THE POINT OF VIEW
Just why a boy is averse to washing his neck and ears is one of the
deep problems of social psychology, and yet the psychologists have
veered away from the subject. There must be a reason, and these mind
experts ought to be able and willing to find it, so as to relieve the
anxiety of the rest of us. It is easy for me to say, with a full-arm
gesture, that a boy is of the earth earthy, but that only begs the
question, as full-arm gestures are wont to do. Many a boy has shed
copious tears as he sat on a bench outside the kitchen door removing,
under compulsion, the day's accumulations from his feet as a
prerequisite for retiring. He would much prefer to sleep on the
floor to escape the foot-washing ordeal. Why, pray, should he wash
his feet when he knows full well that tomorrow night will find them
in the same condition? Why all the bother and trouble about a little
thing like that? Why can't folks let a fellow alone, anyhow? And,
besides, he went in swimming this afternoon, and that surely ought to
meet all the exactions of capricious parents. He exhibits his feet
as an evidence of the virtue of going swimming, for he is arranging
the preliminaries for another swimming expedition to-morrow.
I recall very distinctly how strange it seemed that my father could
sit there and calmly talk about being a Democrat, or a Republican, or
a Baptist, or a Methodist, or about some one's discovering the north
pole, or about the President's message when the dog had a rat
cornered under the corn-crib and was barking like mad. But, then,
parents can't see things in their right relations and proportions.
And there sat mother, too, darning stockings, and the dog just stark
crazy about that rat. 'Tis enough to make a boy lose faith in
parents forevermore. A dog, a rat, and a boy--there's a combination
that recks not of the fall of empires or the tottering of thrones.
Even chicken-noodles must take second place in such a scheme of world
activities. And yet a mother would hold a boy back from the
forefront of such an enterprise to wash his neck. Oh, these mothers!
I have read "Adam's Diary," by Mark Twain, in which he tells what
events were forward in Eden on Monday, what on Tuesday, and so on
throughout the week till he came to Sunday, and his only comment on
that day was "Pulled through." In the New England Primer we gather
the solemn information that "In Adam's fall, we sinned all." I admit
the fact freely, but beg to be permitted to plead extenuating
circumstances. Adam could go to church just as he was, but I had to
be renovated and, at times, almost parboiled and, in addition to
these indignities, had to wear shoes and stockings; and the stockings
scratched my legs, and the shoes were too tight. If Adam could
barely manage to pull through, just think of me. Besides, Adam
didn't have to wear a paper collar that disintegrated and smeared his
neck. The more I think of Adam's situation, the more sorry I feel
for myself. Why, he could just reach out and pluck some fruit to
help him through the services, but I had to walk a mile after church,
in those tight shoes, and then wait an hour for dinner. And I was
supposed to feel and act religious while I was waiting, but I didn't.
If I could only have gone to church barefoot, with my shirt open at
the throat, and with a pocket full of cookies to munch _ad lib_
throughout the services, I am sure that the spiritual uplift would
have been greater. The soul of a boy doesn't expand violently when
encased in a starched shirt and a paper collar, and these surmounted
by a thick coat, with the mercury at ninety-seven in the shade. I
think I can trace my religious retardation back to those hungry
Sundays, those tight shoes, that warm coat, and those frequent jabs
in my ribs when I fain would have slept.
In my childhood there was such a host of people who were pushing and
pulling me about in an effort to make me good that, even yet, I shy
away from their style of goodness. The wonder is that I have any
standing at all in polite and upright society. So many folks said I
was bad and naughty, and applied so many other no less approbrious
epithets to me that, in time, I came to believe them, and tried
somewhat diligently to live up to the reputation they gave me. I
recall that one of my aunts came in one day and, seeing me out in the
yard most ingloriously tousled, asked my good mother: "Is that your
child?" Poor mother! I have often wondered how much travail of
spirit it must have cost her to acknowledge me as her very own. One
thumb, one great toe, and an ankle were decorated with greasy rags,
and I was far from being ornamental. I had been hulling walnuts,
too, and my stained hands served to accentuate the human scenery.
This same aunt had three boys of her own, later on, and a more
disreputable-looking crew it would be hard to find. I confess that I
took a deal of grim satisfaction in their dilapidated ensemble, just
for my aunt's benefit, of course. They were fine, wholesome, natural
boys in spite of their parentage, and I liked them even while I
gloried in their cuts, bruises, and dirt. At that time I was wearing
a necktie and had my shoes polished but, even so, I yearned to join
with them in their debauch of sand, mud, and general indifference to
convention. They are fine, upstanding young chaps now, and of course
their mother thinks that her scolding, nagging, and baiting made them
so. They know better, but are too kind and considerate to reveal the
truth to their mother.
Even yet I have something like admiration for the ingenuity of my
elders in conjuring up spooks, hob-goblins, and bugaboos with which
to scare me into submission. I conformed, of course, but I never
gave them a high grade in veracity. I yielded simply to gain time,
for I knew where there was a chipmunk in a hole, and was eager to get
to digging him out just as soon as my apparent submission for a brief
time had proved my complete regeneration. They used to tell me that
children should be seen but not heard, and I knew they wanted to do
the talking. I often wonder whether their notion of a good child
would have been satisfactorily met if I had suddenly become
paralyzed, or ossified, or petrified. In either of these cases I
could have been seen but not heard. One day, not long ago, when I
felt at peace with all the world and was comfortably free from care,
a small, thumb-sucking seven-year-old asked: "How long since the
world was born?" After I told him that it was about four thousand
years he worked vigorously at his thumb for a time, and then said:
"That isn't very long." Then I wished I had said four millions, so
as to reduce him to silence, for one doesn't enjoy being routed and
put to confusion by a seven-year-old.
After quite a silence he asked again: "What was there before the
world was born?" That was an easy one; so I said in a tone of
finality: "There wasn't anything." Then I went on with my
meditations, thinking I had used the soft pedal effectively. Silence
reigned supreme for some minutes, and then was rudely shattered. His
thumb flew from his mouth, and he laughed so lustily that he could be
heard throughout the house. When his laughter had spent itself
somewhat, I asked meekly: "What are you laughing at?" His answer
came on the instant, but still punctuated with laughter: "I was
laughing to see how funny it was when there wasn't anything." No
wonder that folks want children to be seen but not heard. And some
folks are scandalized because a chap like that doesn't like to wash
his neck and ears.