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.
"Oh, no, no, no, Tommy! that won't do, either," said the cook. "The
knives have all been cleaned, and they are to go on the table to eat
with."
"Then what can I play with, Margaret?" asked the child, as he left
the dresser. "I want something to play with."
The cook thought a moment, and then went to a closet and brought out
a little basket filled with clothes-pins. As she held them in her
hand, she said--"Tommy, if you will be careful not to break any of
these, nor scatter them about, you may have them to play with. But
remember, now, that as soon as you begin to throw them around the
room, I will put them up again."
"Oh, no, I won't throw them about," said the little fellow, with
brightening eyes, as he reached out for the basket of pins.
In a little while he had a circle formed on the table, which he
called his fort; and inside of this he had men, cannon,
sentry-boxes, and other things that were suggested to his fancy.
"Where's Thomas?" asked his mother, about the time he had become
fairly interested in his fort.
"I left him down in the kitchen," replied Jane.
"Go down and tell him to come up here instantly."
Down went Jane.
"Come along up-stairs to your mother," said she.
"No, I won't," replied the boy.
"Very well, mister! You can do as you like; but your mother sent for
you."
"Tell mother I am playing here so good. I'm not in any mischief. Am
I, Margaret?"
"No, Tommy; but your mother has sent for you, and you had better
go."
"I don't want to."
"Just as you like," said Jane, indifferently, as she left the
kitchen and went up-stairs.
"Where's Thomas?" was the question with which she was met on
returning to the chamber.
"He won't come, ma'am."
"Go and tell him that if he doesn't come up to me instantly, I will
put on his night-clothes and shut him up in the closet."
The threat of the closet was generally uttered ten times where it
was executed once; it made but little impression upon the child, who
was all absorbed in his fort.
Jane returned. In a few moments afterward, the quick, angry voice of
the mother was heard ringing down the stairway.
"You, Tom! come up here this instant."
"I'm not troubling any thing, mother."
"Come up, I say!"
"Margaret says I may play with the clothes-pins. I'm only building a
fort with them."
"Do you hear me?"
"Mother!"
"Tom! if you don't come to me this instant, I'll almost skin you.
Margaret! take them clothes-pins away. Pretty playthings, indeed,
for you to give a boy like him! No wonder I have to get a dozen new
ones every two or three months."
Margaret now spoke.
"Tommy, you must go up to your mother."
She now took the clothes-pins and commenced putting them into the
basket where they belonged. Her words and action had a more instant
effect than all the mother's storm of passion. The boy left the
kitchen in tears, and went slowly up-stairs.
"Why didn't you come when I called you? Say!"
The mother seized her little boy by the arm the moment he came in
reach of her, and dragged rather than led him up-stairs, uttering
such exclamations as these by the way:
"I never saw such a child! You might as well talk to the wind! I'm
in despair! I'll give up! Humph! clothes-pins, indeed! Pretty
playthings to give a child! Every thing goes to rack and ruin!
There!"
And, as the last word was uttered, Tommy was thrust into his
mother's room with a force that nearly threw him prostrate.
"Now take off them clothes, sir."
"What for, mother? I haven't done any thing! I didn't hurt the
clothes-pins; Margaret said I might play with them."
"D'ye hear? take off them clothes, I say!"
"I didn't do any thing, mother."
"A word more, and I'll box your ears until they ring for a month.
Take off them clothes, I say! I'll teach you to come when I send for
you! I'll let you know whether I am to be minded or not!"
Tommy slowly disrobed himself, while his mother, fretted to the
point of resolution, eyed him with unrelenting aspect. The jacket
and trousers were removed, and his night-clothes put on in their
stead, Tommy all the while protesting tearfully that he had done
nothing.
"Will you hush?" was all the satisfaction he received for his
protestations.
"Now, Jane, take him up-stairs to bed; he's got to lie there all the
afternoon."
It was then four, and the sun did not set until near eight o'clock.
Up-stairs the poor child had to go, and then his mother found some
quiet. Her babe slept soundly in the cradle, undisturbed by Tommy's
racket, and she enjoyed a new novel to the extent of almost entirely
forgetting her lonely boy shut up in the chamber above.
"Where's Tommy?" asked a friend, who dropped in about six o'clock.
