p. 220 | A VICTORY OF LOVE by H. H.

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Apr 6, 1888

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 14, No. 14.

A VICTORY OF LOVE.

By H. H.

It was a glorious victory; and in it both conquered and conqueror were heroes. A mother was the conqueror, and a little child the conquered. The boundaries of the surrendered kingdom are only to be measured by the boundaries of the life of human souls; and upon the joy of this kingdom both conquered and conqueror entered together, to dwell therein forever, after this glorious victory.

The battle began, like all battles since the world was created, in a little thing.

The child was tearing up paper and scattering it on the floor. The mother said, not dreaming of provoking any contest with her usually obedient little son,—

"Don't do that, Charlie. It makes a great litter on the floor. Put the pieces on the table."

Just at that minute, in Charlie's mind, the whole gist of the pleasure of tearing up paper happened to lie in the scattering of the pieces on the floor after they were torn. So he kept on tearing up more paper and scattering the pieces on the floor, as if he had not even heard his mother's request.

"Very well, dear," she said, presently, "if you do that, you'll have them all to pick up, you know; and that will be a great deal of trouble."

Then, being a wise mother, she said no more. Charlie was four years old, and understood language as well as anybody in the house.

Before long he was tired of tearing up paper, and went to playing with something else; but not before he had strewn one corner of the nursery floor thick with the bits of paper.

"You'd better pick the paper up now, Charlie," said his mother. "Get that all cleared up before you take out any more things."

"I shan't pick it up!" said Charlie.

"Oh, yes, you will," replied the mother, wisely ignoring the precise form of his declaration. "You know you always pick up bits of paper when you throw them on the floor. You don't like to have mamma or Sarah take their time to do it when they are so busy. You picked up ever so many things yesterday, to save mamma's time, so that she could finish mending the stockings before dark; don't you remember?"

"I shan't pick it up!" said Charlie.

Still wisely ignoring the belligerent phrase, the mother said, lightly,—

"Well, if you'd rather not pick them up till dinner-time, it isn't any matter; only don't track them all over the floor. You can pick them up easier if they are all in the corner together."

"I shan't pick it up!" said Charlie.

"Oh, yes, you will, dearie," replied the mother; "you always do. You know that's the rule; but there's no hurry about it. You can do it just before we go down to dinner."

Charlie made no answer. His mother, being busy, did not notice him particularly, and did not see the look of dogged defiance which was slowly settling down on his sunny face, like a dark cloud on a beautiful blue sky. She was greatly startled, therefore, an hour or two later, on saying to him, pleasantly, "Now, Charlie, it is about dinner-time. Hurry and pick up the paper, so as to be ready to go down to dinner with mamma," to hear the answer, in a most unmistakably rebellious voice,—

"I won't!"

The crisis had come. The battle had been opened unawares to the commander. It was a great pity; but now it must be fought.

"Why, what does my little boy mean by speaking like that? Charlie must never say that word to his mamma. Charlie must pick up the paper," said the mother.

"Charlie won't! I ain't going to!" was the answer, short, sullen, defiant.

How mysteriously these sharp skirmishes between human beings begin; between parent and child, friend and friend.

One minute peace, affection, harmony, blessedness, no thought of contention, no dream of paining or antagonizing; and the next—nay, the next second—a word has been spoken, and another word been answered; a variance has begun; contention has been started; pain, resentment, indignation, accusing, contradicting, defending—all the misery of a quarrel is upon them. We can never learn to be careful enough to "leave off strife before it is meddled with." Especially is this true of mothers and children. Nine-tenths of the contests between them, from which come so much suffering and often so much real harm and hardening to the child's nature, might be avoided if this text were continually present in the mother's mind.

"Charlie," said his mother, now very firmly, "you must pick up the paper; and you cannot go down to dinner unless you do."

Charlie did not care. He had made up his mind not to pick up that paper, and he chose to give up the pleasure of going down to dinner rather than abandon this perverse purpose of his little heart. So she left him, and went down to dinner. His dinner was sent up to him and he ate it, no doubt, with relish, and a vague sense of being engaged in a grand enterprise.

When tea-time came, Charlie again had the alternative set before him of picking up the paper or being left to take his supper alone in the nursery. He was immovable. He said very little; made little or no reply to all the reasoning brought to bear on him; but pick up the paper he would not.

When night came, they all went to bed, with the nursery floor still strewn with the miserable little shreds of paper which had made all this trouble; Charlie slept as sound as any tired warrior on a battle-field when an armistice had been proclaimed for the night.

"He'll pick it up in the morning," had been everybody's thought and expectation; everybody's thought and expectation were mistaken. Charlie got up as dogged as he went to bed; if possible, more so. To all remarks on the subject of his duty in the matter of that paper, he had but one answer. He would not pick it up.

The day passed by. Everybody took a hand at talking with Charlie. His father held him on his knee a long time, and talked with him about it. He assented to all that was said; admitted that he was a very naughty boy; but quietly and persistently, without any apparent ill-humor, maintained that he would not pick up the paper.

It was a very perplexing dilemma. Ninety-nine parents out of a hundred would have pushed the matter to a sharp crisis, and either by blows or violent measures of some sort, have arbitrarily compelled the technical act of obedience. But these parents were wiser and more patient. They waited for the child to conquer himself.

On the afternoon of this day, his playthings were taken from him, and he was told that while he was so naughty a boy he could not be allowed to play with them. He did not apparently find himself at all disturbed by being without them; ran about cheerfully, looked out of the window, watched the different members of the family, and seemed contented.

On the second day, the blinds of the nursery were shut. His mother thought that perhaps the partial darkness and the loss of the outdoor sights, of which he was so fond, would subdue his spirits. He was left alone, also; but his indomitable will rose above all these discomforts. This day, also, a long, long day to the distressed mother, came to an end, and found Charlie unchanged. He was growing now used to the conditions; there was no sign or symptom about him of yielding. On the morning of the fourth day, his mother, in despair, took him in her lap, and essayed once more to show him his conduct in its true light. She could produce no impression on him. She began to be seriously alarmed. What was to be the end of this contest? How long should it be allowed to go on? What was the next step to take? In her disheartenment

and pain, she threw herself down on one of the little beds in the nursery, and began in spite of herself to weep. At the sound of her sobs Charlie screamed and ran to her.

"O mamma, mamma, don't you cry! I will be good. I will be good,"

and he burst into a violent fit of weeping, himself—the first tears he had shed—threw his arms around her, kissed her over and over, and would not leave her till she stopped crying and smiled. Then he flew to pick up the paper; the tears still rolling down his cheeks, and the penitent little voice repeating, "Don't you cry, mamma—don't you cry any more. I'll be a good boy, I'm a good boy now."

This was the first battle of Charlie's childhood, and the last. He is a big boy now, twelve years old; and there has never been another. If he had been whipped that first afternoon, and made to pick up that paper on the instant, without any real struggle with himself on his own individual ground, any real conquering of his own purpose by another higher, stronger purpose voluntarily brought into action, and given command, he would have had the fight all to go over again the very next time a similar point arose, and as often as similar points arose, until he became too old to be controlled by brute force from the outside.

The story is a true one, and it seems to me it is well worth being set as a parable of truth and wisdom in the hearts of all who hold in their hands the making or marring of the characters and the lives of little children.—By H. H., in Christian Union.