Chapter I: WAS sitting in my room one morning, feeling all "out of sorts" (1)

about something or other, when an orphan child, whom I had taken to raise, came in with a broken tumbler in her hand, and said, while her young face was pale, and her little lip quivered,--

"See, Mrs. Graham! I went to take this tumbler from the dresser to get Anna a drink of water, and I let it fall."

I was in a fretful humour before the child came in, and her appearance, with the broken tumbler in her hand, did not tend to help me to a better state of mind. She was suffering a good deal of pain in consequence of the accident, and needed a kind word to quiet the disturbed beatings of her heart. But she had come to me in an unfortunate moment.

"You are a careless little girl!" said I, severely, taking the fragments of glass from her trembling hands. "A very careless little girl, and I am displeased with you!"

I said no more; but my countenance expressed even stronger rebuke than my words. The child lingered near me for, a few moments, and then shrunk away from the room. I was sorry, in a moment, that I had permitted myself to speak unkindly to the little girl; for there was no need of my doing so; and, moreover, she had taken my words, as I could see, deeply to heart. I had made her unhappy without a cause. The breaking of the tumbler was an accident likely to happen to any one and the child evidently felt bad enough about what had occurred, without having my displeasure added thereto.

If I was unhappy before Jane entered my room I was still more unhappy after she retired. I blamed myself, and pitied the child; but this did not in the least mend the matter.

In about half an hour, Jane came up very quietly with Willy, my dear little, curly-haired, angel-face boy, in her arms. He had fallen asleep, and she had, with her utmost strength, carried him up-stairs. She did not lift her eyes to mine as she entered, but went, with her burden, to the low bed that was in the room, where she laid him tenderly, and then sat down with her face turned partly away from me, and with a fan kept off the flies and cooled his moist skin.

Enough of Jane's countenance was visible to enable me to perceive that its expression was sad. And it was an unkind word from my lips that had brought this cloud over her young face!

"So much for permitting myself to fall into a fretful mood," said I, mentally. "In future I must be more watchful over my state of mind. I have no right to make others suffer from my own unhappy temper."

Jane continued to sit by Willy and fan him; and every now and then I could hear a very low sigh come up, as if involuntarily, from her bosom. Faint as the sound was, it smote upon my ear, and added to my uncomfortable frame of mind.

A friend called, and I went down into the parlour, and sat conversing there for an hour. But all the while there was a weight upon my feelings. I tried, but in vain, to be cheerful. I was too distinctly aware of the fact, that an individual--and that a motherless little girl--was unhappy through my unkindness; and the consciousness was like a heavy hand upon my bosom.

"This is all a weakness," I said to myself, after my friend had left, making an effort to throw off the uncomfortable feeling. But it was of no avail. Even if the new train of thought, awakened by conversation with my friend, had lifted me above the state of mind in which I was when she came, the sight of Jane's sober face, as she passed me on the stairs, would have depressed my feelings again.

In order both to relieve my own and the child's feelings, I thought I would refer to the broken tumbler, and tell her not to grieve herself about it, as its loss was of no consequence whatever. But this would have been to have made an acknowledgment to her that I had been in the wrong, and instinctive feeling of pride remonstrated against that.

"Ah me!" I sighed. "Why did I permit myself to speak so unguardedly? How small are the cause that sometimes destroy our peace! How much good or evil is there in a single word!"

Some who read this may think that I was very weak to let a hastily uttered censure against a careless child trouble me. What are a child's feelings?

I have been a child; and, as a child, have been blamed severely by those whom I desired to please, and felt that unkind words fell heavier and more painfully, sometimes, than blows. I could, therfore, understand the nature of Jane's feelings, and sympathize with her to a certain extent.

All through the day, Jane moved about more quietly than usual. When I spoke to her about any thing--which I did in a kinder voice than I ordinarily used--she would look into my face with an earnestness that rebuked me.

Toward evening, I sent her down-stairs for a pitcher of cool water. She went quickly, and soon returned with the pitcher of water, and a tumbler, on a waiter. She was coming towards me, evidently using more than ordinary caution, when her foot tripped against something, and she stumbled forward. It was in vain that she tried to save the pitcher. Its balance was lost, and it fell over and was broken to pieces at my feet, the water dashing upon the skirt of my dress.

The poor child became instantly as pale as ashes, and the frightened look she gave me I shall not soon forget. She tried to speak, and say that it was an accident, but her tongue was, paralyzed for the moment, and she found no utterance.

The lesson I had received in the morning served me for purposes of self-control now, and I said, instantly, in a mild, voice--

"Never mind, Jane; I know you couldn't help it. I must tack down that loose edge of the carpet. I came near tripping there myself to-day. Go and get a floor-cloth and wipe up the water as quickly as you can, while I gather up the broken pieces."

The colour came back instantly to Jane's face. She gave me one grateful look, and then ran quickly away, to do as I had directed her. When she came back, she blamed herself for not having been more careful, expressed sorrow for the accident, and promised over and over again that she would be more guarded in future.

The contrast between both of our feelings now and what they were in the morning, was very great. I felt happier for having acted justly and with due self-control; and my little girl, though troubled on account of the accident, had not the extra burden of my displeasure to bear.

