OBEDIENCE, (continued)
There is hardly any subject upon which children in well-regulated
families feel more like complaining-, than of the unwillingness of
their parents to indulge them, in evening plays and evening visits.
An active boy, whose heart is full of fun and frolic, is sitting
quietly by the fireside, in a pleasant winter evening. Every now and
then he hears the loud shouts and joyful laugh of some twenty of his
companions, who are making the moonlight air ring with their
merriment. Occasionally, a troop of them will go rushing by the
windows, in the impetuosity of their sports. The ardent little fellow
by the fireside can hardly contain himself. He longs to unite his
voice in the shout, and try his feet in the chase. He nestles upon
his chair, and walks across the room, and peeps through the curtains.
As he sees the dark forms of the boys clustered together in merry
groups, or scattered in their plays, he feels as though, he were a
prisoner. And even though he be a good boy, and obedient to his
parents, he can hardly understand why it is that they deprive him of
this pleasure. I used to feel so when I was a boy, and I suppose
other boys feel so. But now I see the reason. Those night plays led
the boys into bad habits. All kinds of boys met together, and some
would use indecent and profane language, which depraved the hearts
and corrupted the morals of the rest. The boys who were thus spending
their evenings, were misimproving their time, and acquiring a
disrelish for the purifying and peaceful enjoyments of home. You
sometimes see men who appear to care nothing about their families.
They spend their evenings away from home with the idle and the
dissolute. Such men are miserable and despised. Their families are
forsaken and unhappy. Why do these men do so? Because, when they were
boys, they spent their evenings away from home, playing in the
streets. Thus home lost all its charms, virtue was banished from,
their bosoms, and life was robbed of its joy. I wish every boy who
reads this would think of these reasons, and see if they are not
sufficient. Your kind parents do not allow you to go out in the
evenings and play in the streets--
I. Because you will acquire bad habits. You will grow rude and
vulgar in manners, and acquire a relish for pleasures which will
destroy your usefulness and your happiness.
II. You will always find in such scenes bad boys, and must hear much
indecent and profane language, which will corrupt your heart.
III. You will lose all fondness for the enjoyment of home, and will be
in great danger of growing up a dissipated and a worthless man.
Now, are not these reasons sufficient to induce your parents to guard
you against such temptations? But perhaps you say, Other parents let
their children go out and play as much as they please every evening.
How grateful, then, ought you to be, that you have parents who are so
kind and faithful that they will preserve you from these occasions of
sin and sorrow! They love you too well to be willing to see you
preparing for an unhappy and profitless life.
It not unfrequently is the case that a girl has young associates,
who are in the habit of walking without protectors in the evening
twilight. On the evening of some lovely summer's day, as the whole
western sky is blazing with the golden hue of sunset, her companions
call at her door, to invite her to accompany them upon an excursion of
pleasure. She runs to her parents with her heart bounding with joy,
in anticipation of the walk. They inquire into the plans of the
party, and find that it will be impossible for them to return from
their contemplated expedition before the darkness of the evening
shall come. As affectionate and faithful parents, they feel that it
is not proper or safe for them to trust their little daughter in such
a situation. They, consequently, cannot consent that she should go.
She is disappointed in the extreme, and as she sees her friends
departing, social and happy, she retires to her chamber and weeps.
The momentary disappointment to her is one of the severest she can
experience, and she can hardly help feeling that her parents are
cruel, to deprive her of so much anticipated pleasure. Her companions
go away with the same feelings. They make many severe remarks, and
really think that this little girl's parents are unkind. Perhaps they
have a pleasant walk, and all return home in safety; and for many
days they talk together at school of the delightful enjoyments of
that evening. And this increases the impression on the mind of the
little girl, that it was unkind in her parents not to let her go.
But, perhaps, as they were returning, they met a drunken man, who
staggered in amongst them. Terrified, they scatter and run. One, in
endeavoring to jump over a fence, spoils her gown. Another, fleeing in
the dark, falls, and sadly bruises her face. Another, with loss of
bonnet, and with dishevelled hair, gains the door of her home. And
thus is this party, commenced with high expectations of joy,
terminated with fright and tears. The parents of the little girl who
remained at home, knew that they were exposed to all this; and they
loved their daughter too well to allow her to be placed in such a
situation. Was it not kind in them?
