Children's Rights

Pacific Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Oakland, California · Jul 17, 1879

Children's Rights.

"Why not, mamma? Why can't I have it?" said Christie Field, as she stood twisting her handkerchief around the top of her mother's chair, fidgeting, pouting, half crying, and wholly out of temper.

"Christie! how often have I told you not to ask me why?" said Mrs. Field, sharply. "It is quite enough for you to know that I say you cannot have it. Do stop shaking my chair, child!"

"But, mamma, you said in the summer that I might have a cloak trimmed with fur this winter, and so many of the girls have got them, and I think you might keep your word," said Christie.

Her mother turned and looked at her in surprise.

"Why, Christie! I think you forget to whom you are speaking," she said, sternly. "Leave the room instantly! Go up stairs and stay until you can behave yourself!"

Bursting into a flood of passionate tears, the child ran out of the room, slamming the door after her.

Mrs. Field rose from her chair, intending to call her back again to reprove her for this exhibition of temper, but just then a gentle voice checked her.

"Lucy, dear," said Aunt Susan, "I don't believe the poor child meant to do that. She has been trying very hard to control herself."

"Trying to control herself!" said Mrs. Field, in an astonished tone. "I think you are mistaken, Auntie. She is a passionate little thing, and distresses me by her bursts of temper." Mrs. Field sat down again with a despairing sigh, and went on with her work.

"I have been watching her, Lucy, all this time," said Aunt Susan after a pause, "and I could see that while she was fairly quivering with excitement and eagerness, she was controlling herself bravely ("much better than you are doing," Aunt Susan might have said); but at last her strength gave way."

"She was very impertinent," said Mrs. Field, rather shortly, but in the silence that followed the remark she looked up, and her eyes fell upon Aunt Susan's face. A sweet, kindly face it was, with deep, thoughtful, dark eyes, and waves of silver hair under a snowy cap. Now Aunt Susan looked sad and troubled, and Mrs. Field's conscience smote her.

"Oh, Auntie," she exclaimed, suddenly, "you don't know what a trouble that child is. She used to be a sweet, docile, little thing, and minded me without saying a word; but of late she is always asking, 'Why can't I?' 'Why mustn't I?' and there is no peace with her. She is so persevering and so determined to know the reason for everything, I don't know what to do with her."

Mrs. Murray smiled as she answered, "Well, Lucy, I never thought that 'perseverance' and a determination 'to know the reason' for anything, were such bad traits. And it seems to me that Christie, being old enough now to understand the reasons for most of your commands, has a right to know them."

"A right!" said Mrs. Field, in a surprised tone.

"Why, yes, dear, a right. Children have rights, though they are not much respected by grown people. A mother's rule over her children should be a limited monarchy. Limited by good sense and a strict regard to 'children's rights.' Now, Christie, being a sensible, reasonable child, has a right to be treated accordingly. Forgive me, dear, for saying so, but I think you should have told her why you were obliged to retract your promise of the furred cloak. To her it seemed a mere 'change of mind,' if not a deliberate unkindness."

Mrs. Field was looking down now, and working very rapidly, and with flushed cheeks.

"It did not seem to me to be worth while to go into an explanation about it," she said, in a low tone.

"I always found, dear, in the long years that I had my many children round my knees, that it was worth while to take any trouble to save them from a heartache. And surely a few words of firm, kind explanation would have been less trouble than this scene you have gone through."

"Yes, oh, yes," said Mrs. Field, with a sigh. "But then it is not always convenient to give your reasons to a child. There may be something it is not proper it should know. For instance, Christie flew into a passion a few days ago, because I would not let her go to see little Kittie Barton. I could not tell her that it was because Mrs. Barton was a poor, miserable drunkard, and the child might see her at her worst. You know that it is not generally known. We who are her husband's friends have never spoken of it, though we know it is true."

"I know. You could not tell her that, but if you were in the habit of giving her good reasons for such things, she would trust you when you said 'I have a good reason for this, Christie, though I do not think it is right to explain it to you.'"

The conversation ended here, for Mrs. Field put down her work and went up stairs. She went to the door of Christie's little room, and paused a moment. The sound of sobs reached her ear. As she opened the door, Christie raised her flushed face from the pillow where it had been buried, and then dropped it quickly again.

Her mother knelt down by her and softly laid her hand on her head.

"Christie, dear," she said gently, "I want to tell you something. I meant you to have as pretty a fur-trimmed cloak as I could find in the city, but your father has had a great deal of money to pay for your poor Aunt Christie, whose husband died, you know, last fall, and so I had not as much as usual to spend for our clothes. You see I have no new cloak, either. I don't want my little girl to think I would break a promise or be unkind to her."

Christie raised herself up, looked at her mother a moment, and threw her arms around her neck.

"Oh, mamma, do forgive me!" she sobbed. "I was so bad! Please forgive me!"

Mrs. Field kissed the little, flushed face, and assured her she was forgiven. But still Christie's sobs went on.

"Don't cry so, dear," said the mother tenderly. "It is all right now."

"No, no, mamma; you don't know," said Christie at last. "I kept saying to myself, 'Mamma is so mean, I won't love her any more!' But I do love you, mamma."

