sensitive stock to deal with, there is reason for them to feel that,
somehow, they should go about it differently. This appears to be a
partial explanation of what we see going throughout the length and
breadth of our land. It is for their benefit that a more sympathetic
principle has been gradually emerging from the confusion.
And let us note in passing that the altered sentiment on the part of
mothers, and the principle which responds to it, cannot be credited in
any way to the achievements of modern science, because a similar
tendency showed itself sooner and became more pronounced and wide-spread
in communities of China and Japan, where no modern science had
penetrated. It would seem rather an intuitive growth of delicate
understanding on the part of parents, as they become relieved from the
strenuous needs of material existence.
This third principle does not tend to "spoil" the child, or repress its
affection, or distort any of the finer impulses of its spiritual nature.
It does not destroy obedience or discipline; but instead of obedience
and discipline inspired by a whip, it seeks to erect self-obedience,
self-discipline and self-control.
How does it work? First, through love, because in nature that comes
first; then, little by little, through the unfolding of conscience and
faith.
We have talked about the heart feelings of a child, so it is only
necessary to refer to them again, not for the joy they may bring to
mothers, but because loyalty, fidelity, consideration for others,
growing out of affection, may merge imperceptibly with feelings which
are essentially moral and spiritual, to the immense advantage of both.
Let a mother love her child, then, and cherish its love, with all the
lavishness, tenderness, constancy of which she is capable. There can
never be too much of it--there can never be enough of it--either for the
child's good, or the mother's. And before the child is really old enough
to think, let it have a radiant, deep-rooted feeling that mother's love
is a mainstay of life, which will never waver or desert it, under any
possible contingency, and which it, in turn, will never, never desert.
And let a mother never trifle with that feeling, or prove fickle to it,
at any stage, but treasure it as the holiest of holies, the very essence
of the character she hopes to see formed.
In the early stages of development, when a child's mind is unable to
reason or understand, little habits of second nature are formed. The
moral questions do not come to the fore until the age of reason and the
first awakening of the spiritual feelings. And they bring with them
unavoidably, the problem of obedience and discipline.
Suppose your son disobeys you, what then? Or suppose he has disobeyed
the nurse, and she comes and tells you? Something has to be done about
that, surely. What must you do?
Well, first of all, there is one thing you must be very careful _not_ to
do. Don't scold--don't speak harshly--don't look cross--don't get angry.
Look at your child with sympathy and understanding, and when he meets
your eye, with a cunning little look of shame and defiance, smile back
at him reassuringly, and hold out your hand to him. Then, after the
nurse has had her say, thank her for telling you about it and ask her to
leave you, because in the tender confidences between mother and son it
is not proper that an outside and possibly antagonistic influence should
intrude.
When she has gone, take him on your knee, put your arms about him and
hug him tight. Don't let him forget for an instant that he is your very
own and you are his very own mother. Whatever may be going to come of
it, keep that point clear--that you are his partner and help-mate and he
is never going to be left out in the cold. Nothing will help more toward
a fair-minded understanding of the situation. Ask him to tell you all
about it, just how and why it all happened and help him with your
sympathy and patience to express himself fully.
Let us imagine that this is what has occurred:
When he was out walking, he saw a dead bird lying under the bushes on
the other side of a ditch. The nurse, Delia, told him not to, but he did
climb across the ditch and picked it up. It was an awfully pretty bird
and he just wanted to look at it. When she told him to throw it away, he
wouldn't come back. Then she caught him and shook his arm and he
couldn't help it--he just got angry. He threw the bird at her and called
her "an ugly old crow."
When mother has heard it all, she can start in very gently to answer and
explain. And it won't hurt a bit to begin by letting him see that she
understands perfectly just how he felt. She remembers a dead bird she
found once, when she was little. But, on the other hand, Delia was only
doing what she thought was best. There might have been nasty worms on
the bird.
But that, after all, is not the main thing. The main thing is, that if
he is to be trusted to go out walking with his nurse, he must be willing
to do as she says, no matter how unreasonable it may seem. Otherwise
mother would be worrying all the time--and something dreadful might
happen--he might get lost, or run over. He doesn't have to go out
walking with Delia, if he doesn't want to; that is for him to decide.
