Hurting A Child's Heart.
By T. S. Arthur
"I DON'T expect anything of my children."
The tone was fretful, with a quality of accusation. The face of the speaker wore an injured look. A boy, between fourteen and fifteen years of age, sat reading. He moved uneasily, as if pain had disturbed him, but he did not lift his eyes from the page on which they were resting. "The harder a mother slaves for her children, the less they care for her." The boy moved again, almost with a start, as though the pain felt an instant before had suddenly increased. "All children are thankless!" so the speaker kept on, talking to a friend, yet really thrusting at the boy. "Not all," answered the friend. "I have a mother, and I know my heart in regard to her. It is full of love and gratitude, and I cannot remember the time when it was not so." "There are exceptions to all rules. And besides, there are few women like your mother. That would be a cold heart, indeed, into which she did not inspire love." "Love begets love. That is the old trite story; and as true to-day as it was a thousand years ago. If children grow up cold and thankless toward their parents—if they early separate from them, going off into the world, and treating them with neglect, the fault, in most cases, rests with the parents. They did not make themselves lovely in their children's eyes." There followed this, a dead silence for some minutes. The boy had let his book fall from before his eyes, and was listening intently. His mother saw this, and had a quick perception of what was passing in his mind. "Edward," said she, "I don't like boys in my bedroom. Go down stairs." This was not spoken harshly. The mother's tone of voice had changed considerably. The boy arose without hesitation, and left the room. "I don't think it's always good to talk before children," remarked the lad's mother, as soon as he had retired. "A proper regard for our language and conduct before children," was answered, "is a theory of the gravest consideration. They have keen instincts—their eyes are sharp—they read us and know us sometimes better than we do ourselves." "They are sharp enough, I suppose; but not quite so sharp as all that," was answered. "I'm not one of those that make children of much importance." "Our estimation in the case will not alter the result, my friend. Of that we may be certain. As we are to our children, so will they be to us. Love begets love, and kindness good-will. If we do not hurt them wantonly, they will not in turn wound us by neglect." "Hurt them wantonly! I am not sure that I get your meaning." "Are you much surprised that Tom Baldwin made his escape from home, at the first good opportunity?" "Well, I looked for it, I must confess; but that don't excuse him. He's proved himself an ungrateful boy, after all his mother had done for him. But, as I said a little while ago, all children are thankless. I don't calculate on anything from mine. They'll grow up, and scatter themselves east and west, getting off as far from home as possible; and I'll probably be left to an asylum in the poorhouse, when I get old and helpless." "You talk in that way before your children?" said the friend. "They know my sentiment." "So I inferred. In that way you hurt them. You put their future on trial, and write out a verdict of condemnation, when it is impossible for them to vindicate themselves against your cruel charges. I saw your boy stand and writhe a little while ago, under your sharp thrusts at him. He was no party to Tom Baldwin's unfilial act, and it was a hard thing in you, my friend, to make Tom's delinquency the occasion for smiting your own son, whom you may bind to you, if you will, by triple cords of love, not to be broken; or push away to a distance, where he can feel no warmth and no attraction. Take care! You are on dangerous ground." "O, you make too much of children," was answered, but with a little abstraction in manner. "They are simply human beings. They have sensitive souls, quick to receive impressions, tender to love, but hard or resentful toward all unkindness. They are creatures of feeling rather than thought, not generally holding malice, but rarely losing the memory of pain from unjust infliction. In after years this memory is often revived. It is my opinion that in a large number of cases, where children neglect their parents in old age, the cause lies just here." "All of which is simply vindictive," said the lad's mother, "and a poor compliment to human nature." "Human nature doesn't often suffer unjustly through hard judgment," was answered. "But I am not offering an apology for her shortcomings, I only look after the cause. To prevent is better than to cure. Forewarned, forearmed. Is it not much the wiser course for us to make sure of our children's love in future, by offering them love in the present?" "You speak as though I didn't love my children." A crimson stain marked the woman's cheeks. There were sudden flashes in her eyes. She was a woman of quick temper. "Every feeling has its sign," was calmly replied. "Love, anger, dislike—each expresses in a different way. And these signs every one knows. Even the babe of one brief summer may read them. Why is it that Edward feels that you do not love him?" "Who says that he feels so?" The mother started. There was a mingling of anger with surprise in her face. "Must it not be that you withhold, too often, the signs of love?" "I shall get angry at you, if you talk to me any longer in this strain." "No, my dear friend, you must not get angry with me. Too many sweet memories of the past are shared between us. Bear with me now, as one who holds you in her heart. Shall I relate to you an incident that occurred in my house, only yesterday? It is under the warrant of this incident, that I have ventured on the plainness of speech which has disturbed you." The red spots faded off from the mother's cheeks. The keen light went out of her eyes. "Go on," she said, her voice dropping down from its sharp key. "Edward had called to see the children. We always like to have him come. He is never rude nor coarse in his manners, but gentlemanly in bearing beyond