Perhaps, as they were returning, they met some twenty or more of the
rudest boys of the village, in the midst of their most exciting
sports. Here are Emma, Maria, and Susan, with their party of timid
girls, who must force their way through this crowd of turbulent and
noisy boys. It is already dark. Some of the most unmannerly and
wicked boys of the village are there assembled. They are highly
excited with their sports. And the moment they catch a view of the
party of girls, they raise a shout, and rush in among them reckless
and thoughtless. The parents of the little girl who staid at home,
knew that she would be exposed to such scenes; and as they loved
their daughter, they could not consent that she should go. Was it not
kind?
A few young girls once went on such an evening walk, intending to
return before it was dark. But in the height of their enjoyment they
forgot how rapidly the time was passing, and twilight leaving them.
But, at last, when they found how far they were from home, and how
dark it was growing, they became quite alarmed, and hastened
homeward. They, however, got along very well while they were all
together. But when it became necessary for them to separate, to go to
their respective homes, and several of them had to go alone in the
darkness, they felt quite terrified. It was necessary for one of
these little girls, after she had left all her companions, to go
nearly a quarter of a mile. She set out upon the run, her heart
beating with fear. She had not proceeded far, however, before she
heard the loud shouts of a mob of young men and boys, directly in the
street through which she must pass. As she drew nearer, the shouts
and laughter grew louder and more appalling. She hesitated. But what
could she do? She must go on. Trembling, she endeavored to glide
through the crowd, when a great brutal boy, with a horrid mask on his
face and a "jack-o'lantern" in his hand, came up before her. He threw
the glare of the light upon her countenance, and stared her full in
the face. "Here is my wife," said he, and tried to draw her arm into
his. A loud shout from the multitude of boys echoed through the
darkened air. Hardly knowing what she did, she pressed through the
crowd, and, breathless with fright, arrived at her home. And I will
assure you she did not wish to take any more evening walks without a
protector. From that time afterwards she was careful to be under her
father's roof before it was dark.
Now can you think that your father or mother are unkind, because
they are unwilling to have you placed in such a situation? And when
they are doing all that they can to make you happy, ought you not to
be grateful, and by a cheerful countenance, and ready obedience, to
try to reward them for their love?
It is the duty of all children to keep in mind that their parents know
what is best. And when they refuse to gratify your wishes, you should
remember that their object is to do you good. That obedience which is
prompt and cheerful, is the only obedience which is acceptable to
them, or well-pleasing to God. A great many cases will occur in which
you will wish to do that which your parents will not approve. If you
do not, in such cases, pleasantly and readily yield to their wishes,
you are ungrateful and disobedient.
Neither is it enough that you should obey their expressed commands.
You ought to try to do every thing which you think will give them
pleasure, whether they tell you to do it or not. A good child will
seek for opportunities to make his parents happy. A little girl, for
instance, has some work to do. She knows that if she does it well and
quick, it will gratify her mother. Now, if she be a good girl; she
will not wait for her mother's orders, but will, of her own accord,
improve her time, that she may exhibit the work to her mother sooner
and more nicely done than she expected.
Perhaps her mother is sick. Her affectionate daughter will not wait
for her mother to express her wishes. She will try to anticipate
them. She will walk softly around the chamber, arranging every thing
in cheerful order. She will adjust the clothes of the bed, that her
mother may lie as comfortably as possible. And she will watch all her
mother's movements, that she may learn what things she needs before
she asks for them. Such will be the conduct of an affectionate and
obedient child. I was once called to see a poor woman who was very
sick. She was a widow, and in poverty. Her only companion and only
earthly reliance was her daughter. As I entered the humble dwelling
of this poor woman, I saw her bolstered up in the bed, with her pale
countenance emaciated with pain, and every thing about the room
proclaiming the most abject poverty. Her daughter sat sewing at the
head of the bed, watching every want of her mother, and active with
her needle. The perfect neatness of the room, told how faithful was
the daughter in the discharge of her painful and arduous duties. But
her own slender form and consumptive countenance showed that by toil
and watching she was almost worn out herself. This noble girl, by
night and by day, with unwearied attention, endeavored to alleviate
the excruciating pains of her afflicted parent. I could not look upon
her but with admiration, in seeing the devotedness with which she
watched every movement of her mother. How many wealthy parents would
give all they possess, to be blessed with such a child! For months
this devoted girl had watched around her mother by night and by day,
with a care which seemed never to be weary. You could see by the
movement of her eye, and by the expression of her countenance, how
full her heart was of sympathy. She did not wait for her mother to
tell her what to do, but was upon the watch all the time to find out
what would be a comfort to her. This is what I call obedience. It is
that obedience which God in heaven approves and loves.
