HOW TO MANAGE THE LITTLE ONES.
"I wouldn't mind being left to take care of the little ones," said Fannie the other day, "if they would only mind me. But when mamma is away they think they may do as they please, and they behave like little witches."
"Mollie manages the nursery splendidly," said Kittie; "the children are quite angelic under her, but I have not her magic. I seem to stir up the naughtiness, and the more I tell them to be good, the worse they act."
Now, Fannie and Kittie and other worried elder sisters, let me tell you the trouble with your management. When you can find the key to a problem in arithmetic, the rest is easy work.
I think I can whisper in your ear the name of a certain key to your home problem, when the small brothers and sisters say, as they sometimes do, "You are not my mamma, you are only Fannie; I want to make a noise, and you must not bother me."
The key is a word of four letters—tact. It is a golden key, and is warranted to fit any lock. You can not get along very well in life without it. I am very sure that Mollie possesses this shining key.
You remember what a time you had with Willie, who was determined to have Rosie's French doll as the passenger in his train of cars. Those cars rush around the parlor at so rapid a rate that everything must get out of their way or be crushed. Rosie was in great distress lest her pet's head should be broken, but Willie shouted, blew his whistle, and started his train just as usual. You snatched the doll away, and put her in the closet, high out of reach of both children, saying, "When you two can play without quarrelling, you shall have the doll again, and not until then." Of course Willie stamped his feet, and Rosie screamed, and there was a tempest.
You might have managed your little folks, had you only known how, so that they would have been as obedient as well-trained soldiers, and as peaceable as two doves in a nest.
I would have said, in your place: "Oh, Willie, what a nice train of cars you have there, and what a good conductor you are! Is Cécile your passenger? Oh no, I see she is not dressed for a journey. She has on an evening dress. Here is Laura"—producing an older and less important doll—"and she really needs a change of air. I'll slip on her Ulster in a second, and she will be all ready. She's pining for the country. Here, Rosie, you may take care of Cécile."
Both children would have been satisfied had you spoken to them in this way, and the hour would not have been spoiled by crying and fretting.