Now let us take a hypothetical case, and suppose that our six mothers, with considerable trepidation, have chosen one child apiece that they were willing to intrust for the afternoon to the watchful care of these familiar friends. The children, be it rigidly insisted, are to know nothing whatever of the purposes or methods involved. All that little Johnny Black knows is that Mrs. White has asked him to come over on Monday afternoon and play with Alice and Billy White, and some other children that he knows, too; that presently Mrs. Green has them come to her house on Tuesday, and Mrs. Brown on Wednesday; that his mamma lets them all come and play with him on Thursday,—in short, that his afternoons have become full and rich and pleasantly exciting, like some wonderful procession of parties.
"Not like regular parties, either," Johnny would explain. "You don't have to dress up—much,—just be clean, to begin with. And they don't have ice-cream and macaroons,—only just milk and crackers when you get hungry; and—well, 'tisn't so much regular games and p'r'aps dancin'—like a party,—we just play. And Mrs. White, or whichever one 'tis, she generally has some nice young lady in with her; and they sort of keep things going,—as if 'twas a real party. It's nicer some ways, I think."
"And which place do you like best, Johnny?"
"Oh, I do' know! Billy White has the biggest yard. But Jim Grey has the best swing; and there's a pond at Susy Green's,—a real pond,—and nothing but girls live there! Then it's lots of fun when they come to our house, 'cause I can show 'em my rabbits and make Jack do all his tricks."
Yes, the children all enjoy it. It means variety, it means company, it means a wider and closer acquaintance and all the benefits of well-chosen association and larger environment. It fills a part of the day. There is no more aimless asking, "What shall I do now?" with the vague response, "Oh, run away and play!" or the suggestion of some well-worn amusement.
It means, too, a little more sense of "company manners" and behaviour, and, on the other hand, a better appreciation of home life.
And to the mother,—what good will this do her?
Each mother would have one day in the week in which to carefully observe children,—not her own specially beloved children, but just children, as such. Her observation and care should be absolutely unobtrusive: the moment the little ones knew they were being watched, the value of the plan would be greatly impaired; and, to stop at a minor detail, from the palpable necessity for doing this work without the child's consciousness, mothers would learn to cover the machinery of government at home. It is one of our grossest and most frequent errors in the management of children that we openly discuss our efforts and failures. They know that we are struggling to produce certain results in their behaviour, usually in a futile manner.
With, however, a large and definite purpose resting so absolutely on the child's unconsciousness, more wisdom in this line would soon develope.
The mother who now says, "What would you do with a child like that?" or "I'm sure I don't know what to do with that child!" before the child in question, would soon perceive that such an attitude in an educator does not produce confidence in the object of the education. Quietly and unostentatiously, and often with the assistance of some keen girl-friend, these mothers would soon learn to observe accurately, to generalise carefully, to reduce cautiously, and then to put the deduction into practice and observe the results.