I called often upon this poor widow, and always with increasing
admiration of this devoted child, One morning, as I entered the room,
I saw the mother lying upon the bed on the floor, with her head in
the lap of her daughter. She was breathing short and heavy in the
struggles of death. The tears were rolling down the pale cheeks of
her daughter, as she pressed her hand upon the brow of her dying
mother. The hour of death had just arrived, and the poor mother, in
the triumphs of Christian faith, with faint and faltering accents,
was imploring God's blessing upon her dear daughter. It was a most
affecting farewell. The mother, while thus expressing her gratitude
to God for the kindness of her beloved child, breathed her last. And
angels must have looked upon that humble abode, and upon that
affecting scene, with emotions of pleasure, which could hardly be
exceeded by any thing else which the world could present. O that all
children would feel the gratitude which this girl felt for a mother's
early love! Then would the world be divested of half its sorrows, and
of half its sins. This is the kind of obedience which every child
should cultivate. You should not only do whatever your parents tell
you to do, with cheerfulness and alacrity, but you should be obedient
to their wishes. You should be watching for opportunities to give
them pleasure. You should, at all times, and under all circumstances,
do every thing in your power to relieve them from anxiety and to make
them happy. Then can you hope for the approbation of your God, and
your heart will be filled with a joy which the ungrateful child can
never feel. You can reflect with pleasure upon your conduct. When
your parents are in the grave, you will feel no remorse of conscience
harrowing your soul for your past unkindness. And when you die
yourselves, you can anticipate a happy meeting with your parents, in
that heavenly home, where sin and sorrow, and sickness and death, can
never come.
God has, in almost every case, connected suffering with sin. And
there are related many cases in which he has, in this world, most
signally punished ungrateful children. I read, a short time since, an
account of an old man, who had a drunken and brutal son. He would
abuse his aged father without mercy. One day, he, in a passion,
knocked him flat upon the floor, and, seizing him by his gray hairs,
dragged him across the room to the threshold of the door, to cast him
out. The old man, with his tremulous voice, cried out to his
unnatural son, "It is enough--it is enough. God is just. When I was
young, I dragged my own father in the same way; and now God is giving
me the punishment I deserve."
Sometimes you will see a son who will not be obedient to his mother.
He will have his own way, regardless of his mother's feelings. He has
grown up to be a stout and stubborn boy, and now the ungrateful
wretch will, by his misconduct, break the heart of that very mother,
who, for months and years, watched over him with a care which knew no
weariness. I call him a wretch, for I can hardly conceive of more
enormous iniquity. That boy, or that young man, who does not treat
his affectionate mother with kindness and respect, is worse than I
can find language to describe. Perhaps you say, your mother is at
times unreasonable. Perhaps she is. But what of that? You have been
unreasonable ten thousand times, and she has borne with you and loved
you. And even if your mother be at times unreasonable in her
requirements, I want to know with what propriety you find fault with
it. Is she to bear with all your cries in infancy, and all your
fretfulness in childhood, and all your ingratitude and wants till you
arrive at years of discretion, and then, because she wishes you to do
some little thing which does not exactly meet your views, are you to
turn upon her like a viper and sting her to the heart? The time was,
when you was a little infant, your mother brought paleness to her own
cheek, and weakness to her own frame, that she might give you
support. You were sick, and in the cold winter night she would sit
lonely by the fire, denying herself rest that she might lull her babe
to sleep. You would cry with pain, and hour after hour she would walk
the floor, carrying you in her arms, till her arms seemed ready to
drop, and her limbs would hardly support her, through excess of
weariness. The bright sun and the cloudless sky would invite her to
go out for health and enjoyment, but she would deny herself the
pleasure, and stay at home to take care of you, her helpless babe.
