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 1
 
 Misunderstood Children 
 
 SKETCHES TAKEN FROM LIFE 
 
 BY 
 
 ELIZABETH HARRISON 
 
 AUTHOR OF "A STUDY OF CHILD-NATURE," "TWO 
 
 CHILDREN OF THE FOOTHILLS," "SOME SILENT 
 
 TEACHERS," "IN STORYLAND," ETC. 
 
 "There are doubtless many ivays in which men may make 
 a new heaven and a neiv earth of their divelling place, but 
 the simplest of all ways is through a fond, discerning and 
 individual care of each child." 
 
 FOURTH EDITION 
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 THE NATIONAL KINDERGARTEN COLLEGE, 
 
 Chicago.
 
 copyright, 1910 
 
 By Elizabeth Harrison. 
 
 All Rights Reserved. 
 
 BECKTOLD 
 
 PRINTING & BOOK MFG. CO. 
 ST. LOUIS. MO.
 
 Hz_ 4 
 
 ^jAt* AooA ti aeaieatea 
 to 
 K^/iae man/i A/ewed momerd- wAio, /AoaaA 
 itut/cnfo in ma " *sfflot/ier4-c/a44ei, " Aave 
 taaaAt me fa? 1 mow lAian Jr coata teacAi 
 tAiem. 
 
 ^JAec/* eapneitneji, tAter/*- wiic ana Atwma 
 /lattence, {/{,€(/<■ conzecrauon to iAcf/<- Af'aAi ana 
 /iota ox>rA, Aave maae me watize, m /ia?f at 
 teaM, wAat tn(4 aio^ta of oa?<4 us/// ve toAen 
 a// mot/tew aataAen to /Ac a^eatnej^ of /Are'/*- 
 vocation. 
 
 (&Aza/f/A z/la/ 
 
 Jtattona/ *Mt-nacpaa/<t< n (bo/tr ae, 
 lAt'cago, Jr/t. 
 
 'a/wjon.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 Foreword i 
 
 Sammie's Prayer 9 
 
 The Boy Who Hated School 19 
 
 Little Mary 28 
 
 The Twins 40 
 
 For Father's Amusement 51 
 
 A Sunday Morning Diversion $$ 
 
 The Geography Lesson 64 
 
 The Sand-Pile 73 
 
 A Shop Scene 83 
 
 Jack and The Alley Boys 90 
 
 The Boy and The Scarlet Coat 99 
 
 Katie MacMa'hon 105 
 
 A Starved Soiil 125 
 
 Daughters of Men 133 
 
 Herbert at His Grandmother's 139 
 
 Gertrude's Story 151 
 
 Miss Eleanor's Garden 158
 
 FOREWORD. 
 
 Of the three great World Disciplines, Re- 
 ligion, Philosophy and Psychology, the last 
 named is much the latest and the least under- 
 stood. Men have struggled with the concep- 
 tion of God from the earliest dawn of con- 
 sciousness. The rudest, most uncivilized sav- 
 ages have some form of worship for the un- 
 seen power that is greater than man; and it is 
 an interesting study to trace the slow but 
 steady growth of the God-idea from the fetish 
 worship of the early race to the conception of 
 God as advanced by the Christian church of 
 to-day. We need but to look back to the 
 Egyptian ideas of the gods, or even to the 
 conception of God as held by the Middle 
 Ages, to realize how this great World-Disci- 
 pline has advanced and enlarged man's con- 
 ception of Divine Power. Philosophy also has 
 taken enormous strides since the days of old 
 Thales of Miletus, who six hundred years be- 
 fore the Christian era declared the essence of 
 all things to be water. He was the greatest of 
 philosophic thinkers in his day. We smile now 
 
 1
 
 2 Foreword. 
 
 at the childishness of this effort to define the 
 essential unity of Nature. 
 
 And yet the day is not far distant when 
 mankind will read with incredulity of the idea 
 of Man which has been held in the past and is 
 still held by many unthinking or prejudiced 
 people of to-day. Psychology, the latest of 
 the all-embracing Disciplines of the mind of 
 man, is, in its way, doing as much to clarify 
 and enlarge our ideas of Man as Religion and 
 Philosophy have done in the matter of giving 
 us better and more exalted ideas of God and 
 Nature. 
 
 Which one of us is it who does not feel 
 that he or she possesses unused ability that 
 might have developed into real talent, some- 
 times almost into "genius" if it had been given 
 a chance. It is for the sake of these "might- 
 bes" in each human soul that I plead for a bet- 
 ter and more sympathetic understanding of 
 children. No inheritance of money or of social 
 position, so fiercely striven after by so many 
 parents, can compare with the gift of a free 
 and fully developed childhood. 
 
 That this gift may be within the reach of 
 all earnest-thinking parents is what makes the 
 practical results already attained by Psychol-
 
 Foreword. 3 
 
 ogy so Important. What may yet be attained 
 is beyond our present power to imagine. 
 
 Our best schools have already been trans- 
 formed by the placing of the study of chil- 
 dren's instincts and interests upon a scientific 
 basis. The sulky child, the moody child, the 
 quick-tempered child, the restless child, the 
 slow child, are no longer considered an af- 
 fliction sent by the Lord, nor are the boy who 
 steals and the girl who lies regarded as speci- 
 mens of original sin. The inheritance of the 
 child is, if possible, ascertained, his environ- 
 ment is studied, as it is now a well-established 
 fact that these play an important part in his 
 makeup and must be taken into account in the 
 treatment of the case if any permanent good 
 is to be accomplished. 
 
