That dastard’s name—
Bob White, Bob White!
WHIPPING A CHILD
In spite of the fact that Solomon advised whipping the child, I question the benefits of giving pain. I never struck my boy but once, and that was when he was a child in kilts. God forgive me, I was angry at the time. We were out in the fields gathering dandelions for greens, and the lad persisted in throwing clods into the vessel in which the dandelions were. I told him several times to desist, but he laughed in childish glee and did it again and again. He did not intend to be bad. It was a child’s estimation of fun—to have somebody scolding. I do not know what ailed me that morning, but I soon became so angry that I broke off an elder sprout and struck the child a cruel blow across his little back. One blow—that was all, and then my heart smote me. When I felt the little form writhing in pain, as I held him by one arm, it dawned on me that I was a brute.
I can shut my eyes still and see that little child sitting on a bank of coarse grass and weeping bitter tears. How I despised myself! I would have taken him in my arms and begged his forgiveness, but I felt sure the child would not think my remorse sincere, and might think me a hypocrite. No, I thought it best to let the child think me a brute, rather than believe me a hypocrite. He must have faith in my honesty, even though I was an honest brute.
I resolved right then and there that I never would strike my child again. My paternal heart told me that Solomon was wrong—that if he had but one boy he would try love, and not the lash. Solomon had so many children and so many wives, that he couldn’t love any of them truly and sincerely. I would not take advice from any man who made women slaves to his animal passion, and who encouraged the brutal act of inflicting pain on the tender flesh of a helpless child. The child that is beaten must surely grow hard of heart, as well as calloused of back, where the rod leaves welts and scars.
I asked my boy only the other day—he is fourteen now—whether he still remembered the cruel blow I struck him, and when he replied that he did, my head fell and my heart felt a peculiar pain. Oh, to recall that one brutal blow, or have it forgotten by the boy who was once that quivering, sobbing child!
I am certain that the boy is just as obedient as any other boy in the neighborhood, and would be just the same if never struck that one blow. I still tell him how sorry I am that I once lost my head and beat a child. I want him to feel and know that love is a better ruler than the rod. And after I am gone, and the boy recalls my face, I want him to think kindly of me and realize how that one blow has pained me all through life, and made one shadow of paternal shame.