Her friends would solicit her to indulge in the pleasures of the
social evening party, but she would refuse for your sake, and, in the
solitude of her chamber, she would pass weeks and months watching all
your wants. Thus have years passed away in which you have received
nothing but kindness from her hands; and can you be so hard-hearted,
so ungrateful, as now to give her one moment of unnecessary pain? If
she have faults, can you not bear with them, when she has so long
borne with you? Oh, if you knew but the hundredth part of what she
has suffered and endured for your sake, you could not, could not be
such a wretch as to requite her with ingratitude. A boy who has one
particle of generosity glowing in his bosom, will cling to his mother
with an affection which life alone can extinguish. He will never let
her have a single want which he can prevent. And when he grows to be
a man, he will give her the warmest seat by his fire-side, and the
choicest food upon his table. If necessary, he will deprive himself
of comforts, that he may cheer her declining years. He will prove, by
actions which cannot be misunderstood, that he feels a gratitude for
a mother's love, which shall never, never leave him. And when she
goes down to the grave in death, he will bedew her grave with the
honorable tears of manly feeling. The son who does not feel thus, is
unworthy of a mother's love; the frown of his offended Maker must be
upon him, and he must render to Him an awful account for his
ungrateful conduct.
It is, if possible, stranger still, that any daughter can forget a
mother's care. You are always at home. You see your mother's
solicitude. You are familiar with her heart. If you ever treat your
mother with unkindness, remember that the time may come when your own
heart will be broken by the misconduct of those who will be as dear to
you as your mother's children are to her. And you may ask yourself
whether you would be pleased with an exhibition of ungrateful feeling
from a child whom you had loved and cherished with the tenderest care.
God may reward you, even in this world, according to your deeds. And
if he does not, he certainly will in the world to come. A day of
judgment is at hand, and the ungrateful child has as fearful an
account to render as any one who will stand at that bar.
I have just spoken to you of the grateful girl who took such good care
of her poor sick mother. When that good girl, dies, and meets her
mother in heaven, what a happy meeting it will be! With how much joy
will she reflect upon her dutifulness as a child! And as they dwell
together again in the celestial mansions, sorrow and sighing will for
ever flee away. If you wish to be happy here or hereafter, honor your
father and your mother. Let love's pure flame burn in your heart and
animate your life. Be brave, and fear not to do your duty. Be
magnanimous, and do more for your parents than they require or expect.
Resolve that you will do every thing in your power to make them happy,
and you will be blest as a child, and useful and respected in your
maturer years. Oh, how lovely is that son or daughter who has a
grateful heart, and who will rather die than give a mother sorrow!
Such a one is not only loved by all upon earth, but by the angels
above, and by our Father in heaven.
It may assist you a little to estimate your obligations to your
parents, to inquire what would become of you if your parents should
refuse to take care of you any longer. You, at times, perhaps, feel
unwilling to obey them: suppose they should say,
"Very well, my child, if you are unwilling to obey us, you may go
away from home, and take care of yourself. We cannot be at the
trouble and expense of taking care of you unless you feel some
gratitude."
"Well," perhaps you would say, "let me have my cloak and bonnet, and
I will go immediately."
"YOUR CLOAK AND BONNET!" your mother would reply. "The cloak and
bonnet are not yours, but your father's. He bought them and paid for
them. Why do you call them yours?"
You might possibly reply, after thinking a moment, "They are mine
because you gave them to me."
"No, my child," your mother would say, "we have only let you have
them to wear. You never have paid a cent for them. You have not even
paid us for the use of them. We wish to keep them for those of our
children who are grateful for our kindness. Even the clothes you now
have on are not yours. We will, however, give them to you; and now
suppose you should go, and see how you can get along in taking care of
yourself."
You rise to leave the house without any bonnet or cloak. But your
mother says, "Stop one moment. Is there not an account to be settled
before you leave? We have now clothed and boarded you for ten years.
The trouble and expense, at the least calculation, amount to two
dollars a week. Indeed I do not suppose that you could have got any
one else to have taken you so cheap. Your board, for ten years, at
two dollars a week, amounts to one thousand and forty dollars. Are
you under no obligation to us for all this trouble and expense?"
You hang down your head and do not know what to say. What can you
say? You have no money. You cannot pay them.
