OU may think it a very simple thing to wash a baby. You may imagine that one feels quite calm and composed, while this operation is being faithfully and conscientiously performed. That shows how little you know. When I tell you that there are four distinct, delicate chins, to be dodgingly manipulated, between frantic little crying spells, and as many little rolls of fat on the back of the neck, that have to be searched out and bathed, with all the endearing baby-talk you can command, the while, as a blind to your merciless intentions; when I tell you that of all things, baby won't have her ears or nose meddled with, and that she resents any infringement on her toes with shrill outbreaks, and that it takes two people to open her chubby little fists, when water seeks to penetrate her palms. When I tell you the masterly strategy that has to be used to get one stiff, little, rebellious arm out of a cambric sleeve, and the frantic kickings which accompany any attempts to tie on her little red worsted-shoe; when I tell you that she objects altogether to be turned over on her stomach, in order to tie the strings of her frock, and that she is just as mad when you lay her on her back; when I inform you that she can stiffen herself out when she likes, so that you can't possibly make her sit down, and at another time will curl herself up in a circle, so that you can't possibly straighten her out; and when you enumerate the garments that have to be got off, and got on, before this process is finally concluded, and that it is to be done before a baking fire, without regard to the state of the thermometer, or the agonized dew on your brow; when I inform you that every now and then you must stop in the process, to see that she is not choking, or strangling, or that you have not dislocated any of her funny little legs, or arms, or injured her bobbing little head, you can form some idea of the relief when the last string is tied, and baby emerges from this, her daily misery, into a state of rosy, diamond-eyed, scarlet-lipped, content; looking sweet and fresh as a rosebud, and drowsing off in your arms with quivering white eyelids and pretty unknown murmurings of the little half-smiling lips, while the perfect little waxen hands lie idly by her side. Ah me! how shall one keep from spoiling a baby? Ah! how can one ever give brimming enough love-measure—to this—the motherless.
CHILDREN HAVE THEIR RIGHTS.
HERE is not a day of my life in which I am not vexed at the injustice done to children. A Sunday or two since, I went to church. In the pew directly in front of me sat a fine little lad, about twelve years old, unobtrusively taking notes of the sermon. By my side sat a man—gentleman, I suppose, he called himself—his coat, pants, boots, and linen were all right as far as I am any judge, and dress seems to be the test now-a-days—who occupied himself in leaning over the front of the pew, and reading what the boy was writing—evidently much to the discomfiture of the latter. Now I would like to ask, why that child's pencilled notes should not have been as safe from curious eyes as if he had been an adult? and what right that grown-up man had, to bother and annoy him, by impertinently peeping over his shoulder? and of what use is it to preach good manners to children, while nobody thinks it worth while to practice the same toward them? The other day I was sitting in a car, and a nice, well-behaved boy of ten years took his seat and paid his fare. Directly after, in came the conductor, and without a word of comment, coolly took him by the shoulder and placed him on his feet, and then motioned a lady to his vacant seat? Why not ask the child, at least? I have often been struck with the ready civility of boys in this respect, in public conveyances—but that is no reason why they should be imposed upon; the lady who took the seat might possibly have thanked a gentleman for yielding it to her, but she evidently did not think that good manners required she should thank the boy. Again—what right has a gentleman to take a blushing little girl of twelve or thirteen and seat her on his knee, when he happens to want her seat. I have seen timid, bashful girls, suffering crucifixion at the smiles called forth by this free and easy act; and sometimes actually turning away their faces to conceal tears of mortification; for there are little female children unspoiled even by the present bold system of childhood annihilation—little violets who seek the shade, and do not care to be handled and pulled about by every passer-by. Again—why will parents, or those who have the charge of children, make hypocrites of them by saying, Go kiss such and such a person? A kiss is a holy thing, or should be, and not to be lightly bestowed. At any rate, it never should be compulsorily given. Children have their likes and dislikes, and often much more rationally grounded than those of grown people, though they may not be able to syllable them. I never shall forget a snuffy old lady whom I used to be obliged, when a child, to kiss. I am not at all sure that my unconquerable aversion to every form of tobacco does not date from these repulsive and compulsory kisses. With what a lingering horror I approached her, and with what a shiver of disgust I retreated to scrub my lips with my pinafore, and shake my locks, lest peradventure a particle of snuff had lodged there. How I wondered what she would do in Heaven without that snuff-box, for she was a "church member," and my notions of Heaven could by no stretch of liberality admit such a nuisance; and how I inwardly vowed that if I ever grew to be a woman, and if I ever was married, and if I ever had a little girl, all of which were dead certainties in my childish future, I would never make her kiss a person unless she chose to do it, never—never—which article of my pinafore creed I do here publicly indorse with my matronly hand.
Again, what more abominable tyranny than to force a child to eat turnip, or cabbage, or fat meat or anything else for which it has an unconquerable and unexplainable disgust? I have seen children actually shudder and turn pale at being obliged to swallow such things. Pray, why should not their wishes in this respect be regarded as much as those of their seniors? Not that a child should eat everything which it craves indiscriminately, but it should never, in my opinion, be forced to swallow what is unpalatable, except in the case of medicine, about which parents tell such fibs—that it "tastes good," and all that—when they should say honestly, "It is very bad indeed, but you know you must take it, and the sooner it is over the better; now be brave and swallow it." I do protest too against forcing big boys to wear long curls down their backs after they are well into jackets, for the gratification of mamma's pride, who "can't bear to cut them off," not even though her boy skulks out of sight of every "fellow" he meets for fear of being called a "girl-boy;" or the practice making a boy of that age wear an apron, which the "fellows" are quite as apt to twit him about, or anything else which makes him look odd or ridiculous. There is no computing the suffering of children in these respects. I dare say many who read this will say, "But they should be taught not to mind such things," etc.; that's all very well to say, but suppose you try it yourself;—suppose you were compelled to walk into church on Sunday with a collar that covered your cheeks, and your great-grand-father's coat and vest on; to hear the suppressed titters, and be an object of remark every time you stirred; and you a man who hated notoriety, and felt like knocking everybody down who stared at you? How would that suit? Nothing like bringing a case home to yourself. Just sit down and recall your own childhood, and remember the big lumps in your little throat that seemed like to choke you, and the big tears of shame that came rolling down on your jacket, from some such cause, and don't go through the world striding with your grown-up boots on little children. They are not all angels, I know; some of them are malicious, and ugly, and selfish and disagreeable; and whose fault is it?—answer me that? Not one time in ten, the child's. You may be sure of it. God made it right, but there were bunglers who undertook a charge from which an angel might shrink.