"Better, far better," said I to myself, as I sat and reflected upon the incidents just related--"better, far better is it, in all our relations in life, to maintain a calm exterior, and on no account speak harshly to those who are below us. Angry words make double wounds. They hurt those whom they are addressed, while they leave a sting behind them. Above all, should we guard against a moody temper. Whenever we permit any thing to fret our minds, we are not in a state to exercise due self-control, and if temptation comes then we are sure to fall."

TROUBLE WITH SERVANTS

"OH, dear Mrs. Graham!" said my neighbour Mrs. Jones to me one day, "what shall I do for good help? I am almost worried out of my senses. I wish somebody would invent a machine to cook, wash, scrub, and do housework in general. What a blessing it would be! As for the whole tribe of flesh and blood domestics, they are not worth their salt."

"They are all poorly educated," I replied, "and we cannot expect much of them. Most of them have nearly every thing to learn when they come into our houses, and are bad scholars into the bargain. But we must have patience. I find it my only resource."

"Patience!" ejaculated Mrs. Jones, warmly. "It would require more patience than Job ever possessed to get along with some of them."

"And yet," said I, "we accomplish little or nothing by impatience. At least such is my experience."

"I don't know, ma'am," replied Mrs. Jones. "If you go to being gentle and easy with them, if you don't follow them up at every point, you will soon have affairs in a pretty condition! They don't care a fig for your comfort nor interest--not they! In fact, more than half of them would, a thousand times, rather make things disagreeable for you than otherwise."

"I know they are a great trial, sometimes," I answered, not feeling at liberty to say to my visitor all I thought. "But we must endeavour to bear it the best we can. That is my rule; and I find, in the long run, that I get on much better when I repress all exhibition of annoyance at their carelessness, short-comings, neglect, or positive misdeeds, than I do when I let them see that I am annoyed, or exhibit the slightest angry feeling."

Not long after this, we accepted an invitation to take tea with Mr. and Mrs. Jones, and I then had an opportunity of seeing how she conducted herself towards her domestics. I was in no way surprised, afterwards, that she found difficulty in getting along with servants.

Soon after my husband and myself went in, and while we were sitting in the parlour, Mrs. Jones had occasion to call a servant. I noticed that, when she rung the bell, she did so with a quick jerk; and I could perceive a tone of authority in the ting-a-ling of the bell, the sound of which was distinctly heard. Nearly two minutes passed before the servant made her appearance, in which time the bell received a more vigorous jerk. At last she entered, looking flushed and hurried.

"What's the reason you did not come when I first rung?" inquired our lady hostess, in a severe tone.

"I--I--came as quick as I could," replied the girl, with a look of mortification at being spoken to before strangers.

"No, you didn't! It's your custom to wait until I ring twice. Now let this be the last time!"

And then, in a low voice, Mrs. Jones gave the direction for which she had summoned her.

"Such a set!" ejaculated the lady, as the girl left the room. Her words were intended to reach other ears besides ours; and so they did. "That girl," she continued, addressing me, "has a habit of making me ring twice. It really seems to give them pleasure, I believe, to annoy you. Ah, me! this trouble with servants is a never ending one. It meets you at every turn."

And, for some time, she animadverted upon her favourite theme--for such it appeared to be,--until her husband, who was evidently annoyed, managed to change the subject of discourse. Once or twice she came back to it before tea-time.

At last the tea bell rung, and we ascended to the dining-room. We were but fairly seated, when a frown darkened suddenly on the brow of our hostess, and her hand applied itself nervously to the table-bell.

The girl who had set the table came up from the kitchen.

"There is no sugar in the bowl," said Mrs. Jones sharply. "I wish you would learn to set the table while you are about it. I'm sure I have spoken to you often enough."

As the girl took the sugar-bowl to fill it, the frown left the face of our hostess, and she turned to me with a bland smile, and asked whether I used sugar and cream in my tea. I replied in the affirmative; but did not smile in return, for I could not. I knew the poor girl's feelings were hurt at being spoken to in such a way before strangers, and this made me extremely uncomfortable.

"Do you call this cream?" was the angry interrogation of Mrs. Jones, as the girl returned with the sugar, pushing towards her the cream-jug, which she had lifted from the table as she spoke.

"Yes, ma'am," was replied.

"Look at it, and see, then."

"It's the cream," said the girl.

"If that's cream, I never want to see milk. Here! take it away and bring me the cream."

The girl looked confused and distressed. But she took the cream-jug and went down-stairs with it.

"That's just the way they always do!" said Mrs. Jones; leaning back in her chair. "I really get out of all patience, sometimes."

In a little while the girl returned.

"It's the cream, ma'am, as I said. Here's the milk." And she presented two vessels.

Mrs. Jones took both from her hands with an ill-natured jerk. Sure enough, it was as the girl had said.

"Such cream!" fell from the lips of our hostess, as she commenced pouring it into the cups already filled with tea.

The girl went down-stairs to take back the milk she had brought up, but she was scarcely at the bottom of the stairs, when the bell was rung for her.

