Don't Tell Father

Publishing Committee · Battle Creek, Mich. · Dec 24, 1857

"Don't Tell Father."

There is many a good mother who plans the ruin of the child she clearly loves—teaches it the first lesson in wrongdoing, by simply saying, "Now don't you tell father." Surely mothers do it thoughtlessly, ignorantly, not considering that it is a first lesson in deception.

Not at all strange that gamblers and liars and thieves and hypocrites, and distrustful, evil minded people so abound, when weak, loving mothers, with honeyed words, and caresses, sweeten the little teachings that so soon ripen into all kinds of meanness and unprincipled rascality.

I heard a kind, well-meaning mother say to the puny baby in her arms, "well, birdie shall have its good candy every day; bad papa shan't know it; see how it loves it!" and the little thing whose reach of life had not a whole winter in it yet, snatched at the bright red and blue colored poison, and made as many glad motions, as though it took its whole body to suck it with. The poor little thing had been fed on candy, almost, and fretted for more who—never its mouth wasn't filled. Even the nourishment nature provided, didn't wholly satisfy it, for it wasn't as sweet as candy.

I thought it was no wonder, if children were taught even in babyhood that papa was bad and ugly and unkind, that in youth they should call him a “snob” and the “old man,” and the mother, whom they had learned by experience had no stability of character, and was capable of deception, not strange they should so little respect her as to call her the “old woman.”

I shudder when I hear the frequent words drop from young lips, "Oh, I must not let father know that!"

The father may be a stern man, rigid in his way of bringing up his children, but he has a heart somewhere, and surely truthful, honest, loving words from his own child, will find that warm place. So it is best never to deceive him in any thing, but keep his confidence whole and unshaken, and the whiteness of the soul unstained by that loathsome sin, deception.

"Father don't allow me to read novels," said a young lady to me lately, but "mother does, and so we two read all we can get, and he never knows it;" and she giggled as though they were very cunning and worthy of praise, for so completely deceiving poor, good father.

My soul sickened at the idea of a wife daring to teach her children to disobey their father; of the daughter, vain and unprincipled, with such a mother to teach and guide her. Better for the world she had never been born.—Ohio Cultivator.