He designed to be entirely comprehensive in his address, and engage the attention of both sexes; but his juvenile auditors were evidently in a state of terrible confusion after this lucid preamble, most of them imagining that he meditated some game of cross-purposes; as when “Rise, No. 2” means that No. 2 must do quite the opposite thing and not budge, upon penalty of a forfeit. But when I say “babies,” I mean children of tender years—legal infants—and do not confine myself altogether to those in arms.
Especially has a baby a right to a hearing from Mamma. Unless you have been so foolish as to let him form a habit of crying—and this should be carefully avoided—his wail or scream always means that something is amiss, and it is your business to find out what it is. If you choose to send Bridget to see “what ails that child, now!” at least let him be brought to you for inquiry and for judgment. Take the convulsed, struggling little fellow in your arms; draw his head to your bosom; pat the wet cheeks and kiss the mouth quivering in distress, that is more than he can bear, slight and ridiculous as it may be to you. Soothe and quiet, before you chide, should there seem to be need for reproof. Remember—and it is a sadly solemn thought—that your arms form the only refuge outside the bosom of Infinite Compassion, to which he can, as man and boy, flee alike in sin and woe, in innocence and joy. Don’t hush his sobbed confession or complaint, however strangled and unintelligible. It does him good to utter it, whether you understand it or not. Don’t call him “a silly boy” for crying because he has broken the whip Papa gave him only this morning, or because the pretty kitty Auntie sent him has proved ungrateful and deserted her doting master. It is doubtful if you ever had what was to you a greater loss than either of these is to him. If his are tears of bereavement, kiss them away and hold up some promise of future delight that shall cast a rainbow athwart the cloud of grief. If he weeps in childish anger, be loving, while you rebuke. He loses much—how much, Eternity can only tell—who has not learned, from experience, the fullness and sweetness of that simple line—“As one whom his mother comforteth.”
Never let your child have his cry out alone. If he is old enough to observe that yours is studied neglect, he has also sense sufficient to enable him to put his own construction upon what is, to him, your cruel indifference to his suffering; and just in proportion as he recognizes and resents this, your influence over him is weakened; his faith in your love shaken. If he is too young to guess why you disregard his outcry, terror and pain lay hold of his spirit, as is evinced by the changed tone of his lamentation. Shall I tell you a little story, just here, one which is unfortunately drawn from life?
A mother—a good woman, but a trifle too strong of will, and wedded to a pet theory of family government, according to which, children were but machines, to be subject in every particular to the authority of the chief engineer—one evening laid her babe, about ten months old, in his crib, for the night. The child manifested great unwillingness to lie still, and presently began to cry. The mother seated herself quietly to work upon the other side of the room, and took no outward notice of his screams. An elderly gentleman, a relative, was present, and remonstrated with her upon her silence.
“He will certainly injure himself, if you do not stop his crying!”
“That is the old-fashioned doctrine,” replied the parent, with a smile of conscious superiority. “I always expect one grand struggle for supremacy with each of my children. He is in revolt now, and must be treated as a rebel. If I yield, and take him up, the lesson is lost.”
“I don’t ask you to take him up! Only speak to him. He is well-nigh heart-broken. He will rupture a blood-vessel.”
“No danger! It strengthens his lungs to cry in that uproarious manner. I have known babies to scream for two or three hours, without sustaining the least injury.”
“You will excuse me, at any rate, from staying here to see the battle out!” and the uncle left the room.
Returning, at the end of an hour, he found the child still screaming—now, in an anguished shriek that rent the man’s heart. The woman and mother sat still and sewed steadily—it seemed calmly.