"Why don't you stay here? What are you running off about?" said Mrs. Jones, as she came in hurriedly. "You know I want you to wait on the table."

And so it was during the whole meal. The girl was not once spoken to except in a tone of anger or offensive authority.

I was no longer surprised that Mrs. Jones found it difficult to keep good domestics, for no one of feeling can long remain with a woman who speaks to them always in a tone of command, or who reproves them in the presence of visitors.

My husband was very severe upon Mrs. Jones after we returned home. "No lady," said he, "ever spoke in anger or reproof to a domestic before a visitor or stranger. Nothing more surely evinces a vulgar and unfeeling mind."

I did not attempt to gainsay his remark, for he expressed but my own sentiment. So far from uttering a reproof in the presence of a visitor, I am careful not to speak to my domestics about any fault even in the presence of my husband. They have a certain respect for themselves, and a certain delicacy of feeling, which we should rather encourage than break down. Nearly all domestics are careful to appear as well as possible in the eyes of the head of the family, and it hurts them exceedingly to be reproved, or angrily spoken to, before him. This every woman ought to know by instinct, and those who do not are just so far deficient in the aggregate of qualities that go to make up the true lady.

I was by no means surprised to hear from Mrs. Jones, a few days afterwards, that the "good-for-nothing creature" who waited upon the table on the occasion of our taking tea at her house, had gone away and left her. I thought better of the girl for having the spirit to resent, in this way, the outrage committed upon her feelings. Domestics have rights and feelings; and if people were to regard these more, and treat them with greater kindness and consideration than they do, there would be fewer complaints than there are at present. This is my opinion, and I must be pardoned for expressing it.

HAVEN'T THE CHANGE.

IT was house-cleaning time, and I had an old coloured woman at work scrubbing and cleaning paint.

"Polly is going, ma'am," said one of my domestics, as the twilight began to fall.

"Very well. Tell her that I shall want her tomorrow."

"I think she would like to have her money for to-day's work," said the girl.

I took out my purse, and found that I had nothing in it less than a three-dollar bill.

"How much does she have a day?"

"Six shillings, ma'am."

"I haven't the change this evening. Tell her that I'll pay for both days to-morrow."

The girl left the room, and I thought no more of Polly for an hour. Tea-time had come and passed, when one of my domestics, who was rather communicative in her habits, said to me:

"I don't think old Polly liked your not paying her this evening."

"She must be very unreasonable, then," said I, without reflection. "I sent her word that I had no change. How did she expect I could pay her?"

"Some people are queer, you know, Mrs. Graham," remarked the girl who had made the communication, more for the pleasure of telling it than any thing else.

I kept thinking over what the girl had said, until other suggestions came into my mind.

"I wish I had sent and got a bill changed," said I, as the idea that Polly might be really in want of money intruded itself. "It would have been very little trouble."

This was the beginning of a new train of reflections, which did not make me very happy. To avoid a little trouble, I had sent the poor old woman away, after a hard day's work, without her money. That she stood in need of it was evident from the fact that she had asked for it.

"How very thoughtless in me," said I, as I dwelt longer and longer on the subject.

"What's the matter?" inquired my husband, seeing me look serious.

"Nothing to be very much troubled at," I replied.

"Yet you are troubled."

"I am; and cannot help it. You will, perhaps, smile at me, but small causes sometimes produce much pain. Old Polly has been at work all day, scrubbing and cleaning. When night came, she asked for her wages, and I, instead of taking the trouble to get the money for her, sent her word that I hadn't the change. There was nothing less than a three-dollar bill in my purse. I didn't reflect that a poor old woman who has to go out to daily work must need her money as soon as it is earned. I am very sorry."

My husband did not reply for some time. My words appeared to have made considerable impression on his mind.

"Do you know where Polly lives?" he inquired at length.

"No; but I will ask the girl." And immediately ringing the bell, I made inquiries as to where Polly lived; but no one in the house knew.

"It cannot be helped now," said my husband, in a tone of regret. "But I would be more thoughtful in future. The poor always have need of their money. Their daily labour rarely does more than supply their daily wants. I can never forget a circumstance that occurred when I was a boy. My mother was left a widow when I was but nine years old--and she was poor. It was by the labour of her hands that she obtained shelter and food for herself and three little ones.

"Once, I remember the occurrence as if it had taken place yesterday, we were out of money and food. At breakfast-time our last morsel was eaten, and we went through the long day without a mouthful of bread. We all grew very hungry by night; but our mother encouraged us to be patient a little and a little while longer, until she finished the garment she was making, when she would take that and some other work home to a lady who would pay her for the work. Then, she said, we should have a nice supper. At last the work was finished, and I went with my mother to help carry it home, for she was weak and sickly, and even a light burden fatigued her. The lady for whom she had made the garment was in good circumstances, and had no want unmet that money could supply. When we came into her presence, she took the work, and, after glancing at it carelessly, said,

"'It will do very well.'

"My mother lingered; perceiving which, the lady said, rather rudely,

"'You want your money, I suppose. How much does the work come to?'

