OUR OWN AND OTHER PEOPLE’S CHILDREN
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON, in one of her novels, thus describes a
discourtesy to which mothers of young children are much given:
“Talking with a mother when her children are in the room is the most
trying thing conversationally; she listens to you with one ear, but
the other is listening to Johnnie; right in the midst of something
very pathetic you are telling her she will give a sudden, perfectly
irrelevant smile over her baby’s last crow, and your best story is
hopelessly spoiled because she loses the point (although she pretends
she hasn’t) while she arranges the sashes of Ethel and Totsie.”
There is a protest in the paragraph quoted that will find an answering
groan in many a heart. Who of us does not wish that mothers of small
children would adopt a few rules of ordinary politeness and courtesy,
and, when talking to a guest, give attention that is not shared and
almost monopolized by the child who happens to be present?
[Sidenote: THE SMALL BOY]
Parents make the mistake of thinking that their children must be as
absorbingly interesting to all visitors and acquaintances as they
are to those to whom they belong. This is a vast mistake. No matter
how fond one may be of the young of his species, one does enjoy a
conversation into which they are not dragged, and talks with more
freedom if they are not present. Certainly it is far better for the
child to learn to run off and amuse himself than to sit by, listening
to talk not meant for his ears. Those of us who were children many
years ago were not allowed to make nuisances of ourselves to the extent
that children of to-day do, and surely we were happy. In one home there
is a small boy, very good, and very affectionate, whose mother can not
receive a caller without the presence of the ubiquitous infant. He sits
still, his great eyes fixed upon the face of the caller, and she feels
ashamed for wishing that he would get out of the room. Occasionally he
varies the monotony by saying, “Mother, don’t you want to tell Mrs.
Blank about what I said the other day when I was hurt and did not cry?”
Or, “Mother, do you think Mrs. Blank would like me to recite my new
poem to her?”
This may be annoying, but it is still more pitiful. To talk so much to
a child and of him in the presence of others that he is a poseur at the
early age of five, is cruel to the little one himself. We frown on the
old adage which declared “children should be seen and not heard,” but
there are homes in which the guest wishes that they might be invisible
as well as inaudible.
One mother defers constantly to her fourteen-year-old son, and allows
him to be present during all chats she has with her friends. She says,
“You do not mind Will, I am sure. You may say what you like where he
is, for he is the soul of discretion, and I talk freely with him.” But
the visitor does not feel the same confidence in “Will,” and certainly
objects to expressing all her opinions with regard to people and things
in his presence.
[Sidenote: OTHER PEOPLE’S CHILDREN]
Our own children are intensely interesting; the children of other
people are, as a rule, _not_! Let us, once in a while, put ourselves in
the place of another person, and think if we are willing to have that
person’s child always in the room when we would talk confidentially
with her. I think if we are frank we shall acknowledge that while we do
not mind the presence of our own children, we do talk more freely when
other people’s children are not present. Said a man not long ago:
“Mrs. Brown is a marvelous woman. She is one of the most devoted
mothers I know. Her children are with her a great part of the time.
Yet, whenever I call there, alone or with a friend, a signal from
her empties the drawing-room or library of the entire flock of five
infants, and she is just as much interested in what her callers have to
say as if she had no youngsters cruising about in the offing.”
* * * * *
[Sidenote: TRAINING THE SHY CHILD]
It is not to be supposed that children are never to be allowed to
come into the drawing-room. They should be trained to enter the room,
greet the guests politely and without embarrassment, answer frankly
and straightforwardly, and to speak when spoken to. Then, they should
be silent unless drawn into the conversation. The truest kindness is,
after a few moments, to let the little ones run away and play with
their toys or in the outdoor air.
The child who hangs his head shyly, and refuses to speak politely
to any one who addresses him, should be taught the courtesy of
friendliness. From the cradle a baby may be taught to “see people,”
and, as soon as he is old enough to return a greeting, he must be
trained to do so.
The only way to make small ladies and gentlemen of children is to
teach, first of all, perfect obedience. This is, in this day, an
unpopular doctrine, for there is prevalent a theory that the child
must be allowed to exercise his individuality,—in other words, to do
as he pleases. Why the child should develop his individuality, and the
parents curb theirs, may be matter for wonder to those not educated up
to this twentieth-century standard of ethics. If “days should speak,
and multitude of years should teach wisdom,” the father and mother
are better fitted to dictate to the child than the child to dictate
to them. And yet, in the average home, the last-mentioned form of
government often prevails.