 It is also now an accepted scientific fact 
 that the child's bodily condition reacts upon 
 his mental condition. A physically uncom- 
 fortable child cannot learn as readily as a 
 child whose physical organs are in right work- 
 ing condition. Hence underfed and ill-kept 
 children are fed and given baths in our best 
 schools, the seats and desks in the schoolroom 
 are adjusted to their heights, the windows are 
 arranged so that the light will not irritate the
 
 4 Foreword. 
 
 eyes, and proper ventilation of the school- 
 room is sought, in order that each child may 
 get the maximum of good out of his school life. 
 Physiological-psychology has also taught us 
 of the reaction of mind upon body. An un- 
 happy child cannot digest his food as well as a 
 child who is in a cheerful mood, nor can he 
 study as well. Hence, the rod has vanished 
 and the ferrule is hidden, and that still worse 
 instrument of torture — sarcasm — is disap- 
 pearing. An atmosphere of sunshine and 
 cheerfulness is demanded in order that a child 
 may be kept in good physical condition. I 
 know of some wise mothers who so fully un- 
 derstand this interaction of body and mind 
 that they never permit the mealtime to be 
 taken for scolding or criticism. In fact, some 
 of them save up the funny story or interesting 
 incident until the mealtime so that the table 
 hour becomes the happiest hour in their chil- 
 dren's day. And it is well worth the effort, 
 for happiness is as necessary for normal, 
 wholesome growth in childhood as sunshine is 
 necessary for the right growth of plants. The 
 fact that too much excitement or too great 
 fatigue causes blood poison is another of the 
 important facts which a scientific study of
 
 Foreword 5 
 
 children has established. Much more could 
 be said upon this subject, but this is not the 
 time or the place for it. 
 
 Physiological-psychology has thrown much 
 valuable light upon the reaction of body and 
 mind; but it does not study the self, it studies 
 the outer manifestations of the self. The great 
 value of Psychology as a World-Discipline 
 is deeper and more profound, unfolding to us 
 the laws by which mental and spiritual growth 
 can best be developed. For example — we 
 know now that a child is only in the serene, 
 contented condition of mind which best pro- 
 motes inner growth when he is following a ra- 
 tional line of conduct — rational as far as he 
 can comprehend it. The child who is left too v 
 long to his own government becomes capri- 
 cious, fretful and unhappy. Most of the ob- 
 stinacy manifested by children is due to the 
 caprice of those in control of them. The child 
 does not see the rationality of the command. 
 To him it is the parent's or teacher's indivi- 
 dual will pitted against his individual will, and 
 the instinct of freedom in him rises up to re- 
 sist as surely as certain gases rise to the sur- 
 face when other gases are added to a chem- 
 ical combination. It may not be your fault
 
 6 Foreword. 
 
 that you suddenly find yourself in conflict with 
 an obstinate child, but it is somebody's fault 
 that he has not learned the impersonal justice 
 that lies in every rational command to the ex- 
 tent that he has been able to grasp it. What I 
 mean is that arguing with an obstinate child 
 never helps him. What he needs, in most 
 cases, is to be given the rational grounds for a 
 command calmly and in an impersonal way, 
 and then be given time and quiet in which to 
 conquer himself. If the command is of such a 
 nature that he cannot grasp the rationality of 
 it, or if he is in such a condition that he will 
 not accept it, then, of course, authority must 
 be used. Too much license is as bad for a 
 child as is too much control. The former de- 
 velops weakness of purpose and waywardness 
 that unfits him for personal comradeship and 
 co-operation in the world's work; the latter 
 suppresses him and hinders the growth of that 
 originality by means of which he can best add 
 to the higher enrichment of mankind. The one 
 is as bad as the other. The right understand- 
 ing of the development of the will from mere 
 desire to rational choice helps us to avoid the 
 Scylla of undue authority on the one hand and 
 the Charybdis of undue license on the other 
 hand.
 
 Foreword. 
 
 Perhaps an anecdote will best illustrate this important 
 point in child-training : 
 
 The story was told me by a young Englishman who 
 was visiting for the first time his brother in Chicago, 
 who had married an American woman, well versed in 
 the psychology of the kindergarten. "The first evening 
 after my arrival," said he, "my little niece of six was 
 vexed by some trifle, and thereupon she set up a lusty 
 bawl. My sister-in-law said, without the slightest tone 
 of disturbance in her voice, 'Charlotte, your noise is dis- 
 turbing the rest of us. You must either stop bawling 
 or go upstairs to the nursery where you can be by your- 
 self.' The child continued to bawl," added the young 
 man, "and much to my amazement my sister-in-law 
 quietly took out her watch and said : 'I will give you 
 just two minutes in which to decide whether you will 
 cease bawling and remain with us, or go up to the 
 nursery.' She stood perfectly still," he continued, 
 laughingly, "holding her watch in her hand. At the end 
 of the two minutes she said : 'Tour two minutes are up ; 
 you have made your choice,' and with a slight wave of 
 her hand she pointed to the door. The youngster de- 
 liberately turned round and walked out of the room and 
 up the stairs towards the nursery, still bawling. I 
 turned in my astonishment to my sister-in-law and said, 
 'How in the world did you make her do it?' She ans- 
 wered, 'My kindergarten training taught me to treat my 
 children as rational beings with wills that must be re- 
 spected as well as trained. I gave her her choice. She 
 went upstairs of her own free will to the nursery and 
 yet she obeyed the laws of social consideration. There- 
 fore, because she does not feel that she has been un- 
 justly treated, she will the sooner conquer herself and 
 come back.' And sure enough, in less than ten minutes, 
 back came the little miss, as sweet and gracious as if 
 nothing had happened." He had told this story in great 
 glee, but when ended his mood changed, and, in a serious 
 tone, he added, "If that is the way all American mothers 
 teach their children self-control, your republican gov- 
 ernment is on a sure foundation." 
 
 This Is but a single illustration of the law of 
 self -making, which the study of Psychology
 
 8 Foreword. 
 
 reveals to us. This law of self-making is as un- 
 erring as are the laws of nature. The mother 
 who understands this law knows that what 
 the child himself feels, does and thinks is 
 what makes him. She therefore awakens feel- 
 ings which will develop into sympathy with all 
 humanity and all nature and thus leads him to 
 enrich and enlarge his higher self. She avoids 
 awakening feelings of antipathy which cause 
 the self-making of her child to be narrow and 
 impoverished. She also leads him into doing 
 the deed prompted by the right feeling and 
 thereby changes mere impulse into choice, 
 well knowing that choosing lines of conduct 
 develops free-will, or self-determination, 
 which is the basis of all strong character. She 
 helps him to know the true nature of his deed, 
 as feeling and will may be capricious; but 
 thought rationalizes the deed and regulates 
 feeling. This and much more grows out of 
 the psychological view of the child as a self — 
 making — self. This is the meaning of "Self- 
 Activity" the keynote of the new education.
 