"'Two dollars,' replied my mother. The lady took out her purse; and, after looking through a small parcel of bills, said,

"'I haven't the change this evening. Call over anytime, and you shall have it.'

"And without giving my mother time more earnestly to urge her request, turned from us and left the room. I never shall forget the night that followed. My mother's feelings were sensitive and independent. She could not make known her want. An hour after our return home, she sat weeping with her children around her, when a neighbour came in, and, learning our situation, supplied the present need."

This relation did not make me feel any the more comfortable. Anxiously I waited, on the next morning, the arrival of Polly. As soon as she came I sent for her, and, handing her the money she had earned on the day before, said,

"I'm sorry I hadn't the change for you last night, Polly. I hope you didn't want it very badly."

Polly hesitated a little, and then replied,

"Well, ma'am, I did want it very much, or I wouldn't have asked for it. My poor daughter Hetty is sick, and I wanted to get her something nice to eat."

"I'm very sorry," said I, with sincere regret. "How is Hetty this morning?"

"She isn't so well, ma'am. And I feel very bad about her."

"Come up to me in half an hour, Polly," said I.

The old woman went down-stairs. When she appeared again, according to my desire, I had a basket for her, in which were some wine, sugar, fruit, and various little matters that I thought her daughter would relish, and told her to go at once and take them to the sick girl. Her expressions of gratitude touched my feelings deeply. Never since have I omitted, under any pretence, to pay the poor their wages as soon as earned.

OLD MAIDS' CHILDREN.

"IF that were my child, I'd soon break him of such airs and capers. Only manage him right, and he'll be as good a boy as can be found anywhere."

"Very few people appear to have any right government over their children."

"Very few. Here is my sister; a sensible woman enough, and one would think the very person to raise, in order and obedience, a family of eight children. But she doesn't manage them rightly; and, what is remarkable, is exceedingly sensitive, and won't take kindly the slightest hint from me on the subject. If I say to her, 'If that were my child, Sarah, I would do so and so,' she will be almost sure to retort something about old maids' children."

"Yes, that's the way. No matter how defective the family government of any one may be, she will not allow others to suggest improvements."

"It would not be so with me. If I had a family of children, I should not only see their faults, but gladly receive hints from all sides as to their correction."

"It's the easiest thing in the world to govern children, if you go the right way about it."

"I know. There is nothing easier. And yet my sister will say, sometimes, that she is perfectly at a loss what to do. But no wonder. Like hundreds of others, she has let her children get completely ahead of her. If they don't break her heart in the end, I shall be glad."

The immediate cause of this conversation between Miss Martha Spencer and a maiden lady who had been twenty-five for some ten or fifteen years--Miss Spencer could not be accused of extensive juvenility--was the refractory conduct of Mrs. Fleetwood's oldest child, a boy between six and seven years of age, by which a pleasant conversation had been interrupted, and the mother obliged to leave the room for a short period.

"I think, with you," said Miss Jones, the visitor, "that Mrs. Fleetwood errs very greatly in the management of her children."

"Management! She has no management at all," interrupted Miss Spencer.

"In not managing her children, then, if you will."

"So I have told her, over and over again, but to no good purpose. She never receives it kindly. Why, if I had a child, I would never suffer it to cry after it was six months old. It is the easiest thing in the world to prevent it. And yet, one of Sarah's children does little else but fret and cry all the time. She insists upon it that it can't feel well. And suppose this to be the case?--crying does it no good, but, in reality, a great deal of harm. If it is sick, it has made itself so by crying."

"Very likely. I've known many such instances," remarked Miss Jones.

Mrs. Fleetwood, returning at the moment, checked this train of conversation. She did not allude to the circumstance that caused her to leave the room, but endeavoured to withdraw attention from it by some pleasant remarks calculated to interest the visitor and give the thoughts of all a new direction.

"I hope you punished Earnest, as he deserved to be," said her sister, as soon as Miss Jones had retired. "I never saw such a child!"

"He certainly behaved badly," returned Mrs. Fleetwood, speaking in an absent manner.

"He behaved outrageously! If I had a child, and he were to act as Earnest did this morning, I'd teach him a lesson that he would not forget in a year."

"No doubt your children will be under very good government, Martha," said Mrs. Fleetwood, a little sarcastically.

"If they are not under better government than yours, I'll send them all to the House of Refuge," retorted Miss Martha.

The colour on Mrs. Fleetwood's cheeks grew warmer at this remark, but she thought it best not to reply in a manner likely to provoke a further insulting retort, and merely said--

"If ever you come to have children of your own, sister, you will be able to understand, better than you now do, a mother's trials, doubts, and difficulties. At present, you think you know a great deal about managing children, but you know nothing."

"I know," replied Martha, "that I could manage my own children a great deal better than you manage yours."

"If such should prove to be the case, no one will be more rejoiced at the result than I. But I look, rather, to see your children, if you should ever become a mother, worse governed than most people's."

"You do?"

"Yes, I do."

"And why, pray?"

"Because my own observation tells me, that those persons who are most inclined to see defects in family government, and to find fault with other people's management of their children, are apt to have the most unruly young scape-graces in their houses to be found anywhere."