Your mother, after waiting a moment for an answer, continues, "In
many cases, when a person does not pay what is justly due, he is sent
to jail. We, however, will be particularly kind to you, and wait
awhile. Perhaps you can, by working for fifteen or twenty years, and
by being very economical, earn enough to pay us. But let me see; the
interest of the money will be over sixty dollars a year. Oh, no! it
is out of the question. You probably could not earn enough to pay us
in your whole life. We never shall be paid for the time, expense, and
care, we have devoted to our ungrateful daughter. We hoped she would
love us, and obey us, and thus repay. But it seems she prefers to be
ungrateful and disobedient. Good by."
You open the door and go out. It is cold and windy. Shivering with
the cold, and without money, you are at once a beggar, and must
perish in the streets, unless some one takes pity on you.
You go, perhaps, to the house of a friend, and ask if they will allow
you to live with them.
They at once reply, "We have so many children of our own, that we
cannot afford to take you, unless you will pay for your board and
clothing."
You go again out into the street, cold, hungry, and friendless. The
darkness of the night is coming on; you have no money to purchase a
supper, or night's lodging. Unless you can get some employment, or
find some one who will pity you, you must lie down upon the hard
ground, and perish with hunger and with cold.
Perhaps some benevolent man sees you as he is going home in the
evening, and takes you to the overseers of the poor, and says, "Here
is a little vagrant girl I found in the streets. We must send the poor
little thing to the poor house, or she will starve to death."
You are carried to the poor house. There you had a very different home
from your father's. You are dressed in the coarsest garments. You have
the meanest food, and are compelled to be obedient, and to do the most
servile work.
Now, suppose, while you are in the poor house, some kind gentleman and
lady should come and say, "We will take this little girl, and give
her food and clothes for nothing. We will take her into our own
parlor, and give her a chair by our own pleasant fireside. We will
buy every thing for her that she needs. We will hire persons to teach
her. We will do every thing in our power to make her happy, and will
not ask for one cent of pay in return."
What should you think of such kindness? And what should you think of
yourself, if you could go to their parlor, and receive their bounty,
and yet be ungrateful and disobedient? Would not a child who could
thus requite such love, be deserving of universal detestation? But
all this your parents are doing, and for years have been doing for
you. They pay for the fire that warms you; for the house that shelters
you; for the clothes that cover you; for the food that supports you!
They watch over your bed in sickness, and provide for your
instruction and enjoyment when in health! Your parents do all this
without money and without price. Now, whenever you feel ill humored,
or disposed to murmur at any of their requirements, just look a
moment and see how the account stands. Inquire what would be the
consequence, if they should refuse to take care of you.
The child who does not feel grateful for all this kindness, must be
more unfeeling than the brutes. How can you refrain from, doing every
thing in your power to make those happy who have loved you so long,
and have conferred upon you so many favors! If you have any thing
noble or generous in your nature, it must be excited by a parent's
love. You sometimes see a child who receives all these favors as
though they were her due. She appears to have no consciousness of
obligation; no heart of gratitude. Such a child is a disgrace to
human nature. Even the very fowls of the air, and cattle of the
fields, love their parents. They put to shame the ungrateful child.
You can form no conception of that devotedness of love which your
mother cherishes for you. She is willing to suffer almost every thing
to save you from pain. She will, to protect you, face death in its
most terrific form. An English gentleman tells the following affecting
story, to show how ardently a mother loves her child.
"I was once going, in my gig, up the hill in the village of Frankford,
near Philadelphia when a little girl about two years old, who had
toddled away from a small house, was lying basking in the sun, in the
middle of the road. About two hundred yards before I got to the child,
the teams of three wagons, five big horses in each, the drivers of
which had stopped to drink at a tavern at the brow of the hill,
started off, and came nearly abreast, galloping down the road. I got
my gig off the road as speedily as I could, but expected to see the
poor child crushed to pieces. A young man, a journeyman carpenter,
who was shingling a shed by the road side, seeing the child, and
seeing the danger, though a stranger to the parents, jumped from the
top of the shed, ran into the road, and snatched up the child from
scarcely an inch before the hoof of the leading horse. The horse's
leg knocked him down; but he, catching the child by its clothes,
flung it back out of the way of the other horses, and saved himself
by rolling back with surprising agility. The mother of the child, who
had apparently been washing, seeing the teams coming, and seeing the
situation of the child, rushed out, and, catching up the child, just
as the carpenter had flung it back, and hugging it in her arms,
uttered a shriek, such as I never heard before, never heard since,
and, I hope, shall never hear again; and then she dropped down as if
perfectly dead. By the application of the usual means, she was
restored, however, in a little while, and I, being about to depart,
asked the carpenter if he were a married man, and whether he were a
relation of the parents of the child. He said he was neither. 'Well,
then,' said I, you merit the gratitude of every father and mother in
the world, and I will show you mine by giving you what I have,--
pulling out the nine or ten dollars which I had in my pocket. 'No, I
thank you, sir,' said he, 'I have only done what it was my duty to
do.'