 SAMMIE'S PRAYER. 
 
 She was a good woman — that aunt of his. 
 That is, she tried to do her duty, and she was 
 very fond of the small three-year-old nephew 
 who was the one bit of sunshine and joy in 
 the sad home of herself and her old father. 
 She always kept the little fellow in spotlessly 
 clean clothing and was careful to see that his 
 food was well cooked and of the right sort. 
 Also, that he went to bed early and had plenty 
 of sleep. But sometimes she was lacking in 
 that virtue beyond all other virtues in the 
 mothering of the child — far more needed by 
 tender young souls that clean bodies and 
 wholesome food and abundant sleep — name- 
 ly, the power to understand. Who has not 
 erred in this respect? 
 
 Many were the lessons which the child un- 
 consciously taught her, for she was a sen- 
 sitive soul herself, and struggled hard to take 
 a mother's place in the life of the child. Be- 
 ing a spinster, she did not know how many 
 times even mothers err in this same way by 
 lack of sympathetic perception of how a child 
 may look at a situation. 
 
 9
 
 io Misunderstood Children. 
 
 One bright spring morning she was hurry- 
 ing to finish her sweeping that she might set 
 the home in order and get off for some church 
 work she had planned to do. They were old- 
 fashioned people and their floors were cov- 
 ered with thick ingrain carpets which yield up 
 a heap of fluff and dust, no matter how often 
 they are swept. She had just swept the fluff to 
 the edge of the dustpan when — swish ! swung 
 the side door and in rushed the young nephew, 
 and with him in whirled a gale of wind ! The 
 dust and fluff went swirling and dancing all 
 over the room. She looked up, but did not 
 see the glad light in the boy's eyes and did not 
 hear the anticipation of sympathy that rang in 
 his joyful voice as he cried: 
 
 "Oh, Aunty, just come out here and see the 
 new flowers that have come up ! They are 
 going to have a party, I think." 
 
 As I said before, she was in a hurry and 
 was anxious to get through her morning work 
 and to get off on her church errand. So she 
 only answered in an annoyed tone: "Dear! 
 dear! Sammie ! See what you have done! 
 Go out and shut that door !" 
 
 The boy looked disappointed, but he was 
 an obedient child, so he stepped out on the
 
 Sammie's Prayer. 1 1 
 
 side porch and gently shut the door. Somehow 
 the day did not look quite so bright with no 
 one to share with him his new and rich dis- 
 covery of unexpected and, to him, marvelous 
 new blossoms on the primrose plants. But he 
 waited a long, long time alone on the porch; 
 at least, it seemed to him a long, long time. 
 
 She in the meanwhile hastily reswept the 
 room with never a thought of the little boy 
 waiting outside. She merely added a trifle of 
 nervous haste to her work, so as to make up 
 for the lost time. Once more she collected 
 the fluff and dust into a pile and was stooping 
 to sweep it into the dustpan when the door 
 cautiously opened a little and a patient child's 
 face appeared in the space, with the words: 
 "Aren't you 'most ready now?" But with the 
 opening of the door in came the spring breeze 
 again. And again off whirled and danced 
 the fluff and dust ! She was angry now. 
 True, she had not thought to explain to him 
 why she wanted the door kept shut, nor had 
 she assured him that she would let him know 
 when he might open it, but she did not stop 
 to think of this. He had disobeyed her in- 
 tentions. 
 
 He ought to have understood. She would 
 2
 
 12 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 be obliged to sweep the room all over again! 
 She would be late for her church calls! 
 The child's innocent eyes were looking up at 
 her. He had become tired of waiting and he 
 simply was asking if she could not come and 
 share his new joy. He had never swept a 
 room, so he had not noticed that the dust had 
 been scattered by the wind. Just a word of 
 explanation would have made him go off hap- 
 pily to some new activity to await her coming. 
 But no. She was in a hurry, and that room 
 must be swept all over again ! It was too pro- 
 voking! With resentment tingling in her 
 tone she sharply exclaimed: 
 
 "Sammie, go out of this room imme- 
 diately! And shut that door! You are a 
 naughty, naughty boy!" 
 
 The door closed with a bang 1 A moment 
 more a chair was overthrown on the porch. 
 The boy in his turn was now angry. She bit 
 her lip and once more began the resweeping 
 of the room. Bang! Bang! went two more 
 chairs on the porch floor. As I have said, she 
 was a good woman and she was conscientious 
 about the child. She must not let him give 
 way to his temper. He must learn to control 
 it. Now came a kick against the door. This
 
 Sammie's Prayer. 13 
 
 was too much! She could not have him act 
 that way toward her. It was not treating her 
 with proper respect. She stopped sweeping, 
 leaned the broom against a chair, and, going 
 to the porch door, opened it and in a tone of 
 angry command said: "Sammie, you are a 
 naughty boy ! Come with me ! I shall have 
 to shut you up until you can be good!" He 
 straightened himself up and gave a kick at a 
 flower-pot which stood near by. (I have, 
 myself, felt the relief of overstrained nerves 
 which came from slamming a door or throw- 
 ing a collar on the floor. Haven't you?) 
 
 "There you are again," she cried; "you 
 nearly knocked that flower-pot off the porch ! 
 Come here, you naughty boy !" She took hold 
 of his hand and led him into an adjoining 
 bedroom. "There!" she said, sternly; "you 
 must stay in this room until you can promise 
 me that you will be a good boy. You have 
 been very naughty, and Aunty doesn't love 
 you." With that she went out and shut the 
 door behind her. 
 