"That's all nonsense. The fact that a person observes and reflects ought to make that person better qualified to act."

"Right observation and reflection, no doubt, will. But right observation and reflection in regard to children will make any one modest and fearful on the subject of their right government, rather than bold and boastful. Those who, like you, think themselves so well qualified to manage children, usually make the worst managers."

"It's all very well for you to talk in that way," said Martha, tossing her head. "But, if I ever have children of my own, I'll show you whether I have the worst young scape-graces to be found anywhere."

A low, fretful cry, or rather whine, had been heard from a child near the door of the room, for some time. It was one of those annoying, irritating cries, that proceed more from a fretful state of mind than from any adequate external exciting cause. Martha paused a moment, and then added--

"Do you think I would suffer a child to cry about the house half of its time, as Ellen does? No, indeed. I'd soon settle that."

"How would you do it?"

"I'd make her stop crying."

"Suppose you couldn't?"

"Couldn't! That's not the way for a mother to talk."

"Excuse me, Martha," said Mrs. Fleetwood, rising. "I would rather not hear such remarks from you, and now repeat what I have before said, more than once, that I wish you to leave me free to do what I think right in my own family; as I undoubtedly will leave you free, if ever you should have one."

And Mrs. Fleetwood left the room, and taking the little girl who was crying at the door by the hand, led her up stairs.

"What is the matter, Ellen?" she asked as calmly and as soothingly as the irritating nature of Ellen's peculiar cry or whine would permit her.

"Earnest won't play with me," replied the child, still crying.

"Come up into my room, and see if there isn't something pretty there to play with."

"No--I don't want to," was the crying answer.

"Yes; come." And Mrs. Fleetwood led along the resisting child.

"No--no--no--I don't want to go. I want Earnest to play with me."

"Humph! I'd stop that pretty quick!" remarked Miss Spencer to herself, as the petulant cry of the child grew louder. "I'd never allow a child of mine to go on like that."

Mrs. Fleetwood felt disturbed. But experience had taught her that whenever she spoke from an irritated state, her words rather increased than allayed the evil she sought to correct. So she drew the child along with her, using some force in order to do it, until she reached her chamber. Her strongest impulse, on being alone with Ellen, who still continued crying, was to silence her instantly by the most summary process to which parental authority usually has resort in such cases; but her mother's heart suggested the better plan of diverting Ellen's mind, if possible, and thus getting it into a happier state. In order to do this, she tried various means, but without effect. The child still cried on, and in a manner so disturbing to the mother, that she found it almost impossible to keep from enforcing silence by a stern threat of instant punishment. But, she kept on, patiently doing what she thought to be right, and was finally successful in soothing the unhappy child. To her husband, with whom she was conversing on that evening about the state into which Ellen had fallen, she said--

"I find it very hard to get along with her. She tires my patience almost beyond endurance. Sometimes it is impossible to bear with her crying, and I silence it by punishment. But I observe that if I can produce a cheerful state by amusing her and getting her interested in some play or employment, she retains her even temper much longer than when she has been stopped from crying by threats or punishment. If I only had patience with her, I could get along better. But it is so hard to have patience with a fretful, ever crying child."

Of the mental exercises through which Mrs. Fleetwood passed, Miss Martha Spencer knew nothing. She saw only the real and supposed errors of her mode of government, and strongly condemned them. Her doctrine was, in governing children, "implicit obedience must be had at all hazards." At all hazards, as she generally expressed or thought it was only meant for extreme or extraordinary cases. Obedience she believed to be a thing easily obtained by any one who chose to enforce it. No where, it must be owned, did she see children as orderly and obedient as she thought they should be. But that she did not hesitate to set down to the fault of the parents. Her influence in the family of her sister was not good. To some extent she destroyed the freedom of Mrs. Fleetwood, and to some extent disturbed the government of her children by interfering with it, and attempting to make the little ones do as she thought best. Her interference was borne about as well as it could be by her sister, who now and then gave her a "piece of her mind," and in plain, straight forward terms. Mrs. Fleetwood's usual remark, when Martha talked about what she would do, if she had children, was a good humoured one, and generally something after this fashion--

"Old maids' children are the best in the world, I know. They never cry, are never disobedient, and never act disorderly."

Martha hardly relished this mode of "stopping her off," but it was generally effective, though sometimes it produced a slight ebullition.

At last, though the chances in favour of matrimony had become alarmingly few, Martha was wooed, won, and married to a gentleman named Laurie, who removed with her to the West.

"There is some prospect at last," Mrs. Fleetwood said to her husband, with a smile, on the occasion of Martha's wedding, "of sister's being able to bring into practice her theories in regard to family government. I only hope the mother's children may be as good as the old maid's."

"I doubt if they will," remarked the husband, smiling in turn.

"We shall see."

Years passed, and Martha, now Mrs. Laurie, remained in the West. Her sister frequently heard from her by letter, and every now and then received the announcement of a fine babe born to the proud mother; who as often spoke of her resolution to do her duty towards her children, and especially in the matter of enforcing obedience. She still talked eloquently of the right modes of domestic government, and the high and holy duties of parents.

