BEDTIME TALKS WITH THE CHILDREN by Mrs. L. D. Avery-Stuttle

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Mar 16, 1904

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 30, No. 11.

BEDTIME TALKS WITH THE CHILDREN.

By Mrs. L. D. Avery-Stuttle

BY MRS. L. D. AVERY-STUTTLE.

A GREAT cry came from the nursery, causing grandma and me to look up wonderingly, and papa to lay down his paper, with the remark:—

"I don't know what we are going to do with those children. I am getting to dread their bedtime, and I am sure their poor mother feels as badly as I do. I sometimes think—"

Another shriek interrupted him:—

"Me don't want to go to bed. It's all black and lonesome in the bedroom, and me wants to sit up and hear papa read, and see the bright light in the pitty parlor; O! O! me must sit up, mama!"

A look of anxiety spread over grandma's patient face as the sharp tones of Mrs. Thorpe arose threateningly:—

"Now, Willie Thorpe, I'm too tired to bother with you any longer! Come here, sir, and let me fasten your nightgown. You'll go, won't you, Annie—that's a good girl? Mama's head aches, and she's so tired."

"Then why don't you go, mama, if you's tired? Me isn't tired one bit," protested Annie, unable to see the faintest connection in the fact that she should be required to go to bed because her mother was tired.

But Mrs. Thorpe was tired,—so much so that she quite forgot to be patient; and the wailing cries in the direction of the bedchamber announced the fact that what could not be done by reasoning and persuasion had been accomplished by force.

It is needless to say that the children had my sympathy. And when, a moment later, Mrs. Thorpe appeared, excited and nervous, my sympathies were divided.

"I am utterly discouraged and quite tired out," she explained, and there were traces of tears in her eyes. "I am actually getting to dread the evening hour more than all the rest of the day. Does your Jimmie ever give you such trouble?" she questioned anxiously, turning to me.

"He used to, dear, until I learned how to manage. It seems too bad to dread the evening hour,—it is the sweetest in the day, I think."

"I must beg you to tell me your secret, Lucinda, if you please. The children were so angry and rebellious to-night, and I was tired and nervous, and did not wait for their prayers, and Willie was so stubborn that he refused to kiss me."

By this time my sympathy was so aroused that I promised to relieve the anxious mother the next evening. It seemed so sad that the little ones should be allowed to go to sleep in such an unhappy frame of mind and with no word of prayer. Passing through their bedroom an hour after, I saw traces of tears still on their cheeks.

The next evening, at eight o'clock, I asked the children if they would like me to tell them a story. Annie glanced uneasily at her mother, and Willie, who had carefully counted the strokes of the clock, seemed surprised that no one had asked him to go to bed. They were both pleased at the promise of a story, and climbed into my lap joyfully. Then I told them about the dear Christ-child—the Babe of Bethlehem—and how the shepherds and the wise men came to visit Him, and found Him sleeping in a manger, because He had no other bed. "O, tell us more, please, please," begged Willie. "I love to hear about the little boy."

"I will, dear, but I will finish my story when you are snugly tucked into your bed."

In prospect of the story, they both followed me willingly to their room, where I told them sweet stories from that best of story-books—the Bible—until the dear little eyes grew heavy with slumber. No tear-stained cheeks to-night; no angry tones, and no vain regrets.

That night I had a long talk with my friend.

"I'll tell you, Lucinda," she faltered, in a penitent voice. "I've been thinking it over, and I have about made up my mind that I am as much at fault as the children. They often beg me for a story at bedtime; but I am always so worn-out and nervous—"

"I knew you would be tired out yesterday," I interrupted, "when I saw you stitching those ruffles on Annie's new frock. Excuse me, my dear, but I am quite sure, if you would spend less time upon the outward adorning of your children, you would have more time to give them at the evening hour."

O mothers, mothers! can we forget that some day we will be called to give an account of our stewardship over the precious little ones entrusted to our keeping? O, shall we be so engrossed with the corroding cares of the day that we forget our duty? At best, we can not have our darlings with us long in their sweet childhood. While they are with us, let us so mould their plastic minds that, as the temptations of after years beset them, the precious instructions of mother shall form, as it were, an impregnable barrier against the wiles of the enemy. Then gather the children in the arms of love at the quiet hour of evening. Not always shall the blessed opportunity be ours. Let the corroding cares of the day be forgotten for a little while, and let the good-night kiss be lingering and sweet. Do not disappoint them of their little story. Be ready to tell them some sweet tale, the influence of which shall be, in after days, a savor of life unto life. You need never lack for material. The blessed Book of books is a storehouse as inexhaustible as it is rich. Let the last conscious thoughts of the children be pleasant ones. If correction and reproof must be given, better defer it until the morning, so that the evening hour may never be dreaded. Some little ones are born with such a horror of the darkness of night that nothing but the wisest and gentlest and most painstaking effort can rid their sensitive minds of the illusion that "danger" and "darkness" are synonymous terms. If there is anything sweet and pleasant and encouraging and beautiful in the happenings of the day,—and there always is,—let it be reserved as one of the topics of conversation at the bedside of innocent, happy childhood. Ah! how many little hearts hunger in vain for the love and sympathy which ought to be freely given.

Then, my sister, hurry through the morning hours, if you must, and do the arduous duties which fall to your lot, and bravely bear the heat and burden of the day; but when the time comes for tucking the little ones away in their cozy beds, let there be no haste, no ill-timed conversation,—nothing but peace and harmony and tenderest love. Ah, we may not know how soon the last "good night" may be spoken. We may not know how soon the shadowy pinions of the grim messenger may be stretched over our household, or how soon the dark shadow may fall athwart the snowy cot of our darlings, and the sweet sleep of childhood be changed into the sleep of death. How do we know?

Then, O, let the good-night kiss be sweet, When the cares of the day are past; The road may be rough for the baby feet; And the passing day, with its toil and heat,— Who knows but it be the last?