 Instantly the overwrought nerves of the 
 child, assisted by his wounded pride and vio- 
 lated sense of justice, found vent in a series of 
 screams accompanied by furious kicking on
 
 14 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 the door. With the turning of the knob he 
 could have opened it. But the bond between 
 him and his much loved aunt was still strong 
 enough for her word to mean law to him. The 
 kicking and screaming soon subsided into 
 long, heartbreaking sobs. And in justice to 
 her I must say that the aunt outside the door 
 was as unhappy as the sobbing boy inside the 
 bedroom. But she went on sweeping with a 
 flushed face and painfully compressed lips. 
 Now that she was "in for it" she must "stick 
 it out," she said to herself. The boy's temper 
 must be conquered. All thoughts of the 
 church errand were banished now. She was 
 a good woman and she knew that bringing 
 the child back to a harmonious relation with 
 herself was the paramount duty of that morn- 
 ing. All things else were as naught compared 
 with that. 
 
 Soon the deep, heavy sobs ceased, and her 
 tenderly alert ear could hear the catching of 
 the breath that comes after a passionate out- 
 burst. She hoped he would promise to be 
 good, for she had told him that he would 
 have to stay imprisoned until he was ready to 
 make a promise to do better. How could she 
 take the cessation of sobs for repentance?
 
 Sammie's Prayer. 15 
 
 He must say he would be good. So she 
 nervously dusted and set in order the room, 
 lingering now here and now there, so as to be 
 ready to open the door as soon as the boy 
 should confess his naughtiness. Her heart 
 was aching now and it was hard work to keep 
 back the tears. What would a real mother 
 do? Would his own mother have punished 
 him so? A choking lump came into her 
 throat ; still, she could not allow him to fly into 
 such tempests. He must learn to control him- 
 self. And so reasoning the pros and cons of 
 the case, with her heart all the time crying out 
 for the boy, she loitered in the room. 
 
 At last a weak, tired little voice with the 
 sobs still echoing in it called through the 
 door: "I will be good, Aunty," — a sob — "I 
 will be good." A sob — but stifled now. In- 
 stantly the door was opened and in a moment 
 more the child was nestling in his foster 
 mother's arms. And she was whispering in 
 his ear: "Aunty is so glad to have her boy 
 back again. She was so sorry to have to pun- 
 ish him." The child made no reply, but clung 
 closer to her; his lip still trembled; the sobs, 
 coming now and then as she rocked him to 
 and fro, grew fainter and fainter; the loving
 
 1 6 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 arms that were clasped around her neck 
 gently relaxed their hold, and soon the quiet, 
 peaceful breathing told that the child, ex- 
 hausted by his emotions, was asleep. Nature 
 had come to his rescue and was undoing the 
 mischief done by the poisoning of his blood 
 with the violent excitement of the previous 
 hour. Gently the aunt laid the limp little 
 body on a cot, and, bending over him, she ten- 
 derly kissed the tear-stained face. For, as I 
 have said before, she was a good woman and 
 she dearly loved the child. 
 
 When he awoke an hour afterward, re- 
 freshed and renewed by his nap, all traces of 
 the storm had passed away, and the two spent 
 a happy day together. 
 
 That evening when the little white-robed 
 form, kneeling before her with his face bur- 
 ied in her lap, had finished his "Now I lay me 
 down to sleep," she leaned over and said: 
 "Doesn't my little boy want to ask God to 
 help him to keep from being naughty any 
 
 -in 
 
 more r 
 
 The small head bowed a little lower. The 
 child's body trembled slightly, but he re- 
 mained silent.
 
 Sammie's Prayer. 17 
 
 The aunt waited. She must help him to con- 
 fess his sin. He had acted wrongly and he 
 must ask God to forgive him. This would 
 help to impress the lesson on him. 
 
 Blind soul! She knew not what she was 
 doing! She waited. Still the little figure 
 kneeled before her, with his face hidden in his 
 hands and buried on her lap. She gently laid 
 her hand upon his head, and, bending lower, 
 whispered: "Can't my darling ask God to 
 help him to be a good boy?" 
 
 Again a tremor passed over him. Then 
 in a low, timid voice he said: "Please God, 
 make Sammie to be a good boy." Then, as if 
 the flood of recollection of the morning were 
 too much for him, he added in a tone that 
 rang with the intensity of his petition : "And, 
 O God, please don't let Aunt Betty speak that 
 way to me any more !" 
 
 The scales fell from her eyes. And with 
 the tears streaming down her cheeks she 
 picked him up, and as she kissed him again 
 and again she told him that she would ask 
 God that night to help her to be hereafter a 
 good aunt and to refrain from ever speaking 
 crossly to him again. 
 
 Do you wonder, my reader, that alone in
 
 1 8 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 my room that night I prayed: "O God, O 
 God, help me never again to cause one of Thy 
 little ones to stumble and fall?"
 
 THE BOY WHO HATED SCHOOL. 
 
 "Oh! Mamma! Do I have to go to school 
 this afternoon." The words were uttered in 
 such a tone of desperation that I looked up 
 quickly from my book to the tall overgrown 
 boy of eleven who stood nervously twisting 
 his cap in his hands while he shifted awk- 
 wardly from one foot to the other. The 
 length of his arms and legs in proportion to 
 the rest of his body told my practiced eyes 
 that the surge within preparatory to the com- 
 ing manhood had already begun. Nature was 
 putting forth her utmost effort to increase the 
 boy's height before the final miracle of adoles- 
 cence should demand all his vitality. Almost 
 every atom of his strength was being used in 
 this rapid physical growth. 
 
 His mother looked puzzled and somewhat 
 perplexed as she replied, "Of course you must 
 go to school, my son. You are not ill, are 
 you?" "No," answered the boy with a sigh. 
 "Wish I was sick!" Then he burst out with 
 "I hate school ! I wish I never had to go to 
 school another day!" The mother rose and 
 
 19
 
 20 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 going over to where he stood laid her hand 
 gently on his brow. The expression of 
 anxiety left her face. "You have no fever. 
 Why don't you want to go to school?" 
 