"Let me be blamable in what I may," said she, in one of these letters, "it shall not be a disregard to the best interests of my children."

"I hope not, indeed," said Mrs. Fleetwood, after reading the passage to her husband. "But those who really understand the true character of children, and are sensible of the fact that they inherit from their parents all the evil and disorderly tendencies not fully overcome in themselves, feel too deeply the almost hopeless task they assume, to boast much of what they will do with _their_ children. A humble, reserved, even trembling consciousness of the difficulties in the way of the parent, is the most promising state in which a parent can assume his or her responsibilities. To look for perfect order and obedience is to look for what never comes. Our duty is to sow good seed in the minds of our children, and to see that the ground be kept as free from evil weeds as possible. The time of fruit is not until reason is developed; and we err in expecting fruit at an early period. There will come the tender blade, green and pleasant to the eye, and the firm, upright stalk, with its leaves and its branches; and flowers, too, after a while, beautiful, sweet-smelling flowers; but the fruit of all our labour, of all our careful culture, appears not until reason takes the place of mere obedience, and the child becomes the man. This view saves me from many discouragements; and leads me, in calm and patient hope, to persevere, even though through months, and, I might almost say, years, little prospect of ultimate fruit becomes apparent. But, good seed must bring forth good fruit."

After a while, Mrs. Laurie ceased to write in her old strain. She sometimes spoke of her two eldest sons as fine boys, and of her two little girls as dear, sweet creatures; but generally omitted saying any thing more about her family than that all were in good health.

Ten years after Martha's marriage and removal to the West, during which time the sisters had not met, business required Mr. Fleetwood to go to Cincinnati, and he proposed that his wife should accompany him, and pay a visit to Mrs. Laurie, who lived in Springfield, Ohio. Mrs. Fleetwood readily consented, and they started in the pleasant month of October.

On arriving at Springfield, they were met by Mr. Laurie at the stage-office and taken to his house, where the sisters met, overjoyed at seeing each other once more.

"Is that one of your children?" asked Mrs. Fleetwood, after she had laid aside her bonnet and riding-dress, and seated herself in her sister's chamber. A red-faced boy, with pouting lips, and a brow naturally or artificially so heavy as almost to conceal his organs of vision, stood holding on to one side of the door, and swinging himself in and out, all the while eyeing fixedly his aunt, of whose intended visit he had been advised.

"Yes, that is my oldest. Henry, come here and speak to your aunty."

But Henry did not change either attitude, motion, nor expression, any more than if he had been a swinging automaton.

"Did you hear me?" Mrs. Laurie spoke with a slight change in her voice and manner.

The boy remained as impassive as before.

"Come, dear, and shake hands with me," said Mrs. Fleetwood.

Henry now put one of his thumbs into his mouth, but neither looked nor acted less savagely than at first.

Mrs. Laurie was fretted at this unfavourable exhibition of himself by her son. She felt as if she would like to get hold of him and box his ears until they burned for a week.

"Henry! Come here!" She spoke in a tone of command. The door was quite as much impressed as her son.

"Either come and speak to your aunty, or go down-stairs immediately."

The boy moved not.

This was too much for Mrs. Laurie, and she started towards him. Henry let go of the door, and went down-stairs about as quietly as a horse would have gone.

"He's such a strange, shy boy," said Mrs. Laurie, apologetically. "But he has a good heart, and you can do almost any thing with him. How is Earnest? the dear little fellow."

"Earnest is almost a man. He is as large as I am," replied Mrs. Fleetwood.

"Indeed! I can't think of him as any thing but a bright little boy, not so large as my Henry."

As she said this, her Henry, who had gone clattering down-stairs a few moments before, presented himself at the door again, and commenced swinging himself, and taking observations of the state of affairs within the chamber. The mother and aunt both concluded within their own minds that it was as well not to take any notice of him, and therefore went on with their conversation. Presently a happy, singing voice was heard upon the stairs.

"There comes my little Martha, the light of the whole house," said Mrs. Laurie. In a few moments, a sweet-faced child presented herself, and was about entering, when Henry stepped into the door, and, putting a foot against each side, blocked up the way. Martha attempted to pass the rude boy, and, in doing so, fell over one of his feet, and struck her face a severe blow upon the floor. The loud scream of the hurt child, the clattering of Henry down-stairs, and the excited exclamation of the mother as she sprang forward, were simultaneous. Mr. Laurie and Mr. Fleetwood came running up from the room below, and arrived in time to see a gush of blood from the nose of Martha, as her mother raised her from the floor.

"Isn't it too much!" exclaimed Mrs. Laurie. "I think that it is the worst boy I ever saw in my life!"

The application of a little cold water soon staunched the flow of blood, and a few kind words soothed the feelings of the child, who sat in her mother's lap, and answered her aunt when she spoke to her, like a little lady, as she was.

"Where are the rest of your children?" asked Mrs. Fleetwood. The gentlemen were now seated with the ladies.

"You've had a pretty fair sample of them," replied Mr. Laurie, smiling good humouredly, "and may as well be content with that for the present. To say the best of them, they are about as wild a set of young scape-graces as ever made each other miserable, and their parents, too, sometimes."

