
The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round him, o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though childlike form.
The flames rolled on; he would not go,
Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud--"Say, father, say
'If yet my task is done.'"
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.
"Speak, father," once again he cried,
"If I may yet be gone."
And--but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breach,
And in his waving hair;
And looked from that lone post of death,
In still, yet brave despair;
And shouted but once more aloud,
"My father, must I stay?"
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapped the ship in splendor wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.
Then came a burst of thunder sound
The boy--oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea.
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part,
But the noblest thing that perished there,
Was that young, faithful heart.
O, who would not love to have such a child as that! Is not such a boy
more noble than one who will disobey his parents merely that he may
have a little play, or that he may avoid some unpleasant duty? The
brave little Casablanca would rather die than disobey. He loved his
father. He had confidence in him. And even when death was staring him
in the face, when
"The flames rolled on, he would not go,
Without his father's word."
I have seen some bad boys who thought it looked brave to care nothing
for the wishes of their parents. But do you think that Casabianca
was a coward? No; the boy who is truly brave, and has a noble
spirit, will obey his parents. If others tease him to do
differently, he will dare to tell them, that he means to do his duty;
and if they laugh at him, he will let them laugh, and show them, by
his conduct, that he does not care for the sneers of bad boys. The
fact is, that, in almost all cases, disobedient boys are mean, and
cowardly, and contemptible. They have not one particle of the spirit
of the noble little Casabianca. And when these disobedient boys grow
up to be men, they do not command influence or respect.
If you would be useful and happy when you arrive at mature years,
you must be affectionate and obedient as a child. It is invariably
true that the path of duty is the path of peace. The child who has
established principles of firm integrity--who has that undaunted
resolution which can face opposition and brave ridicule--bids fair to
rise to eminence in usefulness and respect. These qualities, which
shed so lovely a charm over childhood, will go with you into maturer
life; they will give stability to your character, and command
respect. And those faults of childhood which render one hesitating,
and weak, and cowardly, will, in all probability, continue through
your whole earthly existence. The man is but the grown-up child,
possessing generally the same traits of character in every period of
life. How important it is then that, in early youth, you should
acquire the habit of triumphing over temptation, and of resolutely
discharging all your duties!
It is important for you to remember that obedience requires of you,
not only to do as you are bidden, but to do it with cheerfulness and
alacrity. Suppose, as you are sitting at the table in a pleasant
evening, the customary hour for you to retire to rest arrives. You
are, perhaps, engaged in reading some very interesting book, and do
not feel at all sleepy. You ask permission to sit up a little longer.
But your mother tells you that the time for you to go to bed has
come, and she prefers that you should be regular in your habits. You
think it is rather hard that you cannot be indulged in your wishes,
and, with sullen looks, shut your book, and, taking a light, in ill
humor go to your chamber. Now, this is not obedience. As you retire
to your chamber, the displeasure of God follows you. Your sin of
disobedience is so great, that you cannot even pray before you fall
asleep. It is impossible for a person to pray when out of humor. You
may repeat the words of prayer, but you cannot offer acceptable
prayer to the Lord. And as you lie down upon your bed, and the
darkness of night is around you, your offended Maker regards you as
an ungrateful and disobedient child. And all the night long his eye
is upon your heart, and the knowledge of your sin is in his mind.
Obedience belongs to the heart, as well as to the outward conduct. It
is necessary that you should, with affection and cheerfulness,
fulfill the wishes of your parents. You should feel that they know
what is best, and, instead of being sullen and displeased because
they do not think fit to indulge you in all your wishes, you should,
with a pleasant countenance and a willing heart, yield to their
requirements.
You do not know how much pleasure it affords your parents to see you
happy. They are willing to make almost any sacrifice for your good.
And they never have more heartfelt enjoyment themselves than when
they see their children virtuous, contented, and happy. When they
refuse to gratify any of your desires, it is not because they do not
wish to see you happy, but because they see that your happiness will
be best promoted by refusing your request. They have lived longer in
the world than you, and know better than you the dangers by which you
are surrounded. Deeply interested in your book, you desire to sit up
later than usual, and think it would make you happy. But your mother,
who is older and wiser, knows that the way to make children healthy
and happy, is to have them in the regular habit of retiring early at
night. And when you ask to sit up later than usual, she loves you too
well to permit it. You think she is cruel, when, in fact, she is as
kind as she can be. If she were an unkind mother, and cared nothing
about your happiness, she would say, "O yes; you may sit up as long
as you please. I do not care any thing about it."
Now, is it obedience, when your kind mother is doing all in her power
to make you happy, for you to look sullen and morose? Is it honoring
your father and your mother, for you to look offended and speak
unkindly, because they wish you to do that which they know to be for
your welfare? The truly grateful child will endeavor, always, with a
pleasant countenance, and a peaceful heart, to yield ready obedience
to his parents' wishes. He will never murmur or complain. Such a child
can retire to bed at night contented and happy. He can sincerely
thank God for all his goodness and pray for that protection which
God is ever ready to grant those who love him.