p. 12 | The Teacher's Story

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Dec 16, 1909

The Teacher's Story

I was teaching a country school and “boarding round.” One week I was in a lovely Christian home. Few children are loved as fondly as was the little boy who was the only child at that house. His father worked and sacrificed that he might be educated and have a start in life, and his mother provided good, wholesome food, kept him clean and comfortable, and taught him good manners.

Yet at my first meal in that home I was made heartsick by the untruths which were told to the child by both parents, without a suspicion, seemingly, that they were doing wrong. When the fond mother tied on the little boy's bib, I heard her say, “Now you must be good, or God won't love you.” Lie number one. Under this threat the boy became nervous. He spilled a little milk.

Then it was the father's turn. “Now the lady will go away and tell all the people that our little boy spills his milk.” Lie number two.

Presently the father said to me: “Don't you want a boy? I will trade you this one for a hen.” Number three.

The boy sought his mother's eye anxiously, to see whether this was really meant, but she did not meet his gaze. As I could not say to him, “Your father is not speaking the truth,” I smiled reassuringly at him. Papa went on: “Or, I'll trade him for a pig,—he eats like a little pig. You could put him in the pen with your pigs at home.” Lie four.

The boy was slow at eating, and had not finished when we left the table. Papa said, “If you eat so much, you will turn into a little pig.” Lie number five. “You are almost fat enough to sell now. When you get fat enough to kill, you could be killed, like the other little pigs.” Lie number six.

The father went out, laughing. By the shades of livid color that passed over the face of the tortured child, I knew that he had, unfortunately, seen pigs slaughtered. In his dilated, horror-stricken eyes I saw that his imagination pictured the frightful scene, and placed himself in the place of the victim. He ate no more. All the digestive fluids were turned to poison. I helped him down from his high chair, took him in my arms, and gave him my watch to hold, while I told him about my brother's pet squirrel. But in the midst of the most engaging part of the story he looked up earnestly into my eyes, and said, “I hope when my papa does sell me, I can go to you.” I told him his father was only in fun, that papas never sold their little boys, that it was against the law, and therefore could not be done.

Just then his mother came to put him to bed early, so that she and I could chat without interruption.

We visited late, and just as I entered the guest-chamber, the house rang with agonized screams, and I found both the parents bending over the child's bed, while he, sound asleep, with wide-open, unseeing eyes, was hoarsely screaming, “I ain't a pig! I ain't a pig! Don't kill me.”

At last, after having water dashed in his face, he seemed to recognize his mother's voice, and clutched her with a deathlike grip, which could not easily be unclasped,—nightmare amounting to delirium tremens caused by untruths, indigestion, and an excited imagination! It might easily have proved fatal.

I learned, then and there, that it is not enough to earn and cook food for a child—he must be permitted to eat undisturbed. I also learned that the processes of digestion and assimilation can not be carried on at all while the mind is controlled by fear, anger, jealousy, or grief. — Union Signal.