 "Oh! I don't know!" answered the boy, 
 and he twisted himself away from her caress- 
 ing hand. Already the fast approaching man- 
 hood within him was rejecting the caress 
 which his childhood had loved. Then he 
 added in an undertone, "I hate school and I 
 hate my teacher !" "Well, we won't talk any 
 more about it," said his mother. "Your chief 
 duty in life just now is to go to school. I am 
 sorry you do not like it. But you must learn 
 to do your duty whether you like it or not. 
 So run along now, else you will be late." 
 
 The boy drew his cap down on his head 
 with a gesture of impatience, and turned to 
 leave the room. As he did so a wave of an- 
 guish swept over his face. In a moment more 
 he had slammed the front door and was on his 
 way to the dreaded schoolroom. "I don't 
 know what is the matter with Roger," said 
 the mother, turning to me. "He is such a 
 good-natured boy usually. I never heard him 
 speak so before. Something must be going 
 wrong with him."
 
 The Boy Who Hated School. 21 
 
 "Perhaps the something wrong is with the 
 teacher," I suggested, for I knew the shy, 
 sensitive boy well and dearly loved him. The 
 mother still looked perplexed and walked in- 
 stinctively to the window as if to get a solu- 
 tion of the trouble by watching the fast re- 
 ceding form of her son. 
 
 We were silent. Then I said, "I have noth- 
 ing special to do this afternoon. How would 
 it do for me to go up to the school and look 
 over the ground?" "I wish you would," she 
 replied. "I would go with you if I did not 
 have an important engagement for the after- 
 noon." 
 
 Inside of half an hour I opened the school- 
 room door. Being an entire stranger to the 
 teacher, I merely nodded and sat down in the 
 visitor's chair. My boy friend blushed, looked 
 uncomfortable and fastened his eyes on the 
 page of his open book. He was, as I have 
 said, a shy, sensitive boy, and I surmised that 
 he feared my visit might in some way make 
 him conspicuous. But I was on my guard and 
 merely glanced at him as I did at the rest of 
 the fifty children who were crowded into the 
 hot, ill-ventilated room. The class which was 
 reciting resumed its work. The lesson was
 
 22 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 finished and the pupils were sent to their seats 
 to copy something from the blackboard. 
 Then a lesson in oral spelling was begun with 
 the class to which my boy belonged. The 
 color came and went in his delicate face. I 
 knew a trial was coming and that it would be 
 all the harder because I was there. I tried to 
 smile encouragingly for a moment and then to 
 look in another direction. My hasty glance 
 toward him, however, showed me that the boy 
 was half sick with dread. The teacher was a 
 bright, wide-awake young woman with lots of 
 "go" in her. In a quick, alert voice she said, 
 "Come now ! All books put away. We'll see 
 who can remember yesterday's lesson! Let's 
 be quick!" and she began giving out some 
 words from a slip of paper which she held in 
 her hand. Each child rose promptly and stood 
 beside his desk as he spelled the word given 
 him. The work progressed briskly until it 
 came to my boy. 
 
 The next word on her list was pronounced 
 quickly by the teacher. Roger looked at her, 
 turned red in the face, then slowly disentan- 
 gling his long legs from the iron rod under the 
 seat, he managed to get into the aisle holding 
 tenaciously to his desk with the grip of a
 
 The Boy Who Hated School. 23 
 
 drowning man, and, covered with confusion, 
 spelled the word. 
 
 "Well! children! Look at Roger! He has 
 actually found that there are some feet at the 
 end of his legs! He is standing on them! 
 Really, Roger, I congratulate you, that you 
 didn't try to spell sitting down to-day!" The 
 other boys grinned. The little girls tittered. 
 And Roger — poor Roger — stung by her 
 thoughtless sarcasm and realizing that he was 
 an object of ridicule to his comrades, dropped 
 into his seat utterly wretched. There was no 
 more concentrating for work that afternoon. 
 He paid no further attention to what was 
 going on, but looked hopelessly out of the 
 window as a prisoner might have looked 
 through the iron bars of his cell. When it 
 was again his turn to spell he merely shook 
 his head and the word was passed on to the 
 next child. The lesson ended, the class was 
 told to take out its drawing material and com- 
 plete the sketch begun the day before. Roger 
 was passionately fond of drawing, and was at 
 work with his pencil half his time at home, 
 but his hand moved listlessly over the paper 
 now. Occasionally it stopped entirely. He 
 was so unhappy that he could not work, even
 
 24 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 at his beloved sketching. Several times he 
 looked up longingly at the clock to see if his 
 torture for that day was not over. Once or 
 twice he chanced to meet the eye of some 
 other child. Each time he blushed furiously 
 and a flash of pain darted over his face. Once 
 or twice he wiped his brow in a weary, dis- 
 couraged way. The brisk young teacher, 
 apparently blind to the boy's condition, 
 walked up this aisle and down that, speaking 
 cheerily, and in that pleasant tone of voice 
 which young teachers think they must use. 
 
 Once or twice she tried to converse with 
 me. But I answered in monosyllables. I, too, 
 was watching the slow-crawling hand of that 
 old clock. Why wouldn't it mark half-past 
 three, so that my boy could go and I could 
 free my mind? I knew she was young. I 
 knew she was inexperienced. I knew she did 
 not realize what she had done. Had she 
 struck Roger in the presence of all the chil- 
 dren I could have forgiven her more easily. 
 I understand now what George Eliot meant 
 when she said, "Blows are but sarcasms 
 turned stupid." My dear, sensitive, shy 
 Roger ! Every inch of him a gentleman ! No 
 wonder that he hated her and hated his school 
 life. I almost hated her myself.
 