[Sidenote: FIRMNESS IN CONTROL]
Nothing is more unkind than to allow a child to do always as he
pleases, for, as surely as he lives, he must learn sooner or later
to yield to authority and to exercise self-control. The earlier the
training begins, the easier it will be. The child creeping about the
room soon knows that the gentle but firm “No!” when spoken by the
mother means that he must not touch the bit of bric-à-brac within
reach. And even this lesson will stand him in good stead later on.
The basic principle of home government must be love enforced by
firmness. A punishment should seldom be threatened, but if threatened,
must be given. The time for threat and punishment is not in public. In
the parlor, on the train or boat, it is the height of ill-breeding to
make a scene and to threaten a punishment of any kind. Were the child
properly trained in private, parents and beholders would be spared the
humiliating spectacle that too often confronts them in visiting and
traveling.
* * * * *
One word here as to the child on train or boat. The person who is
truly well-bred will not turn and frown on the mother of the tiny baby
who, suffering with colic, or sore from traveling, is wailing aloud. Of
course the sound is annoying, but it is harder on the poor mortified
mother than on any one else. I already hear the question, “Why doesn’t
she keep the infant at home then?” Frequently she can not do this. The
child may be ill, and be on its way to seashore or mountains to gain
health; or the mother may be summoned to see some relative, and can not
go unless the baby goes too. Whatever the cause of her going, the fact
remains that she derives no pleasure from holding a screaming baby, and
her discomfort is turned into positive anguish by the disgusted looks
of the women, and the muttered imprecations of the men.
[Sidenote: A KINDLY TRAVELER]
I saw once under such circumstances a woman who was an honor to her
sex. Opposite her in the train sat a young mother, and in her arms was
a fretful wailing baby. It was evidently the first baby, and the poor
girlish mother was white and weary. At every scream the baby gave she
would start nervously, change the little one’s position, look about at
the passengers with an expression of pathetic apology,—all the time
keeping up a crooning “Sh-h-h!” that produced no effect on the crying
atom of humanity. And, as is often the case, the more nervous the
mother became, the more nervous did the baby grow, and the louder did
he scream. An exclamation of impatience came from a woman seated behind
the suffering twain, and, at the same moment, a man in front threw down
his paper with a slam and rushed out of the car and into the smoker.
Then the woman who was an honor to her sex came across from the seat
opposite, and laid a gentle hand on the mother’s shoulder, smiling
reassurance in the tear-filled eyes lifted to hers.
[Sidenote: TRUE COURTESY]
“My dear,” said the soft voice, “you are worn out, and the baby knows
it. Let me take him for a minute. No, don’t protest! I have had four of
my own, and they are all too big for me to hold in my arms now. I just
_long_ to feel that baby against my shoulder! Give him to me! There,
now! you poor, tired little mother, put your head down on the back of
the seat, and rest!”
She took the baby across the aisle, laid him over her shoulder with his
head against her cheek, in the comforting way known to all baby-lovers,
and in three minutes the cries had subsided and the baby was asleep in
the strong motherly arms, where he lay until Jersey City was reached.
And the tired little mother fell into a light slumber, too, comforted
by the appreciation that she was not alone, nor an intolerable nuisance
to all her fellow passengers.
Was not such an act as this woman’s the perfection of true courtesy,
the courtesy that forgets itself in trying to make another comfortable?
[Sidenote: TEACHING GOOD MANNERS]
This same spirit spoken of by Saint Paul as “in honor preferring one
another” can be inculcated in the children in our homes. The small of
the human species are, like their elders, naturally selfish, and must
be taught consideration for others. It is the grafting that makes the
rose what it is. You may graft a Jacqueminot or Maréchal Neil upon the
stump of the wild rose. The grafting, the pruning, and the training are
the work of the careful gardener. The mother can never be idle, for,
while the stock is there, she does the grafting.
Obedience must be taught in small things as well as in great. The tiny
child must be taught to remove his hat when he is spoken to, to give
his hand readily in greeting, to say “please” and “thank you”; not to
pass in front of people, or between them and the fire; to say “excuse
me!” when he treads on his mother’s foot or dress; to rise when she
enters the room; and to take off his hat when he kisses her. The mother
who insists that her child do these things at home need not fear that
he will forget her training when abroad.