Two Ways of Managing Harry.
By Lucy S. White
FIVE-YEAR-OLD Harry sat at the dinner-table, between his father and mother. The dinner was plentiful and good, and a large company had gathered to do it justice. Everything was going pleasantly; there was a cheerful buzz of conversation, mingled with merry laughter, when suddenly Harry spied the pickle-dish. "I want some pickles!" he announced, in a loud voice, breaking in unceremoniously upon the conversation. "No, dear," said his mother, "pickles are not good for little boys." "I tell you I want some!" This with a decided whine. "Well, I tell you, you can't have them," said the mother, with not a little sharpness. "I will have them! I won't eat any dinner if you don't, so now." This was followed by a snarl to which pen and paper can do no justice, and at the same time he began a lively tattoo with his feet. "Harry, keep still!" said his father, angrily. The only effect of this admonition was to give redoubled vigor to the kicking, while Harry's plate was angrily pushed from him, and the snarl gave place to a howl, interspersed with wrathful exclamations: "I will have some! Ow! I won't eat my nasty dinner! I want some pickles!" "Harry, if you don't keep still, I'll take you away and punish you," exclaimed his mother. Increased volume to the howls. "Harry, do you hear?" from the wrathful father. "No!" screamed the irate youth, beginning to bang the table with his fists. The mother pushed his chair away from the table, and started to lift him out. "Oh, oh, I will be good, I will!" screamed Harry. "Don't spank me. I'm sorry. I will be good!" "Well, be good, then!" said his mother, as she replaced the chair. No sooner was she back at the table than the howls, kicks, and banging recommenced, with redoubled force, if possible. Then the father started away with him. The pleadings for mercy and promises of reformation were repeated, and once more prevailed, only to be followed by renewed howling. This performance was repeated four times, till finally the parental forbearance gave way, and Harry was borne into the next room, whence various sounds issued giving evidence that the promised "spanking" was in process of administration. After a time he was brought back, tearful and repentant, to the table, whence all joviality had long been banished by the noisy and dismal drama. After he had again sat down, he said, "Mamma, now can't I have some pickles?" "Well," replied his mother, "I don't know as they'll really hurt you," and she helped him to a liberal supply. This was one way of managing Harry. Harry's mother was sick. "And she'll never get well as long's that child's around," said the doctor, grimly. So Harry's Aunt Lou offered to take him with her on a visit she was about to make, and the offer was thankfully accepted. The first few days flew by most pleasantly, and the sunny-faced, well-behaved little boy was a joy to all. But, alas, that sunshine cannot always last! The day came when Harry did not think he liked the pudding which was set before him. "I don't like that old pudding, and I won't eat it," said Harry, audibly, as he pushed the plate from him. "Harry," said Aunt Lou, in the low, gentle, but firm tone that he had learned to know, "do not speak in that way; it is not gentlemanly. Now think twice before you say you won't eat that nice pudding." "Well, I won't. It isn't nice." "Very well, dear, just as you choose," said Aunt Lou, pleasantly, and she pushed the plate out of his reach, and went on with the conversation in which she had been engaged, paying no further attention to Harry. That young gentleman maintained the silence of utter amazement for a few minutes. Was he not to be coaxed? Presently he said, "I want that pudding." "You can't have it, dear," replied Aunt Lou, cheerfully. "Auntie gave you a chance to think. You made up your mind, and now you must stick by it." "But I want it, now," whined Harry. Aunt Lou paid no attention to this remark. Harry stared. Plainly, Aunt Lou was obdurate, yet he would try his powers. So he began a dismal scream, accompanied by a steady drumming with his heels. "Harry, dear," said Aunt Lou's pleasant, even tones, "you can take your choice—either stop all noise or leave the table." The noise increased. Aunt Lou arose, excusing herself, lifted Harry from his chair, ignoring his pleas, "I will be good! I'm sorry! I won't be naughty any more!" and led him to her room, where she left him, still screaming. After dinner she went back to him, and was met by a very penitent little boy who put loving arms around her neck, saying, "Auntie, I'm sorry. Please forgive me." "Auntie was sorry too, dear, and she gladly forgives you. Now whom else must you go to for forgiveness?" "Aunt Sue," cause I was impolite 'bout her pudding." "Yes, but some one else is still more grieved." "Jesus?" whispered Harry. "Yes, darling. Let's tell him all about it now." Pardon having been asked of those against whom he had most sinned, Harry's face was bright again. "Now you'll give me the pudding, won't you, auntie?" he said, joyfully. "No, dear," answered Aunt Lou, sorrowfully. "I can't; I wish I could; but do you really think I ought to, Harry?" Harry's face fell, and his lip quivered. Then he said bravely, "No, 'cause you'd be fibbing then!" That one struggle over, Aunt Lou never had another with him. And this was another way of managing Harry.—Lucy S. White, in Congregationalist.