But if he does decide to go, it must be on the distinct understanding
that he agrees not to disobey her.
The boy is rightly entitled to his say about this and if he has any
objections, it is for mother to meet them and dissipate them with her
love and reasons. Nothing should be demanded between mother and son
which does not seem just and fair to both.
One final point remains to be considered. He threw the bird in Delia's
face and called her a name which must have hurt her feelings.
_Boy:_ "I couldn't help it. I was angry."
_Mother:_ "I understand that perfectly. But all the same, it was rather
hard on Delia, especially when she was only trying to do what she
thought was right."
_Boy:_ "Sometimes, I've got an awful temper."
_Mother:_ "I don't mind that a bit. I'm glad of it. It's only because
you have such strong feelings."
_Boy:_ "Have you got a temper, too?"
_Mother (smiling and nodding):_ "Of course I have--as bad as yours--or
worse."
_Boy (delighted):_ "Really?"
_Mother:_ "But it's something we all have to learn to control. Because
if we can't control it, it's sure to make us do things that we're
ashamed of afterwards--things that are unkind and unfair to others.
Aren't you just a little bit ashamed of what you did to Delia?"
_Boy (meeting her eye with smile of enquiry--then looking away and
thinking, with feeling):_ "No--I'm not!"
_Mother (petting his hand):_ "Well--I suppose you're still thinking
about the bird--and there's still a little of that old temper left. But
wait awhile and think it over. And--I'm going to tell you something that
_I_ think would be awfully nice. Sometime, if you did happen to feel
like it and went to Delia of your own accord and explained to her how
you lost your temper and were sorry for calling her that awful
name----?"
_Boy (looking away, thinking, then turning to her, hesitating and
shaking his head):_ "I couldn't mummy, please,--I couldn't--not now----"
_Mother:_ "I'm sure she'd appreciate it, a lot. Poor Delia--she tries so
hard and she's so sensitive and she's really so fond of you. Of course,
I wouldn't want you to say you were sorry, unless it was really true.
It's only a sham and a humbug to make people say things they don't mean.
It's entirely a question of how you feel about it, in your own heart.
And nobody can decide that for you but yourself."
After an incident of this sort, how would a mother feel if Delia told
her, the next afternoon, that Master Bob had come to her and apologized
like a little gentleman--and he'd been so sweet and dear--and he'd
kissed her--and it touched her so, it broke her all up and she couldn't
help crying?
If we take the pains to examine a little every-day example of this sort,
it is not difficult to see that it involves some fairly important
feelings. First of all, it encourages a feeling of faith--faith in
mother, in her sympathy and understanding and justice. Then
consideration for others--self-control--and finally conscience, what the
inner nature, of its own accord, feels to be right. All these may be of
vital account in the formation of a fine character, and they may be
brought into play by this sort of treatment just as effectually as by a
beating.
Of course it cannot be assumed, or expected, that the immediate result
in any given case will prove so satisfactory. Sooner or later, with
nearly all children, there are sure to come times when gentle
explanations will not suffice. Something more impressive has to be
resorted to.
This final resort was, in fact, faintly indicated in our example--but so
faintly, that it might be overlooked.
It was carefully explained to the boy that if he would not agree to obey
Delia, when he went out walking with her, then he could not enjoy the
privilege of going out walking with Delia. This is a principle of
punishment, which may be applied to any and all cases, to almost any
desired degree.
And it has at least one great advantage over other kinds of punishment.
It can be made to avoid all danger of seeming unjust and arousing
resentment.
Let us look into the application of this principle with reference to the
more serious problems of misconduct which are liable to arise.
In general experience, the most serious troubles, or faults, which a
mother has to contend with, are forgetfulness, temper, selfishness,
deception, lying. Her aim is to see them supplanted by a habit of
reflection, self-control, consideration for others, sincerity, truth.
She believes and feels that these latter qualities are better for the
boy's own welfare, better for the people he loves, better for everybody.