"Why, Mr. Laurie!" exclaimed his wife, who had not forgotten her old opinions, freely expressed, about the ease with which children could be governed. "I'm sure you needn't say that. I think our children quite as good as other people's, and a little better than some I could name."

"Well, perhaps they are, and nothing to brag of at that," replied Mr. Laurie. "Children are children, and you can't make any thing more out of them."

"But children should be made orderly and obedient," said Mrs. Laurie, with some dignity of expression.

"If they can," pleasantly returned the father. "So far, we, at least, have not succeeded to our wishes in this respect. As to order and obedience, they seem to be cardinal sins rather than cardinal virtues, at present. But I hope better things after a while."

As this was said, some one was heard tumbling rather than walking up-stairs, and, in a moment after, in bolted a boy about seven years old, crying out--

"Hen' says Uncle and Aunt Fleetwood have come! Have they, mom?"

The boy stopped short on perceiving that strangers were present.

"Yes, my son, your Uncle and Aunt Fleetwood are here," said Mr. Fleetwood, reaching out his hand to the little fellow. Remembering Martha's former rigid notions about the government of children, he felt so much amused by what he saw, that he could hardly help laughing out immoderately. "Come here," he added, "and let me talk to you."

The boy went without hesitation to his uncle, who took him by the hand and said, with a half wicked glance at the mother, yet with a broad good humoured smile upon his face,

"That must be a very knowing hen of yours. I should like to have some of her chickens."

"What hen?" asked the boy, with a serious air.

"Why, the hen that told you we were here."

"No hen told me that." The boy looked mystified.

"Oh! I thought you said Hen' told you so."

"No, it was Henry."

"Say, no _sir_, my son." Mrs. Laurie's face was not pale, certainly, as she said this.

The boy did not think it worth while to repeat the formality.

"Oh! it was your brother Henry," replied Mr. Fleetwood, with affected seriousness. "I thought that must have been a very knowing hen." The boy, and his sister who had recovered from the pain of her fall, laughed heartily. "Now tell me your name?"

"John."

"Say John, _sir_. Where are your manners?" spoke up the mother, who remembered that, with all her sister's imperfect management of her children, she had succeeded in teaching them to be very respectful in their replies to older persons, and that Earnest, when she last saw him, was a little gentleman in his manners when amy one spoke to him.

"Mo-_ther_!" came now ringing up the stairs, in a loud, screeching little voice. "Mo-_ther_! Hen' won't let me come up."

"I declare! That boy is too bad! He's a perfect torment!" said Mrs. Laurie, fretfully. "I'm out of all heart with him."

The father stepped to the head of the stairs, and spoke rather sternly to the rebellious Henry. Little feet, were soon heard pattering up, and the youngest of the young hopefuls made her appearance, and, soon after, Henry pushed his really repulsive face into the door and commenced grimacing at the other children, thereby succeeding in what he desired to do, viz., starting little Maggy, the youngest, into a whining, fretful cry, because "Hen' was making faces" at her. This cry, once commenced, was never known to end without the application of something more decided in its effects than words. It was in vain that the mother used every persuasive, diverting and soothing means in her power: the crying, loud enough to drown all conversation, continued, until, taking the child up hurriedly in her arms, she bore her into another room, where she applied some pretty severe silencing measures, which had, however, the contrary effect to that desired. The child cried on, but louder than before. For nearly ten minutes, she sought by scolding and whipping to silence her, but all was in vain. It is doubtful, after the means used to enforce silence, whether the child could have stopped if she had tried. At last, the mother locked her in a closet, and came, with a flushed face and mortified feelings, back to the room from which she had retired with Maggy.

The moment Mrs. Laurie left, her husband, with a word and a look, brought the three children into order and quietness. Henry was told, in a low voice, and in a tone of authority, that he never thought of questioning, to go up into the garret and remain there until he sent for him. The boy retired without the slightest hesitation.

When Mrs. Laurie returned, Mr. Fleetwood, who was a man of frank, free, and pleasant manners, could not resist the temptation he felt to remind her of the past; he, therefore, said, laughingly,

"You have doubtless found out, by this time, Martha, that old maids' children are the best."

This sally had just the effect he designed it to have. It was an apology for the children, as it classed them with other real children, in contradistinction to the imaginary offspring of the unmarried, that are known by every one to be faultless specimens of juvenility.

"Come! That is too bad, Mr. Fleetwood," replied Mrs. Laurie, feeling an immediate sense of relief. "But, I own to the error I committed before marriage. It seemed to me the easiest thing in the world to manage children, when I thought about it, and saw where parents erred, or appeared to err, in their modes of government. I did not then know what was _in_ children. All their perverseness I laid to the account of bad management. Alas! I have had some sad experiences in regard to my error. Still, I cannot but own that children are made worse by injudicious treatment, and also, that mine ought to be a great deal better than they are."

