p. 12 | The Children in the Home by Mrs. L. D. Avery-Stuttle

Pacific Press Publishing Association · Mountain View, California · Nov 19, 1912

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 39, No. 45.

The Children in the Home

By Mrs. L. D. Avery-Stuttle

JUST as long as the home proves to be, in the opinion of the youth, the brightest and most cheerful place on earth, just so long there need be no fear of their wandering after forbidden pleasure.

The theater, the dance hall, and even the saloon, are each, in their line, attempting to outrival the home. And it is a sad fact that in many instances, they are only too successful. It surely becomes parents to study the cause or causes which produce such effect.

Children and young people—yes, and older ones, too—like life, and warmth, and color, and good cheer, and music, and flowers, and books, and pictures; and if they can not find some or all of these at home, the chances are that they will go where they can.

“O, well,” says one, “I am a poor man. I can’t have everything dainty and pleasant at my home. I have to work hard for a living; and I consider that what is good enough for me, is good enough for my children.”

Granted. But in my opinion, the very best that you can furnish is none too good for your own family. The idea that almost anything is good enough for the children at home, is a most mischievous and mistaken one.

Do not misunderstand me. It would be very foolish in Mr. A to undertake to furnish his humble home in the same elegant manner that Judge B adorns his splendid mansion. But there are very few even among the poorest, who can not have a few flowers in summer-time at least; and in this day when good pictures can be purchased for little, the very poorest of us may be able to afford a few cheerful and instructive ones, I am sure.

Some artistic soul may arise in indignation at the very suggestion of “cheap pictures.” But better cheap than none at all—only if the thoughts they suggest be clean and pure and elevating. It is wonderful how a bright picture will enliven a bare, comfortless appearing room.

Then, O ye home builders, hear me: If you would have your homes attractive for the children, have plenty of windows, and don’t keep the shades drawn down. I have stepped from the sunlit outer world, into rooms which were so dark that I could not tell the color of the carpet. One might discern the frames of a few pictures, but the pictures themselves were invisible. And little children live—or try to live—in such homes as these!

Did you ever turn over a stone or a piece of board in the back yard, and notice the color of the grass which struggled to grow under it?

God has given us the beautiful sunlight; let us appreciate it. He knows that it means health and happiness and rosy cheeks and bright eyes for the children.

“Yes,” says Mrs. More-nice-than-wise, “and it means faded carpets, too, and streaked draperies.” “Indeed it does,” agrees Mrs. Careless; “and besides, the dust and dirt are so much more visible when the sunlight comes in.”

But sunlight is the best remedy in the world for “the blues,” and the children love it. Watch a group of little ones at play indoors. They will be likely to choose the sunniest corner of the room. Children cluster about the light as naturally as bees around a flower.

Then, too, children like color. It seems to me that their fancies should be consulted and gratified as much as is reasonable. If Eliza has a particular liking for pink, why should we insist that the new dress or ribbon shall be brown? These may seem to be small things. Maybe they are. But little things are those which children notice most. And little things make up the sum of life. If I wanted a child to become weary of home, then I would have dark curtains, and heavy, opaque shades, and very dark draperies at the doors; and I would have dark pictures in dark frames on a dark wall, with no hint of color or brightness anywhere.

But that is not what we want to do. We are anxious to make home a pleasant place, one which is desirable to live in and to stay in. We want our children to grow to love it so much that when at last it becomes necessary to leave the old home, fond memory will ever picture and repicture its sunny rooms and its pleasant, homelike atmosphere, and most and best of all, its loving words and its evening and morning songs of praise.

And this thought brings another: There is nothing which appeals to the children, with stronger attraction than music. Now I am sure that by no means every home can afford the luxury of the more expensive instruments. But believe me, there are none of them—not even the very best—which can begin to equal the human voice.

Then, O, let the children learn to sing! encourage them in it. There is not in all the world its equal as a dispeller of gloom, unless it is prayer. Let the songs which lull the little ones to sleep at bedtime be soft and sweet. They like this kind best of all. I know a tiny blue-eyed lassie who teases with earnest insistence for that quaint, old-fashioned cradle song,—

“Hush, my dear! lie still and slumber!

Holy angels guard thy bed.”

Yes, let there be some good instrumental music in the home if possible; but in any event, forget not to sing. Let young and old join in some cheerful chorus frequently. Singing is the sunshine of the soul. Gloom and melancholy and “blues” can not long stay in its cheering presence; and it is a good antidote for many of the ills of the body as well as for those of the soul.

We must not forget the flowers. They speak to the soul through the eye, as music does through the ear. They are elevating and refining in their influence. Let John have a little section of ground in which to raise vegetables if he wants, but don’t forget to leave generous space for Lucy’s flowers.

Once when I was very ill in a strange land, a single flower sent me by a friend, preached a louder sermon to my listening ear, of the love of the All-Father, than almost any I ever listened to from the pulpit.

There are sweet peas, and roses, and morning-glories, and bachelor’s-buttons, and tall, stiff hollyhocks, and old-fashioned sweet pinks. Each possesses a peculiar attractiveness of its own.

When the frost comes, encourage Lucy to transplant some of her choicest flowers to the sunny bay window—just a few of them, not a wild jungle.

I remember a most beautiful window-garden which I once had in the south bay window. It was just a strong, thrifty, old-fashioned red nasturtium. I placed a large, thrifty slip in a glass of water. When the little rootlets appeared in plenty, I planted it carefully in a jardiniere under the window, across which, back and forth, I wove some strong cord. It was not very long before my plant had covered the entire window, and was a mass of beautiful red and yellow blossoms. How we all enjoyed its sweet, bright radiance!

Then, of course, we must have books—and books suitable to all ages. How can we reasonably expect John, who has just celebrated his tenth birthday, to become absorbed in the scientific treaties which we may enjoy so much? If we expect anything so illogical and unreasonable as this, we shall be disappointed.

But whatever the home must lack, let it not be deficient in these two things,—light and love. Both are cheap; but like many other things which cost little, they are priceless. Their worth can not be estimated.

If Johnny’s room has only one little window, opening on the back alley, don’t decide that it’s good enough for Johnny. Let in the

sweet, pure air and sunshine. They will do more for the children than any amount of costly furniture and elegant surroundings. Let us not forget that if house plants can not grow and thrive in a cellar, neither can children live healthy and normal lives in the dark.