"In bed," said the mother, with a sigh.
"What's the matter? Is he sick?"
"Oh, no. I almost wish he were."
"What a strange wish! Why do you wish so?"
"Oh, because he is like a little angel when he is sick--as good as
he can be. I had to send him to bed as a punishment for
disobedience. He is a hard child to manage; I think I never saw one
just like him; but, you know, obedience is every thing. It is our
duty to require a strict regard to this in our children."
"Certainly. If they do not obey their parents as children, they will
not obey the laws as men."
"That is precisely the view I take; and I make it a point to require
implicit obedience in my boy. This is my duty as a parent; but I
find it hard work."
"It is hard, doubtless. Still we must persevere, and, in patience,
possessing our souls."
"To be patient with a boy like mine is a hard task. Sometimes I feel
as if I should go wild." said the mother.
"But, under the influence of such a feeling," remarked the friend,
"what we say makes little or no impression. A calmly uttered word,
in which there is an expression of interest in and sympathy for the
child, does more than the sternest commands. This I have long since
discovered. I never scold my children; scolding does no good, but
harm. My oldest boy is restless, excitable, and impulsive. If I were
not to provide him with the means of employing himself, or in other
ways divert him, his hands would be on every thing in the house, and
both he and I made unhappy."
"But how can you interest him?"
"In various ways. Sometimes I read to him; sometimes I set him to
doing things by way of assisting me. I take him out when I can, and
let him go with the girls when I send them on errands. I provide him
with playthings that are suited to his age. In a word, I try to keep
him in my mind; and, therefore, find it not very difficult to meet
his varying states. I never thrust him aside, and say I am too busy
to attend to him, when he comes with a request. If I cannot grant
it, I try not to say 'no,' for that word comes too coldly upon the
eager desire of an ardent-minded boy."
"But how can you help saying 'no,' if the request is one you cannot
grant?"
"Sometimes I ask if something else will not do as well; and
sometimes I endeavour to create a new interest in his mind. There
are various ways in which it may be done, that readily suggest
themselves to those desirous for the good of their children. It is
affection that inspires thought. The love of children always brings
a quick intelligence touching their good."
Much more was said, not needful here to repeat. When the friend went
away, Tommy's mother, whose heart convicted her of wrong to her
little boy, went up to the room where she had sent him to spend four
or five lonely hours as a punishment for what was, in reality, her
own fault, and not his. Three hours of the weary time had already
passed. She did not remember to have heard a sound from him, since
she drove him away with angry words. In fact, she had been too
deeply interested in the new book she was reading, to have heard any
noise that was not of an extraordinary character.
At the door of the chamber she stood and listened for a moment. All
was silent within. The mother's heart beat with a heavy motion. On
entering, she found the order of the room undisturbed; not even a
chair was out of place. Tommy was asleep on the bed. As his mother
bent over him, she saw that tears were upon his cheeks and eyelids,
and that the pillow was wet. A choking sigh struggled up from her
bosom; she felt a rebuking consciousness of having wronged her
child. She laid her hand upon his red cheek, but drew it back
instantly; it was hot with fever. She caught up his hand; it was
also in a burning glow. Alarm took the place of grief for having
wronged her boy. She tried to awaken him, but he only moaned and
muttered. The excitement had brought on a fever.
When the father came home and laid his hand upon the hot cheek of
his sleeping boy, he uttered an exclamation of alarm, and started
off instantly for a physician. All night the wretched mother watched
by her sick child, unable, from fear and self-reproaches, to sleep.
When the morning broke, and Thomas looked up into her face with a
gleam of trusting affection, his fever was gone and his pulse was
calm. The mother laid her cheek thankfully against that of her boy,
and prayed to Heaven for strength to bear with him, and wisdom to
guide her feet aright; and as she did so, in the silence of her
overflowing heart, the lad drew his arms around her neck, and,
kissing her, said--"Mother, I do love you!"
That tears came gushing over the mother's face is no cause of
wonder, nor that she returned, half wildly, the embrace and kiss of
her child.
Let us hope that, in her future conduct towards her ardent, restless
boy, she may be able to control herself; for then she will not find
it hard to bring him under subjection to what is right.
-THE END-
T S Arthur's short story: The Mother and Boy
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