She wants her boy to feel this way about it, too.
Very well, then, the first thing to be sure of is that the boy really
understands the meaning of those things which you expect of him--the
whys and wherefores and the good that is in them. Otherwise--if he is
not sincere about it, if he must do things in which he doesn't
believe--there's an element of sham about it which leads quite naturally
to concealment and hypocrisy.
It is true, he may always be counted on to do a great deal for love, for
mother's sake,--provided that mother has cared for that love. But that
is a sacred privilege, which should not be abused. It may have the
effect of setting a bad example. If she has the right to ask him to do
something which he doesn't see the sense of and doesn't feel like doing,
why shouldn't he have the same right to ask her to let him do things
which she doesn't see the sense of and doesn't feel like letting him do?
If that is the way of love, why doesn't it apply to one, as well as the
other? This may be very cunning and sweet, upon occasion; but for steady
diet, it does not help the growth of moral feeling.
It is much better that he should never be required to do things which he
cannot understand sufficiently to feel the right of. This all comes
about quite naturally, in the course of companionship. There are
countless opportunities for explaining and questioning, about this,
that, or the other. No growing child is slow about asking innumerable
questions and trying his best to understand. Preaching of any kind isn't
necessary. It seldom, if ever, gets home in the best way. The same
thing is true of scolding and harsh words. They are not at all
necessary; and they usually do a great deal more harm than good.
Let us suppose, then, that your son has been guilty of an act of
selfishness--and to make matters worse, through a feeling of shame, he
has first attempted concealment and then resorted to lying.
That is a rather trying situation for mother to face. It is about as
hard a nut as she will ever have to crack. In the old days, there would
be no hesitation in saying that the first thing it called for was a good
sound beating.
But instead of that, let us imagine that mother is brave enough to stick
to her love feeling, reassures her boy, smilingly, and holds him close.
First she gives him a chance to tell all about it, in his own way, and
helps him along to a confidential admission of the shameful facts.
And to make the case as extreme as possible, we will assume that there
were no palliating circumstances whatever. The best that the boy can say
for himself is that he just didn't stop to think--he went ahead and did
it--and afterwards, he felt ashamed and didn't want anyone to know--and
then, well, he tried to get out of it by lying.
_Mother (smiling, thinking):_ "Well, well--here's a pretty kettle of
fish--isn't it? What in the world are we going to do about it?"
_Boy (looking down, nervous, does not answer)._
_Mother:_ "I suppose there's no use crying over it. The main thing is
how we can find a way to keep it from happening again. Perhaps it would
help, if we could find the right kind of punishment?" (No answer.) "What
kind of punishment shall it be--the fairest we can think of? Suppose you
decide it for yourself. What would you suggest?"
_Boy (very nervous):_ "I don't know."
_Mother:_ "How would it be if, the next time you told a lie, you and
mother couldn't, either of you, go riding in the automobile for two
days?"
_Boy (troubled, thinking, giving her a look):_ "Two whole days?"
_Mother (smiling):_ "That's a pretty big punishment but, after all,
lying is a pretty bad thing, which we don't want to have happen. Suppose
we start with that and agree on it--two whole days?"
_Boy (looking down, thinking, very nervous):_ "If you couldn't go
riding, either--why should you be punished?"
_Mother:_ "Because I'm your own mother and I love you better than
anything in the world. Whatever you do, can't help affecting me.
Besides, you see, in a way, I'm largely responsible for whatever you
do. If I don't bring you up right--isn't it my fault? And if we both
have to be punished together, that may help you to remember."
_Boy gives her a glance, looks down, thinking--begins to smile,
hesitates._
_Mother:_ "What are you thinking? Tell me."
_Boy:_ "You mightn't know anything about it--if it was to the cook, or
Delia, or Vincent--or somebody else?"
_Mother:_ "That's true. It's something else for us to think about. If a
boy tells a lie to anybody--because he's ashamed or afraid--that's bad
enough. But afterwards, if he doesn't own up to it like a little man,
but tries to conceal it from his mother, or deny it, that is ever so
much worse. It deserves a much bigger punishment. Isn't that right?...
