A Plea for the Daughters.
I WANT to write a few words to the mothers; those who rock the cradles of our baby-girls, or whose daughters are growing up to womanhood around you. Among the golden threads of my girlhood are woven many dark ones. With the bright memories are mingled bitter ones. And am I wrong in thinking that my experience is similar to that of many others? That more than one mother could re-echo the words a sad-faced woman said to me but yesterday: “My life has been spent in toiling for my children, and now my daughters are like strangers to me. They do not confide in me or seem to care for me. It is very hard.” The old law, as unchanging and immovable as the everlasting hills, came to my mind, but I would not wound more deeply the already sore heart by uttering it. “As ye have sown, so shall ye also reap.” But you, mother, whose girls are babies yet, you who are followed about the house by mother-calls and pattering feet, surely you can steer clear of the rocks where her bark of happiness went down. I remember a house whose mother was always first; not because she sought the first place, but because it was cheerfully, gladly given to her. Where no plan for enjoyment was complete unless “mother” would take part, and by sons and daughters alike she was eagerly sought for as confidant. It seems to me that such a woman fills the place God meant she should fill by right of her motherhood. She is a queen, ruling over her little kingdom with wise and gentle sway; and as such her children give her most willing and faithful homage. She is counselor, and many a tangled skein is brought to her to unravel; for, from childish quarrels to love affairs, her children come to her for advice. She is teacher—giving here a gentle reproof, here a kindly criticism, and here a word of praise. She is a friend to her sons and daughters, and to her is first brought the story of every failure and success. Her hold upon their hearts only deepens with the years. And above all she is “Mother,” a word that is lovely, and grand, and sweet. I know another home, where “My word is law,” was laid down by the mother as soon as her children could understand anything. Her daughters are grown women now, but the rule has never been relaxed, and between ruler and subjects there is constant friction. Mutiny in the camp is of almost daily occurrence. One of the daughters, a bonny, sweet-faced lassie, of whom any mother should be proud, said to me, not long ago:— “Mother never praises me, but finds fault with me all the time, no matter how hard I try to please her. I cannot give away a piece of bread, or alter the position of a chair, without asking her. I shall marry the first man who asks me, for the sake of having a home of my own.” “All wrong,” you say; but whose fault is it? Why do the lassies in the other household say—as I have often heard them say, laughingly—“We do not care to marry; for we could never have another home as pleasant as this one.” O my sisters, could I only make you see as plainly as I do, that you are working out for yourselves the happiness or misery of your future—the brightness or bitterness of your middle life. It is for you to say whether your children shall honor, and reverence, and love you. It is for you to say whether the little hands which cling to you now shall retain their clasp as the years slip by. Just as surely as you guide the baby’s tottering steps, do you mould the mind and heart, which are like clay in your hands. Don’t “turn off” the little ones. Don’t say, as I have heard mothers say, often: “I have no time to pet my children, and play with them, and answer their endless questions. It is all I can do to keep the little stockings mended, and the aprons clean and whole.” Don’t think that the little daughter can do without the caresses you gave her when she lay a helpless little thing in your arms. She needs them more now. Even if you are tired, too tired to breathe almost, go to her bed with a good-night kiss before she falls asleep. Don’t think it is too much trouble to check, very kindly and carefully the faults, as they first spring up. Never be too busy to speak the word of praise that makes a child wonderfully happy. Leave unspoken the harsh word, which might never be wholly forgotten. Above all, never be scornful or sarcastic, for there is no surer way to lose a child’s respect; the scornful words may leave a sting you little dream of; for childish mortifications cut very deep. Keep the confidence of your daughters, for, once lost, it may never be recovered. This can be done only by infinite patience with their follies and mistakes. Endeavor to keep your own youth fresh before you. Encourage their little plans. Be interested in their school-life, and, when maidenhood is upon them, in their society-life. Be friend and sister, as well as mother, and you will never mourn lost confidence. Teach them early to be helpful, and if the dishes slip from the little hands, if the towels are scorched and the cake burned, be patient. Remember that your skill was acquired only after years of experience, and do not expect too much from the children. Don’t say with one dear, good soul: “It takes so much longer to teach the girls, that I prefer to do the work myself.” Of course your skillful hands could do the work in half the time it takes to guide the little awkward ones, but the helpful ways they are trained to now will smooth your path down the hill. Give them early some special charge, if it be only the care of the plants or the dusting of the parlors; let it be entirely their own care, with which no one else is allowed to interfere. Don’t sneer at their plans, but as much as possible consult with them. Be sure that if you confer with them, they will with you. I had almost said, above all give the girls an allowance. Perhaps your purse is scanty, but you can, at least, give them something they can call their own. Never fear their being wasteful; it will teach them self-reliance and economy, and they will be spared the humiliation I know about from bitter experience. Set before them constantly an example of noble womanhood. Guide them so gently that they hardly know they are being guided, and their feet will walk side-by-side with yours; you will not find yourself in your middle age a sour, embittered woman, shoved aside by the children you have given the best years of your life for, but reverenced, waited upon by willing hands, given loving service. “And your children shall rise up and call you blessed.” “For as you have sown, so shall you also reap.”—Arthur’s Home Magazine.