It almost seems superfluous to say that in order to train children one must love them. To succeed in any business, science or art, you must love it. If painting, music, literature, the sciences of astronomy, botany, and medicine demand time, trouble and self-denial, how much more does the science of training children!
It cannot be done from a mere sense of duty. And further, to possess this supreme gift does not necessarily mean that one must be married or have children of one's own. You and I, my reader, have known blessed women who had the great Mother heart, though they have never been mothers. They have been the truest and deepest lovers!
In the first letter I received from my mother, on the birth of my firstborn, I remember these words: "You will never have another hour to yourself." In a sense it has been true, and only love can supply the demands made on motherhood. Love toils. Love perseveres.
Love watches.
Love holds on in the dark.
Love waits through long, long years. Love hopes on, banishing fear. Love begets love. Love is its own reward. Love never fails.
There is an obedience from fear. Thousands of homes have proved this, and have also proved its failure. Commandments kept from motives of love are alone satisfactory to both parents and children.
One must not only love, but win love in return. There is an obedience from fear. Thousands of homes have proved this, and have also proved its failure. Commandments kept from motives of love are alone satisfactory to both parents and children. Children, who are the keenest judges in the world, know when worldly ambition, fame, money, or pleasures govern the home, and they equally know if love and the principles of Jesus Christ are the ruling power. The child who is won by love may wander from the way for a time, but when he is older he shall surely return to it.
Children, who are the keenest judges in the world, know when worldly ambition, fame, money, or pleasures govern the home, and they equally know if love and the principles of Jesus Christ are the ruling power.
During the war a young man known to me was tempted by his comrades to yield to a terrible sin. They laughed at his scruples, and made light of fears. He was in the greatest danger, when all of a sudden his mother's face rose before him, and he was saved. Another young man told me that he also was on the verge of yielding to temptation when he thought of his angel aunt who had brought him up: this was sufficient. Now what was it really that saved those young men? It was the memories which those faces recalled, the early training, the Sunday School, the Christian principles, the devotion, self-sacrifice and love lavished upon them, priceless love! They could not break away from that love!
The greatest of all picture galleries is memory. Take heed what kind of pictures you hang up in the children's minds!
The greatest of all picture galleries is memory. Take heed what kind of pictures you hang up in the children's minds! The manner in which you corrected that fault, your grief, your little talk, your tender kiss--all will come back again. Your sympathy when John or Mary failed in an examination, and your encouragement to try again. The glorious Christmas times--the home-coming of father or mother, the gaily lighted tree, the sweet songs of Christ's birth, the presents for all--are never-to-be-forgotten pictures. The strenuous times when there was little or no money, the self-denial, the gifts for others in still greater need, the prayers and the answered prayers. The boy or girl leaving home, the hidden grief of those whose love can never be repaid. The sorrow, it may be, because of the error or sin of some member of the family, and the generous forgiveness. And underneath all the outstanding, dominating, passionate thing, Love--a Love which turns earth into Heaven!
In France I had an orphanage of illegitimate children. I would rather say with Lady Henry Somerset, when speaking of this class, “children of illegitimate parents,” for we have nothing to do with the circumstances of our birth, and it is an unwarrantable insult to cast that stigma on any child. The fathers of some of the children I speak of were doing penal servitude; some of the mothers were actresses, and others were of a questionable character. Several of the little ones were thieves and liars.
One child of six years old I got away from immoral surroundings and adopted her myself. Two of my comrades almost despaired of her. “Shame on us all,” I said, “if the grace of God is not strong enough in us to cast the devil out of a child of six."
After a week of special care, during which I dedicated one hour each day to teaching her, she gave her little heart to God, and grew up a Christian girl. Like many such children she was very intelligent, and soon acquired German, French and English. Later on I got her into a governess’s situation, not revealing her secret. When she left, the children having gone to Boarding School, their father wrote me for a maid, adding, “My wife says she does not think you can have another like her! She was an angel in our home!"
Some years later, she married a Christian in Finland. I sent her, from Scotland, a little bag and a clock which were acknowledged in a letter blotted with tears, praising God for the way in which she had been saved. During the War their faith was severely tested, for they lost their comfortable little home, valued papers and the little clock, yet she wrote, “Our only hope is in Him who changes not.” She returned to her native land (France), and was chosen to be head of an Orphanage, from where she now writes, “I do for these little boys what you did for me when naughty–I pray with them."
Another little girl in Lyons was sent to me. She was nine years old. Her little back was all covered with scars, and her wrists were marked. Her mother had done this. My helpers wrote me, “We really cannot keep her, as she contaminates the others."
I wrote, “Wait till I come.” When she came before me she said, “I am too bad to stay here, I am going to walk the Boulevards."
I said, “Annette, I feel very tired, come and take tea with me."
“Me! alone with you,” she said.
“Yes, Annette, and what would you like for tea?"
“Sausages,” she replied. “Anything else?” “Jam!"
“Good, you shall have them."
When tea was over we had a heart to heart talk, and prayers and tears followed that tea.
I changed her diet, and ordered long walks and baths every day. I took a doll which closed its eyes, to a friend who, for a few shillings, dressed it in long clothes like a baby (the great joy of my childhood), and when bed-time came I brought this doll to her.
“Oh, how beautiful!” she exclaimed, lifting the dress and admiring its feet. “Look, she shuts her eyes."
“And it is for you,” I said.
“For me alone? Oh, how beautiful!"
“Yes,” I said, “but you can only have it at night; you can never see this doll in the day-time. Now what will you call it?” “After you,” she said.
Oh, I thought, there shall be no reformatory school for you. “My name is Catherine,” I said; so we christened the baby Catherine.
Leaving the room, I waited on the staircase, and on returning in a few minutes I found her fast asleep with the doll in her arms.
A few years later a lady wrote me for a girl to help her in her house, but the Matron said, “Send anyone but Annette! If I ever have a difficult case she helps me so!"
This is what atmosphere had done! The Spirit of Jesus Christ, love, and patience had driven out of this child all dirty ways, bad words, thieving and lying, and changed her utterly.