Mother Teaching by MARTHA E. WARNER

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Dec 9, 1915

Mother Teaching

By MARTHA E. WARNER

MARTHA E. WARNER

While riding on the train one day, I noticed a little child calling his mother's attention to some cows in a pasture we were passing.

The mother glanced from her book to the window. “Pretty, pretty,” she said, absently.

Soon the little fellow saw a river, then a horse, and to all his exclamations his mother said, “Pretty, pretty.” Presently he saw some sheep scampering in a pasture, and lisped, “Pitty, pitty.” He had learned his lesson, and one that would soon have to be unlearned.

Mothers, take time to teach your little ones. When they see a cow, say, cow; don't confuse their minds by saying, “Pretty, pretty.” Children are interrogation points. They want to know; and as they grow older, they want to know why. Their little questions give material for many a helpful story. If you can answer their questions, answer them truthfully. If you don't know, frankly say so, but add that you will try to find out.

Can You Tell?

One day a boy asked permission of his father to go fishing. The father pointed to a whip, and said, “Go, if you want to, but you know what to expect.” Later he explained to a guest that several of the boys at school went fishing during the recess. When the bell rang, they were too busy to hear it, so continued fishing until nearly four o'clock. In addition to the punishment his boy had received at school, he had forbidden him to go to the river for two weeks, under penalty of a whipping.

The next day the guest heard the boy teasing his mother to go fishing. She reminded him of his father's command, and told him he must do his work. The boy continued to tease, and presently his mother gave her consent, on condition that he would come home the minute she whistled for him. Ten minutes before it was time for the father to come, she whistled, and the boy obeyed promptly. That father is now dead, and the mother cannot understand why her boy deceives her. Can you?

To Hide or Not to Hide

Mother was away, and auntie wanted to light a lamp, but she could not find a match. The little four-year-old said, “Mother hides them.” When mother returned, she showed auntie where the matches were, explaining that she had to hide them because the little man seemed “possessed to play with matches.”

In another home, just about dark, the mother said, “It is time for me to light the oil stove and get supper.” The little four-year-old dropped the blocks he was playing with, and went with mother into the kitchen, auntie following. The little man picked up the box of matches, and when mother said, “Ready,” he lighted a match, touched it to the burner, blew out the flame, laid the match with other burned matches, and went back to his play.

His mother told auntie that she began by holding the match for him to blow out. Later he was allowed to hold the match in his own hands, and as he grew older, he was taught to light the match and hand it to mother. At the age of four he could light a lamp or stove as carefully as she herself. The matches were not hidden from him, and he was never known to take one to play with.

You Lied to Me!

“Can you stand on your head?” I asked a little boy on his fifth birthday. His mother instantly replied, “Stand on his head?—No, indeed! He might break his head off. He did try to turn a somersault, and he hurt his shoulder dreadfully. I thought he had cracked his head, and you know if his head should come off, I could not sew it on again. It never could be fixed.” The child grew pale as he listened to his mother.

Soon afterwards the father insisted on sending the boy to a district school. The first week was very hard for him, but the second week he was willing to go. One night when he came home, he rushed into the living room, where his mother was entertaining a caller, and shaking his finger at his mother, shouted, “You lied to me! You lied to me, I say! My head won't break off when I turn a somersault, and I can say, ‘Gosh,’ and the boys say I ain't a sissy no more.”

That was very hard for the mother, but she profited by the experience. When her second son was born, she said, “With God's help, this boy shall never have occasion to call his mother a liar.”

Clintonville, Conn.