what is usually seen in lads of his age. I have more than once compared him with my oldest son, and wished that John resembled him in many things. The two boys were in the parlor alone. John, I am sorry to say, is not always to be trusted. He is over-curious, and apt to meddle with things that should be sacred from his touch. Recently, he has become interested in insects, and has begun to collect and preserve them." "There was a vase of wax flowers on the parlor mantel piece; the ingenious maker of which had placed imitations of moths and beetles among the leaves. The vase was covered with glass. John's new-formed interest in entomology had given a special attraction to these wax moths and beetles; and on this occasion he went so far as to lift the glass covering, that he might obtain a closer view. In venturing to do this one of those accidents that so frequently happen with children and grown people, when they are not doing just right, occurred. The glass shield slipped from John's hand, and crashed to pieces on the floor. The noise startled and excited me. I went hastily to the parlor, and saw at a glance the damage which had been done, and also comprehended the cause of the disaster. Edward looked pale and frightened; John flushed and grieved. Repentance and self-condemnation had come with accident; even through my indignation, which could not be stayed, I saw it. Hard words were struggling to come through my lips, but I repressed them. Experience warned me to keep silence until I could speak calmly, and under the influence of reason." "I stood for a few moments, looking at the shivered glass, and then, without trusting my lips to say anything, went out for the dustpan and brush. I was glad that I had controlled myself. It is my experience scolding almost always does harm; and even where it works correction of bad habits, I am certain that a different way would have been better. I was quite self-possessed when I returned. As I stopped to gather up the broken fragments of glass, John came up close to me. I did not speak to, nor look at him. Edward had drawn back to a distant part of the room. Silently the work of collecting the pieces of glass went on, John standing near me all the while. It was done and I was about rising, when I felt his arms across my shoulder. 'I'm so sorry,' he said in a penitent voice, laying his face down against mine, which I had turned towards him. 'It was wrong to touch it, I know; but I thought I would be so careful. I can't tell what made it slip out of my hand.' 'Accidents are almost sure to happen with us, my son,' I answered, gently, but seriously, 'when we are doing what is not just right. Let this disaster stand as a lesson for the future.' 'You shall take my money and buy a new vase, mother,' he answered, in a spirit of manly justice that was grateful to my ears. 'If this little experience will make you more careful about doing right,' I returned, 'none of us will very deeply regret the accident.' He put his arms around my neck and kissed me. I kissed him in return, and then went out, thanking God in my heart, that he had helped me to self-control in a moment of trial, when passion would have hurt my boy." "Not long afterwards I heard the boys talking together. Edward said, 'If it had been my mother, she would have scolded at me, until I was mad enough to break every thing in the house. Why didn't your mother scold you?' 'Because she loves me, and knows that scolding wouldn't make me half so sorry as I am.' 'I wish that my mother loved me,' said Edward, in a tone of voice so sad and longing that it brought tears to my eyes." The mother of Edward caught her breath at this. Her lips moved as if she were about to speak; but she repressed what was in her thoughts and kept silent. "Of course your mother loves you," answered John. So the friend continued. "But Edward said, 'No I'm sure she doesn't love me.' 'Why do you say that?' questioned John. 'If she loved me, she wouldn't be always scolding me, and hurting me by hard words, no matter what I do. O, John, if I had such a mother as you, I'd be the happiest boy alive! I'd do anything for her.'" There was silence for some time. It was broken by the friend, who said:— "Forgive me for having told you this. The wounds of a friend are better than the kisses of an enemy. Forgive what may seem an exaltation of myself above you. He who knows my heart, knows that in it there is no pride of superiority. He knows how weak I am, how often I fall short, how often passion gets the better of reason; how near it was to bearing me down yesterday. It was in His strength that I overcame, and helped my boy, instead of hurting him. In his strength you may overcome also, and win the love of a child whose heart is athirst for your love, as is the drooping flower athirst for the dew and rain." The mother of Edward bowed her face into her hands. For a little while, her body shook with half-choked sobs. Then she looked up at her friend. Her eyes were wet, her face pale, her lips curved with pain and grief. "You are not hurt with me?" "No, now," she answered; "not with you but with myself. What have I been doing? What madness has possessed me? I know that love begets love—that in Mrs. Howitt's beautiful words, it has readier will than fear. I know, also, that hardness, that driving is more difficult and far less certain than leading. And yet, knowing all this, I have sought to rule my children by passion and force; to drive instead of leading them into right ways. No, no, I am not hurt with you. For all this plain speaking, which I so much needed, I thank you from the depths of my heart. If it is not better with both me and my children in the future, it will not be your fault. But it shall be better!" And it was better. How quickly all changed under an order of home government. Love and kindness found swift obedience where anger and harshness had met obstruction. Sunshine dropped in through a hundred places which had been closely barred against its sweet influences; and Edward, wondering at the pleasant change, drew nearer and nearer to his mother, and felt that she loved him.—T. S. Arthur.