Tighter were the little arms clasped around her mother's neck, and now the mother's tears were falling, too.

"Mamma, will God forgive me for being so bad?" said Christie through her sobs.

"I hope he will forgive both of us, dear, for I wasn't as kind to my little girl as I should have been," said Mrs. Field. "And, Christie, dear, I trust you will not say anything about your Aunt Christie's troubles. It would not be kind to speak of the money your father gives to her."

"No, no, mamma, I won't," said the child.

It was all right between Christie and her mother now, and Aunt Susan's kindly eyes shone with pleasure as she saw how much good her words had done.

But presently another little cloud arose. Christie went one day to Aunt Christie's to "take tea" with Bess and Mattie.

"See what pretty little spoons and sugar tongs we have, Christie," said Mattie, as they were setting the table.

"Why," said Christie, "these are just like mine that I haven't seen for so long! Where did you get them?"

"Aunt Lucy gave them to us," answered Mattie.

Then Christie took them up and looked at them. They were hers, for there was the straggling "C. F." that she had scratched with the scissors point on the sugar tongs. Christie put them down without saying a word, but her little heart swelled with a sense of injustice and her pleasure in the tea-drinking was gone.

"Well, Christie, did you have a nice time?" said Mrs. Field, as the little girl entered the sitting room.

"No, ma'am, not very," said Christie in a low tone.

Mrs. Field looked up.

"Why, what's the matter?" she asked, as she saw Christie's lip trembling and her eyes full of tears.

The tears came in a flood, then, and Christie could scarcely sob out:—

"It's—it's my spoons. Mattie says you gave them to her."

"So I did," said Mrs. Field. "Why, Christie, I didn't think you cared for these old things, and Bessie and Mattie have so little."

"But they were mine!" said the excited child, and then, as Mrs. Field looked at her reprovingly, she dashed out of the room and ran up stairs.

"Such a temper," sighed Mrs. Field.

"'Children's rights' again, Lucy," said Aunt Susan.

"Now, Auntie, must I let the child be selfish and greedy?" began Mrs. Field.

But Aunt Susan said with her gentle smile:—

"No, dear. Teach her to be generous by encouraging her to give, but teach her to be just by respecting her right of property. 'It is my own to do what I please with,' let her say with confidence, but teach her, too, that 'it is more blessed to give than to receive.'"

"Christie," said her mother that night, as she came into the child's room to kiss her good night, "I am sorry, dear, that I gave Mattie your spoons. I will get you another set if you want them."

"Oh, mamma, I don't care about them so much, but I just wanted to"—

Christie stopped with a flush on her cheek.

"To do what you please with your own," said Mrs. Field, smilingly. "Well, dear, I was wrong to give away your things. I will not do it again. You may do what you please with them all."

"O, mamma! And may I give away just what I please!" cried Christie, sitting up in bed in her excitement.

"Yes, you may, indeed."

"Well, then, I want to give Bessie one of my doll's trunks. She hasn't any. May I? And, oh, I can give Mattie that velvet chair that her doll fits in so nicely. May I, mamma?"

Selfish and greedy, indeed! With a full heart the mother kissed the beaming little face and went out to tell Aunt Susan the result of her experiment.

"I shall respect my 'children's rights' in the future, dear Auntie," she said, when she had told the story.

"But these are not all the rights they have," said the old lady, smiling.

"What else?" asked Mrs. Field.

Mrs. Murray was silent for a moment.

"Mrs. Kingsley was here to-day, you remember," she said presently, "and Christie came into the parlor. Do you remember rebuking her for her awkwardness in tangling her feet in the lace curtain? And then you told Mrs. Kingsley that Christie was getting dreadfully round-shouldered. And when Mrs. Kingsley spoke of Harriet's proficiency in music, you said that Christie neglected her practicing so that you were sure she would never learn to play. Now, I saw the child growing more and more uncomfortable and embarrassed all this time, till presently she slipped out of the room, and a few minutes afterwards I saw her crying as I passed her door. She is a very sensitive child, and she has suffered intensely through your rudeness."

"Oh, Auntie!" said Mrs. Field, flushing deeply at the last word.

Mrs. Murray offered no apology. She went on quietly with her knitting. In a little while Mrs. Field spoke again.

"Dear Aunt Susan," she said, falteringly, "I am sure you must think me a very bad mother."

"I do not, my dear; you are a most devoted and self-sacrificing mother; but you do not always remember that your child has a right to be treated like a lady. You should not mortify her by unnecessary rebuke and personal remarks in the presence of others. You love your children dearly, Lucy, but you sometimes forget the admonition, 'Be pitiful, be courteous,' and you do not always obey the command, 'Provoke not your children to wrath.' I hope I have not offended you, my dear, by my plain speaking."

Mrs. Field got up and came over to her aunt. Her eyes were full of tears as she bent to kiss the old lady's serene brow.

"No, dear Auntie, I am thankful to you for your kind warnings," she said. "I might have gone on doing my children great wrong but for your little lectures on 'children's rights.' Pray for me, that I may never 'offend one of the little ones' again."—J. S., in Illustrated Christian Weekly.