The Training of Children by Elizabeth Burns-Howell

Pacific Press Publishing Association · Mountain View, California · Jan 14, 1913

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 40, No. 2.

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The Training of Children

By Elizabeth Burns-Howell

Value of Symbol and Story

(Concluded)

By Elizabeth Burns-Howell

The Story of Naughty Nannie

THE tale is exceedingly simple, as all good children’s stories are, presenting a plain picture and a pointed moral. But under mother’s skilful touch, it breathes and glows with all the power of a living drama.

It was the time of the apple harvest. The children had waited for the special day when the glorious golden and scarlet globes were to be gathered. With gay laughter and happy shout, the first heaping baskets were brought in. Then seated in a circle on the autumn grass, they were given choice of the finest of the fruit, each selecting for himself the particular big, round ball of lusciousness that appealed to his fancy. Of course, all chose big ones. This was agreed upon with the understanding that only one was to be eaten this time. But Nannie was not satisfied. She seldom was. She was always wanting the second helping, or even a third. But mother was firm. Still Nannie wanted that second apple, and inwardly resolved to have it. So an hour later, she managed to slip it from the basket, and hurrying behind the house, devoured it greedily.

So far satisfaction; but in the dark hours of the night, O, what pangs! as she tossed in her sleep and awoke in the throes of cholera morbus. Then came the doctor, gruff and forbidding, and the ordeal of bitter medicine. O, you may be sure Naughty Nannie suffered sufficiently for her greediness and the sin of deception, so that Harriet right then and there abandoned the secret little plan she had half formed, to slip into the pantry and sneak a pocketful of cookies when mother’s back was turned.

Now this is exceedingly simple, isn’t it? But herein lies its value. Remember, tho it is only a little story of a child, and for a child, it goes straight to the point, and I assure you does its intended work far more effectively than yards of “curtain-lecture” on the naughtiness in question. Now you may doubt it, but Little Five-year-old will ask to hear about Naughty Nannie over and over again, and herself point the moral with enthusiasm. To confirm this statement, I will add that this is not a fancied sketch, but a tried and proven instance.

We have not space to outline all of this unusual mother’s moral-stories here. But she has a whole coterie of them, peopled by a battalion of little folk from the Land of Imagination and Possible Experience—their names always suggestive of their character, and with a trick of alliteration to catch the childish ear. In passing, we can only note a few favorites with the children.

To correct the dilly-dally habit and inspire to methods of promptness and despatch, two little characters were evoked. First, Sallie Slow—note the unattractive name—who was forever behindhand, at home and at school, always getting an unhappy share of scoldings and punishments for her tardy habits, and missing most of the games and good times in general, because she was always too late.

“Don’t be like Sallie Slow,” was enough to stir the little laggard, every time. The direct antithesis of this undesirable young person was lovely little Kittie Quick, happy and bright, and busy as a bee, the joy of her mother’s heart, and beloved of all her playmates.

To her lot often fell the choice of the games at school, and she was sure to win a share in every prize offered by her teachers, etc., etc.,

“Run Kittie Quick,” was to insure an exhibition of speed, sometimes quite astonishing.

For the discontented child, our wise mother borrowed “Trixie Trouble” from Miss Carolyn Wells, and her blithesome little contrast, “Sunny Susie,” with their effective pictures and verse.

In fact, Miss Wells and our mother seem to have caught the same method, tho it is certain each was quite ignorant of the other in the beginning. This but proves that they have hit upon a universal truth—the natural aptitude of the child-mind for assimilating that which is concrete in form, hence definite in suggestion.

Children dwell in the material world of objects which appeal directly to the primitive senses and instincts. They have little concern with theory, hence their aversion to a “lecture” and worse yet, a scolding, in the mere abstract. But a story, they will take that every time, tho the moral hits hard, and delight in it. And while the scolding or preachment is not only resented but soon forgotten, the object-lesson stays, and is recalled at a word. Moreover, the story method is impersonal, tactfully evading direct accusation or reproof, by placing the blame on that fictitious character, whose feelings are not hurt thereby. Thus the intellect and judgment are reached without the obstacle of a conflict with pride or a sense of personal injury. “O, then you do not believe in direct reproof,” I hear some one say. Indeed I do, when necessary. But be sure it is necessary. Try more agreeable methods first. Children are such dear little beings. Their young hearts are so tender, their sympathies so keen, their simple, heart-whole enthusiasm so easily aroused, it were a pity to tread roughshod over all these finer sentiments, and resort abruptly to the bludgeon of brutality, either figurative or real, without even an effort in the saner, subtiler way.

But we have only touched the border of this wonderful Story-land. One thing to be remarked here is that fairy tales and mythological legend are not included in the approved list. Only true narratives or those within the limits of probable truth, as parables, are recommended.

Since the field of nature and of human experience, as well as of divine revelation, are inexhaustible and beyond the complete comprehension of the human mind, why cumber the ground with the rubbish of superstition and fancy? “What is the chaff to the wheat?”

Later, we may enlarge upon the various other story-groups—nature, or science and industry, history and biography, Bible, etc., including a simple analysis of each subject, together with suggestive outlines for the help of the novice in the story-telling art.

As a justification for my attempt to present this subject, may I tell you what incited me to it?

A very excellent young mother was calling, and I had just remarked the incessant demand of the insatiable story-appetite of my little brood, and the really wonderful things a story could do,—“But of course you know all about it—I suppose little Madge is quite the same.”

Imagine my surprise at the reply that she had “one story that she told her.” And the child going on four! O, the poverty of that little soul! No wonder her restless animalism was a distress to her family. How simple to have hushed the excitable little nerves with a soothing bird story and song—

“Mother-bird is coming soon, To her nest, to her nest,”

or of the rain-drops, always preceded by the word-picture,—how the gentle spring rain is calling to the sleeping flowers—

“To the great brown house where the flowers dwell, Came the rain with its tap, tap, tap. And whispered, ‘Violet, Snowdrop, and Rose, Your sleepy eyes you must now unclose From your long, long wintry nap.’ Said the rain with its tap, tap, tap.”

But this brings us into another, tho kindred realm, the use of song, and so we find ourselves launched in a course of real kindergarten, which demands infinitely more space than we can here command.

What a beautiful word is that which Froebel chose to interpret his divine system of child-culture. Most of you know its significance, I hope. If its author had been English, instead of German, we should say child-garden, which, to our ears, would convey a much deeper meaning. But how wonderful is the symbol—each “little one” a tender human plant in the Garden of Home!

And O, what a privilege to be chosen the chief gardener in such a field! And with what humility and grace of spirit should we pray for wisdom and patience in the nurture of such seedlings.

Finally, to make the analogy complete, note the vigilance and relentless toil of the actual gardener in the realm of nature. No roughshod, helter-skelter methods there! Consider Burbank,—the years of persistent effort to develop or improve a single specimen of plant life. Shall we be less patient, less painstaking, in the great responsibility of motherhood?—God forbid!