 The Boy Who Hated School. 25 
 
 I recalled Froebel's words, "Ask every 
 true school-child with what feeling he ap- 
 proached the schoolhouse, and still more with 
 what feeling he entered it; how he felt more 
 or less keenly each day as if he had entered 
 into a higher spiritual world — the faith and 
 trust with which the child enters school ac- 
 complishes everything." Then I found my 
 wrath beginning to change into pity for the 
 young teacher who had not yet learned that 
 her vocation was one of the divinest on earth ; 
 who still thought that keeping order, and 
 teaching text-books were her chief duties! 
 Poor thing! She was in the midst of a soul- 
 garden and did not know it! Life was offer- 
 ing her some of its richest, rarest joys, its 
 greatest opportunities, and she saw them not ! 
 Therefore, by the time school session had 
 come to its close I was in a softened mood to- 
 ward her. I nodded to Roger to go on home 
 without me. I wanted to talk to her. 
 
 When we were alone, she moved about 
 cheerfully picking up the debris which a day's 
 work inevitably leaves behind it. Soon she 
 said, "Are you interested in any of the chil- 
 dren here." "I am interested in all children," 
 I replied. "Are you a teacher?" She asked.
 
 7.6 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 (At least she recognized that this is the senti- 
 ment which a teacher should express.) "Yes," 
 I answered, "I have taught twenty years. It 
 is a glorious work, isn't it? It grows more 
 glorious each year, doesn't it?" I purposely 
 spoke as I did. I wanted to awaken her. 
 She looked at me a little curiously, and then 
 said, "Oh, I don't know. Sometimes I get 
 very tired." I liked her frankness. It rang 
 true. I at least would not have wounded 
 vanity and deceit to deal with. 
 
 "Yes, I know," I replied. "We all get tired 
 sometimes. You were tired to-day." Her 
 eyes opened with alarm. "How did you know 
 that?" she exclaimed, then added anxiously, 
 "Did my work show fatigue?" "No," I an- 
 swered, rising instinctively and going close 
 enough to take one of her hands in mine. 
 "Your face shows me that you have a best 
 self, and I knew you could not be your best 
 self when you needlessly caused a child to suf- 
 fer acute anguish!" "What do you mean?" 
 she cried. Then we sat down together and I 
 told her of the scene in Roger's home, of the 
 cause of my visit, and of the suffering which 
 her thoughtless words had brought to a deli- 
 cate, sensitive, misunderstood child. Before
 
 The Boy Who Hated School. 27 
 
 we had finished the tears were rolling down 
 her cheeks; and both her hands were holding 
 mine as she said, "Oh, I thank you, I thank 
 you so much for telling me all this. I did not 
 mean to hurt the boy. I do want to do the 
 right thing by all my children ! Oh, I shall 
 never again call a child stupid. How could I 
 have been so blind! So cruel!" I saw that 
 she had the right kind of stuff in her, and, 
 with a few words of encouragement, I left. A 
 week or two after that I called at the school 
 again, and somehow it seemed to me that the 
 young teacher's face had taken on some new 
 and beautiful lines. Anyhow, Roger looked 
 up with a pleased smile, and I thought, "One 
 less unhappy child in the world, thank God!"
 
 LITTLE MARY. 
 
 It happened in broad daylight, in a city 
 park, with scores of people passing to and 
 fro — yet only I and the one little child knew 
 what took place. There were three women in 
 the group and about ten or twelve children. 
 The latter varied in age from two boys of 
 twelve or thirteen on down, through several 
 girls of nine and ten and boys of six and eight, 
 to one wee four-year-old girl. Their baskets 
 and boxes and glass jars filled with potato 
 salad, milk, cold coffee and like delectables 
 told the casual observer that they were out 
 for a picnic supper in the park, while the sym- 
 pathetic observer knew that here were three 
 mothers wise enough to plan for and share in 
 their children's holiday larks. One knew from 
 the joy on the children's faces that there had 
 been elaborate planning of the day, and the 
 glee of packing the baskets, and distributing 
 the parcels, and deciding who was careful 
 enough to be trusted with the jar of milk, and 
 who should carry the tin coffee-pot (the choic- 
 est and most honorable part of the outfit, as 
 could easily be seen from the air of impor- 
 
 28
 
 Little Mary. 29 
 
 tance of the boy who triumphantly swung it 
 along). There would be revenous appetites 
 by six o'clock, so there was a goodly supply of 
 baskets, pails, boxes, etc. They had seated 
 themselves on the steps of the Museum to 
 rest a bit when the child tragedy I am about 
 to describe took place. 
 
 It was the little four-year-old girl who was 
 the heroine of this every-day drama of mis- 
 understood childhood. Her older brother had 
 seated himself on the steps above the rest of 
 the group. He was the one hero in all the 
 world to her, most to be admired and imi- 
 tated. She was seated next to her mother, but 
 her eyes traveled longingly up to the more ex- 
 alted seat occupied by her big brother. Her 
 mother's attention was obscured by some con- 
 versation with one of the other women. The 
 child looked longingly up to where her 
 brother was exultingly tossing his arms to and 
 fro in the mad ecstacy of freedom. Then she 
 looked at her mother and began: "Mamma, 
 Mamma, Mamma, I'm going up to where 
 Brother is." 
 
 The mother paid no attention to the utter- 
 ance of aspiration on the part of her daugh- 
 ter, although each time that the word "Mam-
 
 30 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 ma" was drawled out it was accompanied by a 
 yanking of the mother's dress. There was a 
 pause on the part of the child, indicating, if I 
 read her face aright, a few moments of inde- 
 cision. Should she obey the law, or should 
 she assert her freedom? 
 
 Then the brother from the vantage ground 
 above began kicking his legs out into the air 
 in added token of the delights of superior 
 freedom. This was too much; the four-year- 
 old prisoner began pulling again at the invis- 
 ible ball and chain that held her to her 
 mother's side, and again came the drawling 
 protest, now a little fretful: "Mamma, Mam- 
 ma, Mamma, I'm going up where Brother is." 
 
 This time the mother turned her head long 
 enough to say: "No, sit still," and then she 
 turned again to the interesting conversation 
 with her neighbors. 
 
