And this boy was no exception. He was not a show boy, out posing before the great American republic, or such of it as happened to be in France at the time, but he was a sample, a perfect type of the regulation French child. I have seen just as much politeness in the ragged waifs in the Faubourg St. Antoine, where the child never saw the blue sky more than the little patches that could be seen over the tops of seven-storied houses, as I ever did in the Champs Elysées. One Sunday at St. Cloud, where the ragged children of poverty are taken by their mothers for air and light, it was a delight to fill the pockets with sweets to give them. They had no money to buy, and the little human rats looked longingly at the riches of the candy stands, and a sou’s worth made the difference between perfect happiness and half-pleasure. You gave them the sou’s worth, and what a glad smile came to the lips, and accompanied with it was the delicious half bow and half courtesy, and invariable “Merci, Monsieur.” One little tot, who could not speak, filled her tiny mouth with the unheard of delicacies she had received, and, too young to say “Merci,” put up her lips to be kissed.
THE DISGUST OF TIBBITTS.
Tibbitts gave some confectionery to her elder sister, a young girl of eighteen, but she merely said “Merci, Monsieur,” and that was all. She took the candy, but declined to kiss him, much to Tibbitts’ disgust.
“MERCI, MONSIEUR.”
Oh, ye thoughtless, heedless mothers of America, would that you could all see these children and take lessons from their mothers. There is a difference in people, and a still greater difference in children. Our American Congress could well afford a commission of ladies to learn the secret of training children, and a school for mothers should be established in every city for their preparation for this important duty. It would pay better than any monetary conference.