"Bravery, disinterestedness, and maternal affection surpassing these
it is impossible to imagine. The mother was going right in amongst the
feet of these powerful and wild horses, and amongst the wheels of
the wagons. She had no thought for herself; no feeling of fear for
her own life; her shriek was the sound of inexpressible joy, joy too
great for her to support herself under."
Now, can you conceive a more ungrateful wretch, than that boy would
be, if he should grow up, not to love or obey his mother? She was
willing to die for him. She was willing to run directly under the feet
of those ferocious horses, that she might save his life. And if he has
one particle of generosity in his bosom, he will do every thing in his
power to make her happy.
But your mother loves you as well as did that mother love her child.
She is as willing to expose herself to danger and to death. And can
you ever bear the thought of causing grief to her whose love is so
strong; whose kindness is so great? It does appear to me that the
generous-hearted boy, who thinks of these things, will resolve to be
his mother's joy and blessing.
A few years ago a child was lost in one of those vast plains in the
west, called prairies. A gentleman who was engaged in the search for
the child, thus describes the scene. It forcibly shows the strength of
a mother's love.
"In the year 1821 I was stationed on the Mad River circuit. You know
there are extensive prairies in that part of the state. In places,
there are no dwellings within miles of each other; and animals of
prey are often seen there. One evening, late in autumn, a few of the
neighbors were assembled around me, in one of those solitary
dwellings, and we had got well engaged in the worship of God, when it
was announced that the child of a widow was lost in the prairie. It
was cold; the wind blew; and some rain was falling. The poor woman
was in agony, and our meeting was broken up. All prepared to go in
search of the lost child. The company understood the business better
than I did, for they had been bred in those extensive barrens; and
occurrences like the present are, probably, not unfrequent among
them. They equipped themselves with lanterns and torches, for it was
quite dark; and tin horns, to give signals to different parts of the
company, when they should become widely separated. For my part, I
thought duty required that I should take charge of the unhappy
mother. She was nearly frantic; and as time permitted her to view her
widowed and childless condition, and the circumstances of the
probable death of her child, her misery seemed to double upon her.
She took my arm; the company divided into parties; and, taking
different directions, we commenced the search. The understanding was,
that, when the child should be found, a certain wind of the horn
should be made, and that all who should hear it should repeat the
signal. In this way all the company would receive the information.
"The prospect of finding a lost child in those extensive prairies,
would, at any time, be sufficiently discouraging. The difficulty must
be greatly increased by a dark, rainy night. We travelled many miles,
and to a late hour. At length we became satisfied that further search
would be unavailing; and all but the mother determined to return home.
It was an idea she could not, for a moment, endure. She would hear of
nothing but further search. Her strength, at last, began to fail her,
and I prevailed on her to return to her abode. As she turned her face
from further search, and gave up her child as lost, her misery was
almost too great for endurance. 'My child,' said she, 'has been
devoured by a wild beast; his little limbs have been torn asunder; and
his blood been drunk by the hideous monster,'--and the idea was
agony. As she clung to my arm, it seemed as if her heart-strings
would break. At times I had almost to support her in my arms, to
prevent her falling to the earth.
"As we proceeded on our way back, I thought I heard, at a great
distance, the sound of a horn. We stopped, and listened: it was
repeated. It was the concerted signal. The child was found. And what
were the feelings of the mother!" Language cannot describe them. Such
is the strength of maternal affection. And can a child be so hard-
hearted as not to love a mother? Is there any thing which can be more
ungrateful than to grieve one who loves you so ardently, and who has
done so much for you? If there be any crime which in the sight of God
is greater than all others, it appears to me it must be the abuse of
parents. If the spirit of a demon dwells in any human breast, it must
be in that breast which is thankless for parental favors, and which
can requite that love, which watched over our infancy and protected
our helpless years, with ingratitude and disrespect.