 The child sat still for a minute or two, and 
 then there slowly crept over her face a look of 
 determination. The battle between liberty and 
 authority had been fought and personal free- 
 dom had won. No matter what the risk might 
 be, she had made up her mind that she was go- 
 ing to find out how it felt to sit away high up, 
 above all the people, and to toss out her arms
 
 Little Mary. 31 
 
 and kick out her legs just as Brother was 
 doing. She knew it was wrong, dreadfully 
 wrong. Her look of fear as she glanced up 
 toward her mother's face showed that, but 
 an exultant shout from Brother above ban- 
 ished all doubt as to the desirability of the 
 deed she was contemplating. The one remain- 
 ing question was how to do it. 
 
 She began slowly and softly edging away 
 from her mother, while her face flushed guilt- 
 ily. Her eyes never once left their furtive 
 watch of her mother, and it was well for the 
 success of her plans that she was on her guard 
 for she had not slipped more than three inches 
 away before the mother's hand reached out to 
 her and caught hold of her dress, while the 
 mother's voice said : "Sit still, Mary !" though 
 she did not turn her head toward the child. 
 She was talking with her friend, and did not 
 wish to be interrupted, but the autocratic man- 
 ner in which she reached out her hand and 
 physically restrained the restless little one, as 
 well as the mechanical way in which she said: 
 "Sit still, Mary," spoke volumes to me of past 
 restraints and disregard of childish longings. 
 It told me that a hundred times before she 
 had said: "No, sit still, Mary," and little
 
 32 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 Mary's conduct proved that she understood 
 the situation, and had many a time before 
 won her own way by strategy when she could 
 not win it by fair play. 
 
 She sat motionless until the mother's hand 
 relaxed its hold on her dress. But no cat ever 
 watched more intently the hole in the floor 
 from which the rat was expected to emerge 
 than Mary watched for the relaxing of the 
 mother's hold. It came in a few minutes, as 
 the child knew it would come. Then she 
 quietly slipped the folds of her skirt from the 
 forgetting fingers and edged another inch 
 away. The guilty look on her face showed 
 that she had now consciously begun her down- 
 ward career of disobedience to authority. She 
 did not now look at Brother — her whole mind 
 was absorbed in escaping from her mother, 
 or, to put it a little more comprehensively, es- 
 caping from an intolerable condition of bond- 
 age. She paused, then came another inch of 
 space between her and her mother, and an 
 equal widening of the breach of that inner 
 world which cannot be measured by inches; 
 for an expression of defiance now began to 
 show itself. She had dared to resist authority; 
 now she was losing her respect for it. The
 
 Little Mary. 33 
 
 space soon widened into a foot or more. Still 
 she unconsciously held on to the edge of the 
 step. The child waited a few seconds, then 
 silently and slyly placed her hands on the step 
 above and lifted her body up to it without 
 actually rising to her feet. A flash of triumph 
 on her face showed that she had discovered 
 the right method of escape. She looked quick- 
 ly around to the right and left to be sure that 
 nobody was watching her. Then by the same 
 subtle movement she lifted herself to the next 
 step. All this was done silently, with many 
 furtive glances at the mother, yet with an air 
 of exultant, almost revengeful, triumph which 
 told the student of child-life that her con- 
 science was crying out: "It's wrong, it's 
 wrong, it's wrong," while every other atom of 
 her being was answering: "I don't care; I'm 
 going to do it." She soon reached the longed- 
 for place of exaltation. She was now on the 
 same step with her brother, but about ten feet 
 away from where he sat. He was looking 
 the other way. The mother was still uncon- 
 scious of her daughter's rebellion and escape. 
 The other children were occupied in various 
 ways. She had not been missed by any of 
 them.
 
 34 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 The loneliness of her new position suddenly 
 overcame her (as it has many older sisters of 
 her race who have defied the family authority 
 and insisted in climbing as high as their broth- 
 ers had climbed) . The daring was gone now. 
 The gleam of defiance faded out of her face. 
 She coyly slid along until she was near enough 
 to her brother to nestle down close beside him. 
 Then her whole attitude changed; she at once 
 became distinctly feminine, the old-fashioned 
 feminine at that. She caressingly put her lit- 
 tle hand coaxingly against her brother's 
 cheek. No word could have said more plain- 
 ly: "I am cold and lonely. Brother, dear, 
 open your arms and give me shelter." But 
 what did the brother do ? He instantly joined 
 the vast army of misunderstanders and rudely 
 pushed her away. He then rose in his manly 
 dignity and appealed to the only court of law 
 that either of them knew anything about. He 
 shouted out: "Mamma, Mary has come up 
 here!" 
 
 The child's lip trembled, and her eyes filled 
 with tears. She had so hoped he would ap- 
 preciate her hard-won battle and take her in 
 as sharer of his freedom. It was a moment of 
 despair.
 
 Little Mary. •* 35 
 
 Then the shout was repeated: "Mamma, 
 Mary has come up here." 
 
 This time it had an indignant ring in it, and 
 the mother turned her head. "Mary," she 
 called, "come here this minute !" 
 
 Mary rose, turned her back and rapidly 
 mounted to the topmost step. The fight was 
 on now, and she might as well go as far as 
 possible. She was a fugitive fleeing from 
 justice. The mother rose angrily and started 
 up the steps. The child gave one look back 
 over her shoulder and fled through the open 
 door of the Museum, into the arms of a big, 
 gruff-voiced man in blue uniform and brass 
 buttons. Polyphemus embodied no more the 
 brute force of a giant to poor Ulysses crouch- 
 ing in the darkened cave than did this rough, 
 unknown shape terrify the frightened child. 
 She was altogether too much excited to detect 
 the kindly humor under his loud words : 
 "Here ! here ! You little runaway ! What 
 are you doing in here !" He grabbed her up 
 and brought her back to her mother, who had 
 now reached the top step, panting and out of 
 breath. 
 
