The mother's book

by Lydia Maria Child

Too much cannot be said on the importance of giving children early habits of observation. This must be done by teaching them to pay attention to surrounding objects, and to inquire the why and wherefore of everything. No doubt many mothers will say, ‘I cannot thus train the minds of my children; for it is my misfortune not to have had an education myself.’ This answer is very frequently given; and if by education is meant book-learning, the excuse is indeed a poor one. Good judgment, kind feelings, and habitual command over one’s own passions, are necessary in the education of children; but learning is not necessary. The mother, who has had no other advantages than are furnished by a public school in a remote country village, knows a great many more things than a child of three or four years can possibly know. Early accustom your children to inquire about the things they handle. What if you cannot always answer them? You do them an immense deal of good by giving their minds active habits. If a spirit of inquiry is once aroused, it will, sooner or later, find means to satisfy itself; and thus the inquisitive boy will become an energetic, capable man.

I will give some familiar instances of what I mean. Generally speaking, when mothers have done superintending domestic concerns for the day, and have seated themselves, to ‘take some comfort,’ as the phrase is, ‘with their children,’ they spend the time in trotting them, or shaking the rattle, or dragging about the little cart, or repeating over and over again, ‘pat a cake, pat a cake.’ Now this is extremely well; and should on no account be omitted. But something ought to be mixed with these plays to give the child habits of thought. Toys amuse him for the time; but he grows weary of them, and when he does not hear, or see them, they do not furnish anything for him to think about. But should you, while tossing a ball, stop and say, ‘This ball is round; this little tea-table is square. Now George knows what round and square mean,’—it would give him something to think about. When he has a new toy, he will think to himself whether it is round or square. It is not well to tell him more than one thing at a time, or to enter into any detailed explanations. It is a bad thing to have infant attention wearied. It is enough for him to know that the ball is round and the table square. When he is older, you can explain to him that a square has always equal sides, and that the edge of a round thing is always equally distant from the centre.

Another day, should you show him your ball of yarn, and ask him if it be round or square, the chance is, he will answer correctly. If he does recollect what you have told him, it will make his little heart very happy; and should you reward his answer with a smile and a kiss, you will undoubtedly have done much to awaken his powers of observation.

So much for the first step.—At another time, should you chance to be spinning a dollar, or a cent, for his amusement, you can, in the midst of the play, stop and say, ‘This dollar is round, as well as the ball; but the dollar is flat, and the ball is not flat. If George puts his hand on the dollar, he will feel that it is flat; and if he puts his hand on the ball, he will feel that it is not flat. Now George knows what flat means.’ Here I would remark, that if the child is impatient to have the dollar spinning, and does not love to hear about its form, it is unwise to cross his inclinations. We never remember so well what we do not love to hear; and forced instruction is apt to injure the temper, and give an early aversion to knowledge.

We are apt to forget that things long familiar to us are entirely unknown to an infant. There is hardly anything connected with his little wants, which may not be made a pleasant medium of instruction. When eating a piece of bread, the following questions may be asked and answered. ‘What is bread made of?’ ‘I don’t know; what is it made of, mother?’ ‘It is made of grain; sometimes of rye, sometimes of Indian meal, and sometimes of flour.’ ‘What is grain made of?’ ‘It grows in the field. The farmers plant it in the ground, and God causes it to grow.’

When a child is playing with his kitten, it is easy to mix instruction with his enjoyment, by saying, ‘Feel pussy’s fur—how smooth it is. Feel this piece of coral—how rough it is. Pussy’s fur is smooth, and the coral is rough. Now George knows what smooth and rough mean.’

As he grows older, the information given him may be of a higher character. He can be told, ‘The andirons are made of brass. Brass is called a metal; it is dug out of the earth.’ At another time, he may be asked, ‘What is the cover of your book made of?’ If he answer, ‘Of leather,’ ask him what leather is made of. If he does not know, tell him it is made of a calf’s skin. Then ask him whether the cover of his book is a metal. If he say, ‘No,’ ask him what is the reason it is not. If he cannot answer, tell him, ‘Because metals are always dug out of the earth. Leather is not dug out of the earth; it is made of calf-skin; therefore it is an animal substance, not a metal. Does George know what an animal is? It is a creature that grows, and can move about from one place to another. Your kitten is an animal; she grows bigger every day; and she moves about. The brass andirons are not animals. They do not grow any larger, and they cannot move.’ Afterward, when a proper opportunity occurs, ask him to tell you the difference between a metal and an animal.

If he bring you a rose, you can say, ‘Thank you, George, for this rose. Now, can you tell me what it is? Is it a metal?’ ‘No.’ ‘Is it an animal?’ ‘I should think not, mother.’ ‘What is it, then?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘I will tell you. It is a vegetable. Vegetables grow out of the earth. They are not like metals, because they grow larger and larger; and they are not like animals, because they cannot move of themselves. What are you, George?’ ‘I am not a metal, for I grow bigger every day. I am not a vegetable, for I can walk. I think I am an animal.’ ‘Right, my dear son. Now you know the meaning of metals, animals, and vegetables.’

Such conversations as these will make his thoughts busy; and when he takes a book he will probably ask, ‘What are the leaves of books made of?’ ‘They are made of paper.’ ‘What is paper made of?’ ‘Of rags.’ ‘What are rags made of?’ ‘Sometimes of linen, and sometimes of cotton. Cotton grows in a pod, and linen is made from a plant called flax.’ ‘Then the leaves of my book are vegetable.’ This discovery, simple as it is, will afford the boy great pleasure, and will make it more easy to exercise his powers of thought.

I dare say the preceding hints will sound silly enough to many mothers; but they are nevertheless founded in reason and sound sense. It is a fact that children, thus early accustomed to observe, will have a wonderful power of amusing themselves. They will examine every figure in the carpet, and think to themselves whether it is round, or square; and will sit, by the half hour, quietly watching the figures on copper-plate, or calico.