Isn't it?"
_Boy looks down, showing more nervousness, finally assents._
_Mother:_ "Very well, then--this is what seems fair to me: If my boy
tells another lie and doesn't attempt to deny it, afterwards--then the
punishment will be as we agreed--two days, with no automobile for either
of us. But if, before she hears of it, he comes, of his own accord, and
tells mother all about it--that's better, and we'll reduce the
punishment to one day. But if, on the contrary, he tries to conceal it
and denies it and tells more lies, that is worst of all--and when it is
found out, as it is very apt to be, sooner or later--then the punishment
will have to be harder on all of us--and father will have to be included
too."
_Boy (quickly):_ "Father?"
_Mother:_ "If father is going to have that kind of a son, he will have
to know about it and suffer for it, too. He will have to take his
punishment, whether he wants to or not--the same as you and I."
_Boy:_ "Oh, mummy, please! Does father have to know about that, yet?"
_Mother:_ "Well, you see, dear, father loves us both, very much. We both
belong to him--we both bear his name--and he works very hard to give us
everything he can to make us happy."
_Boy:_ "But if I don't do it again----?"
_Mother (hugging him):_ "All right! If you really mean to try very hard,
perhaps we'll never have to come to that. I'm quite sure I don't want
to, any more than you do. There! it's understood and agreed--and we
won't say another word about it."
That is a simple example of the principle; but it is enough to suggest
the beginning and end of the whole thing. It can be made elastic
enough--gentle or severe enough--to fit almost any or all cases that may
be imagined.
The punishment is talked over and understood in advance, not in any way
as a chastisement, inflicted by an angry parent, but as a necessary and
eminently fair means of impressing upon an unformed character the need
of self-control, and the avoidance of an act which he knows is unworthy.
There are always certain things in every child's life which mean a lot
to him--dolls, toys, games, skates, baseball, bicycle, automobile rides,
swimming, tennis, golf--or something else--at all ages, up to manhood.
To be deprived of an important pleasure is a sure way of making him stop
and think over the meaning of it. There is only one thing that will
bring it home more surely and more deeply, and that is to see the one he
loves best deprived of her important pleasures, too, as a result of his
misconduct. If mother cannot go out in the automobile; if mother cannot
play the piano; if mother cannot read to him, or tell him stories; if
mother cannot come to the table for her meals;--the sight of this and
the knowledge that he is the cause of it, will put a terrible tug on the
heart-strings and the conscience. And in extreme cases, if father has
to be included in the punishment, and deprived of his pleasures, too,
that makes the boy's feeling of guilty responsibility even more
pronounced.
Yet, with it all, there is no chance for a sense of personal resentment
and injustice to obscure the meaning. The unfairness and severity--if
there be any--applies most to mother and is inflicted by the boy's own
act. And if mother sets the example of accepting it bravely and
smilingly, with no complaint and no scolding, and clings fast to her
love and sympathy, in this trial of love, such experiences may be
counted on to prove entirely helpful to the growth of moral feeling and
self-discipline.
And once a punishment has been determined and agreed upon in advance, it
should never be deviated from in the slightest degree. If a child were
allowed to evade it, or modify it, by cajolery or cunning appeal, that
would tend to destroy the spirit of fairness and faith in mother's word.
If a child will not respond to this kind of treatment and this kind of
punishment, it is fairly safe to assume that he would respond even less,
as far as the development of character is concerned, to ill-temper,
harsh language, and the whip.
So much for the question of discipline, about which many
well-intentioned mothers of the present day are so perplexed and
confused. In this connection, however, there remains to be made a
general observation and warning, upon which too much stress can hardly
be laid.
A certain amount of discipline, in a few important matters which involve
moral feeling, is almost essential to the proper formation of character.
