A Mischievous Child by Luella B. Priddy

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Nov 27, 1901

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 27, No. 48.

A Mischievous Child.

By Luella B. Priddy

They all said I was mischievous; and from their standpoint it was probably true. But I did not feel guilty. I could not understand that long word, anyhow.

I had come into a wonderful world, and I was just trying to find out what was in it. I made some mistakes, to be sure, because I had not lived long enough to find out the best methods of exploring Mother Nature’s laboratories.

The tiger-lily buds rarely had a chance to blossom. It took so long for them to open, I used to go out and try to help them along a little. When mother said she thought they would be open in one more day, it seemed that one more day would never get here. I knew those beautiful little stamens with the velvet caps on their heads were waiting inside. If you would just touch them, they would nod their heads, and shake dust all over your fingers, in such a knowing way.

So I would pull down the petals just the least little bit, so that I could peep inside, and see how the little stamens were getting on. And when I had looked, and looked, and looked, why the first thing I knew the lily-bud was all spoiled. I was sorry, but I did not know how to help it. I thought I could be more careful, and do it better next time.

Then there were my nearest neighbors, the morning glories, that nodded at me through the kitchen window. They looked like little umbrellas all folded up so snug. Mother said they would all be open in the morning. Well, it was a long time until morning. Why not open them right away? But O, the silk was so tender that they tore right in two. And then there were not many left to open in the morning.

They said that mother could not have many flowers because of that mischievous child. It did seem that something was the matter.

I loved music more than almost anything else. The first thing that made me think of wanting to go to heaven, was hearing my parents sing an old-time hymn, beginning with the words,—

“I want to go where Jesus is, To play on the golden harp.”

Mother had an old-fashioned instrument, called a symphonia. It was similar to a large accordion. Musical instruments were not very common in those days, and it was quite a treasure. It seemed to me the most wonderful thing in the world.

One day I gathered up the symphonia in my arms, and slipped out of the house. I carried it to my favorite retreat, under the wild cherry tree. There was where I had my play-house and swing, and near by were the beds of buttercups and bee-larkspurs.

I sat on the grass for some time with the beloved instrument in my lap. It was a joy just to look at the little ivory keys and red morocco ornaments. Occasionally I drew the bellows, and the music would stream out, not quite as mother would do it, of course, but very entrancing.

I fell to wondering what the music looked like inside. O, there were some little screws, that I soon discovered. A little experimenting proved that they would come out. The first thing I knew, the instrument opened just a little crack. But not quite enough to see the music yet.

But I worked away industriously until I had taken out every screw that I could find; and the symphonia fell apart in my lap. I gazed at it with a feeling of disappointment. It looked so dark and hollow inside. However, it did not take long to discover the reeds, snugly stowed away in little pockets. There, I thought, is the music. I pulled one out. My quick breath happened to blow on the little brass tongue, and a faint sound issued from it. I had made a wonderful discovery. Eagerly I pulled out the other reeds, one by one, and blowing on them, I found that each had a different sound.

When my curiosity had been satisfied, I gathered up the fragments in my apron and took them to mother. I had no doubt but that she could put it together again. But I had lost some of the screws, and blown too hard on the reeds, and broken off some of the slender tongues.

Mother saw what had happened, and I think somehow understood my motive in doing it, and did not scold. She simply told me in a low voice that I had ruined the symphonia, and that I could never hear it play again. It seemed as if my heart would break. I could not think of it for a number of years afterward without feelings of pain. Often when I heard her singing as she went about her work, the memory of it would come back to me.

I can not bear to think, even now, what the result might have been, if she had dealt harshly with me. A bitter memory would have rankled in my heart, in the place of one of loving tenderness.

O mothers, with mischievous little ones about your knees, try to distinguish the difference between wilful sins and those mistakes that come from childish ignorance and inexperience. Sins must be corrected, and sometimes punished. But be tender with the mistakes.

The world moves, and people are beginning to find out that a child with irrepressible energy needs help, that his efforts may be directed into proper channels.

The stream whose waters are constantly dammed back, must find a new channel, or overflow. Just so with a child. He must find some outlet for his activity. Find employment for him, for both mind and hand, and the restless energy that was so troublesome, will prove an important factor in his development. MRS. LUELLA B. PRIDDY. Lindsay, Ontario.