"Like the rest of us," returned Mr. Fleetwood, "you have no doubt discovered, that it is one thing to _think_ about the government of children, and another thing to be in the midst of their disturbing sphere, and yet act as if you did not feel it. Theory and practice are two things. It seems, when we think coolly, that nothing can be easier than to cause the one exactly to correspond to the other. But whoever makes the trial, especially where the right government of children is concerned, will find it a most difficult matter. What makes the government of their children so hard a thing for parents, is the fact that the evils of the children have been inherited from them, and therefore the reaction of these evils upon themselves is the more disturbing. We haven't as much patience with the faults of our own children, often, as other people have. They fret and annoy us, and take away our ability to speak in a proper tone and act with becoming dignity toward them, and thus destroy their respect for us."

"Nothing can be truer," said Mrs. Laurie. "I stand rebuked. I am self-condemned, every day, on this very account. I used to think that your government and that of Sarah's over your children very defective. But it was far better than the government that I have been able to exercise over mine. Ah me!"

"Don't sigh over the matter so terribly, Martha," spoke up the husband. "We shall get them right in the end. Never give up the ship, is my motto in this and every thing else. But I wouldn't have our brother and sister here think for a moment that the scenes they have witnessed are enacted every day. Their visit is an occasion of some excitement to our young folks, and they had to show off a little. They will cool down again, and we shall get on pleasantly enough."

"That is all very true," said Mrs. Laurie, more cheerfully. "I never saw them act quite so outrageously before, when any one came in. There is much good in them, and you will see it before you leave us."

"No doubt in the world of that," replied Mr. Fleetwood; "there is good in all children, and it is our duty to exercise great forbearance towards their evils, and be careful lest, by what we do or say, we strengthen, rather than break them."

And the good that was in Mrs. Laurie's children was clearly seen by Mr. and Mrs. Fleetwood during their stay; but, that good was, alas! not strengthened as it might have been, nor were the evils they inherited kept quiescent, as they would to a great extent have remained, had the mother been more patient and forbearing--had her practice been as good as her theory.

It is easy for us to see how others ought to act toward their children, but very hard for us to act right toward our own.

THE MOTHER AND BOY.

"TOM, let that alone!" exclaimed a mother, petulantly, to a boy seven years old, who was playing with a tassel that hung from one of the window-blinds, to the imminent danger of its destruction.

The boy did not seem to hear, but kept on fingering the tassel.

"Let that be, I tell you! Must I speak a hundred times? Why don't you mind at once?"

The child slowly relinquished his hold of the tassel, and commenced running his hand up and down the venitian blind.

"There! there! Do for gracious sake let them blinds alone. Go 'way from the window this moment, and try and keep your hands off of things. I declare! you are the most trying child I ever saw."

Tom left the window and threw himself at full length into the cradle, where he commenced rocking himself with a force and rapidity that made every thing crack again.

"Get out of that cradle! What do you mean? The child really seems possessed!" And the mother caught him by the arm and jerked him from the cradle.

Tom said nothing, but, with the most imperturbable air in the world, walked twice around the room, and then pushing a chair up before the dressing-bureau, took therefrom a bottle of hair lustral, and, pouring the palm of his little hand full of the liquid, commenced rubbing it upon his head. Twice had this operation been performed, and Tom was pulling open a drawer to get the hair-brush, when the odour of the oily compound reached the nostrils of the lad's mother, who was sitting with her back toward him. Turning quickly, she saw what was going on.

"You!" fell angrily from her lips, as she dropped the baby in the cradle. "Isn't it too much!" she continued, as she swept across the room to where Tom was standing before the bureau-dressing-glass.

"There, sir!" and the child's ear rang with the box he received. "There, sir!" and the box was repeated. "Haven't I told you a hundred times not to touch that hair-oil? Just see what a spot of grease you've made on the carpet! Look at your hands!"

Tom looked at his hands, and, seeing them full of oil, clapped them quickly down upon his jacket, and tried to rub them clean.

"There! stop! mercy! Now see your new jacket that you put on this morning. Grease from top to bottom! Isn't it too bad! I am in despair!" And the mother let her hands fall by her side, and her body drop into a chair.

"It's no use to try," she continued; "I'll give up. Just see that jacket! it's totally ruined; and that carpet, too. Was there ever such a trying boy! Go down-stairs this instant, and tell Jane to come up here."

Tom had reason to know that his mother was not in a mood to be trifled with, so he went off briskly and called Jane, who was directed to get some fuller's earth and put upon the carpet where oil had been spilled.

Not at all liking the atmosphere of his mother's room, Tom, being once in the kitchen, felt no inclination to return. His first work there, after delivering his message to Jane, was to commence turning the coffee-mill.

"Tommy," said the cook, mildly, yet firmly, "you know I've told you that it was wrong to touch the coffee-mill. See here, on the floor, where you have scattered the coffee about, and now I must get a broom and sweep it up. If you do so, I can't let you come down here."

The boy stood and looked at the cook seriously, while she got the broom and swept up the dirt he had made.

"It's all clean again now," said the cook, pleasantly. "And you won't do so any more, will you?"

"No, I won't touch the coffee-mill." And, as Tom said this, he sidled up to the knife-box that stood upon the dresser, and made a dive into it with his hand.