On the other hand, constant restraint and excessive discipline, in the
natural exuberance of youthful impulses and activities, is unwise and
unfair to human nature. A mother who puts a healthy, normal boy in a
pretty suit of clothes, and then would talk punishment, because he plays
in the mud, or climbs a tree, doesn't deserve to have a healthy, normal
boy. His impulse to play in the mud and climb trees is infinitely more
vital and admirable than the vanity and sentimentality which attaches to
spotless clothes. Sturdy vitality is a splendid foundation for sturdy
character. Almost any kind of activity which does not endanger his life
or health is good for him. Lots of love and a little helpful guidance,
in essential things, is all that he usually needs--and very, very little
repression, of any kind--the less the better.
In a child's nature the faculty of imagination and the force of example
are important considerations in the development of the spiritual
feelings and the formation of fine ideals. The world of make-believe,
of purest fantasy, is just as interesting and just as significant as the
every day actualities of life. It makes not the slightest difference to
a little boy, or girl, whether the stories you read them, or the acts of
hero and heroine, are reasonable or not. (And if, in the preceding
pages, I have referred to the child as being a boy, that is only for
convenience in writing and not to imply that the observations would
differ in the case of a girl.) The child's imagination is ready and
eager to follow you anywhere and the main thing is the exercise of the
feelings occasioned by fictitious events.
This is one of the earliest ways for the tender soul nature to find
nourishment and growth. The more rhymes and jingles it can hear, the
more fairy tales, stories of adventure, thrilling deeds of heroism, the
better it is for the forming traits of character. In nearly all the
stories a mother may find to read or tell to her children, there are
examples and side-lights of courage, devotion, honor, loyalty,
cheerfulness, patience, and other exhilarating qualities. There is no
necessity of picking and choosing too carefully, or of attempting to
confine the exercise to a certain sort of fiction whose tendency is
obviously moral. The biggest part of it is to give the imagination and
feelings plenty of food to grow on, to encourage and stimulate a liking
and admiration for things which appeal to the interest through the
imagination. Given half a chance, nature can be fairly well trusted to
look after the rest--and in the long run is apt to prove as true a guide
as finicky and restricted notions which may be lacking in broad
comprehension.
One of the loveliest and most helpful occupations any mother can have is
to learn to tell stories to her children. Many mothers may find
themselves a little deficient in this ability, at first; but, with the
inspiration of love and their holy cause, almost any mother can soon
acquire a charming facility in doing it. And the advantage to the
children, as well as to mother, which may be derived from this method is
very considerable. A story told by mother is easier to understand, more
sympathetic, more delightful, less set and cumbersome than nearly any
story which has to be read methodically from the printed pages of a
book. A mother is in close touch with the needs and natures of her own
flock--she can embellish and interpret and add her own loving comments,
as such and as often as she feels the call for it.
I have found by experience that so many stories which are supposedly
designed for children, make use of big and stilted words, complicated
ideas, and tedious, long-winded explanations. Mother can read them so
quickly by herself and then preserve the pith and point of them in her
own manner of recounting. There is practically no limit to the variety
of kinds and subjects which may be interpreted and rendered available in
this way. The story of Ivanhoe, or Quentin Durward, or Lohengrin, may be
just as readily told in this way as Cinderella, or Robin Hood, or
Aladdin and his Wonderful Lamp. But set any child the task of reading
for itself a great volume of Ivanhoe, or many of the other world
classics, or of listening to any one who waded through the long
descriptions for hours on end, is hardly to be thought of.
Fortunately there are a number of books which seem to have been written
by people who love children and understand them. These a mother can
search out and select from and make good use of.
One of the curious things about youth is that children love to hear the
same stories over and over again, even after they know them almost by
heart. This is undoubtedly due to the fact that the appeal is
principally to the feelings and not to the intellect. Intellectual
people, when once they know the contents of a book, seldom have any
further interest in it. But music and painting and poetry do not lose
interest through familiarity, even for mature natures. Their appeal is
more like that which stories have for children.
Owing to this condition of affairs, a mother need never be at a loss for
stories to tell or stories to read. This part of child life should not
be an exceptional occurrence due to her mood or whim, but a constant
feature of the daily life to be counted on and treasured up. The lovely
atmosphere which surrounds it, the moral and spiritual ideals which are
engendered by it, combine in making it a precious influence in the
rearing of a new generation.