 The child's face was pale with fright. No 
 words escaped her lips, but she looked plead-
 
 36 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 ingly, helplessly up into her mother's face. 
 The hour of repentance and reconciliation 
 had come. The awful escape from that dark 
 room and the terrible giant had quenched the 
 last flickering flame of independence. It 
 seemed to me that a heart of stone would 
 have felt the child's anguish. But the mother 
 was angry. Besides, the neighbors had wit- 
 nessed it all. What could be harder to bear? 
 She saw not the white face turned mutely to- 
 ward her, nor did she notice the trembling of 
 the little body, terrified with fright. She 
 seized the child by one arm, and, giving her a 
 hard shaking, she dragged her down the stone 
 steps, adding to the humiliation of the scene 
 by saying loud enough for whoever would to 
 hear : "You are a bad, naughty girl ! I wish I 
 had left you at home ! You shall not come 
 with us to the park any more." Yet she was 
 apparently a good woman, with a kindly ex- 
 pression of face in general — but how could 
 she stand having her neighbors see her four- 
 year-old child defy her? 
 
 In the meantime the scene had focused 
 upon the culprit the eyes of the entire world 
 (the people on the steps were the entire world 
 to the child just at that moment). Then, to
 
 Little Mary. 37 
 
 add to her torture, the little brother, whom 
 five minutes before she had fondly tried 
 to caress, now openly jeered at her, and the 
 other children tittered! The sensitive face 
 hardened. If she were denounced by her own 
 family as a criminal she would be a criminal. 
 By the time they had reached the picnic group 
 at the foot of the steps she was sullen and 
 silent. So when her mother picked her up 
 and sat her down, somewhat emphatically, in 
 the very spot from which she had made the 
 escape, not a muscle in her face moved. She 
 might have been made of wood or stone, so 
 entirely devoid was she of any trace of emo- 
 tion. 
 
 "There, now, you sit there !" commanded 
 the mother as she smoothed down her dress — 
 a gesture which I have observed when women 
 are smoothing down their tempers. Then, 
 turning to the women, she took up again 
 the interesting conversation which had been 
 interrupted. 
 
 The child sat motionless for a short time. 
 Then she deliberately rose, her small body 
 involuntarily straightened itself to its full 
 height, her lips pressed together, and her 
 hands doubled into small, defiant fists. She no
 
 38 Misunderstood Children 
 
 longer looked at her mother or, for that mat- 
 ter, at any one else. She had been publicly dis- 
 graced — what cared she for public opinion 
 now? Carrying her body as a daughter of 
 the Pharaohs might have borne herself, she 
 deliberately ascended the steps to the very 
 top without once looking around. Reaching 
 once more the topmost step, she relaxed some- 
 what and stood there as if expecting some 
 awful doom. 
 
 The mother was seemingly unconscious of 
 her absence, but the lynx-eyed brother bawled 
 out: "Mamma, Mary has gone up to the top 
 again." The mother gave no heed, but the 
 child at the top of the steps did. Casting one 
 look of scorn upon the tale-bearer, she 
 walked across the broad landing and out on 
 to the high parapet which rose perpendicu- 
 larly twelve feet above the ground. At this 
 the brother fairly shrieked to his mother: 
 "Mamma, Mamma, look at Mary!" 
 
 All eyes turned once more upon the child, 
 who stood boldly outlined against the blue 
 sky. When she saw that she had gained the 
 attention of her scornful public she deliber- 
 ately stood on one leg and hopped up and 
 down, coming nearer and nearer to the edge
 
 Little Mary. 39 
 
 of the parapet. She was openly defying that 
 public in reckless disregard of what the conse- 
 quence might be to her. Ah ! how many out- 
 cast sisters had done the same before. The 
 mother, with a cry of real alarm, sprang up 
 the steps and rushed out onto the parapet. 
 
 There was no mute appeal on the child's 
 face now. She had shown her disregard of 
 both public and family condemnation, and was 
 willing to take the consequences. She stood 
 calmly awaiting arrest, her eyes twinkling 
 with satisfaction over the disturbance she had 
 created. So when the mother again shook 
 her and called her a troublesome, naughty girl 
 she merely laughed a hard little laugh, and let 
 herself be once more dragged down the steps. 
 At this juncture one of the women proposed 
 that the party should move on. Baskets and 
 boxes, hats and wraps were gathered up and 
 the group passed out of sight, the first mother 
 holding the four-year-old firmly by the hand. 
 
 But the child's face did not change its look 
 of defiant amusement. 
 
 And so we go on, making and marring the 
 "God-image" in the young children intrusted 
 to our care.
 
 THE TWINS. 
 
 "No, I never allow fairy tales to be read to 
 my children. I do not believe in such non- 
 sense. There are plenty of common-sense 
 facts to be taught children. There is no need 
 whatever of wasting their time on imaginary 
 things. I simply will not allow it." 
 
 The last words were uttered with an icy 
 precision as she drew her handsome wrap 
 a trifle closer around well-shaped shoul- 
 ders and settled herself back in her chair on 
 the hotel veranda. It was evidently the case 
 of an immovable conviction against which an 
 irresistible argument could battle forever in 
 vain. I looked from the cold face of this ele- 
 gantly attired, self-satisfied woman to the col- 
 orless but very proper twins who sat on the 
 hotel veranda steps instead of on chairs, while 
 they watched the other children dig in the 
 sand or sail mimic boats or run up and down 
 the beach, bare-headed and bare-legged, 
 shouting for the sheer joy of shouting. 
 
 I had watched the life of the twins every 
 day for a week. They came into the dining 
 
 40
 
 The Twins. 41 
 
 room, always walking demurely beside their 
 English governess, who was just a little prim- 
 mer and stiffer than they. She was forty and 
 they were but ten years old. Their flaxen 
 hair was always parted and scrupulously 
 brushed flat to their heads and plaited in two 
 stiff, hard, little plaits, tied with narrow black 
 ribbon. Their blue gingham dresses were 
 made from the same pattern and as simply as 
 was possible, and always starched and clean, 
 painfully clean. Even their heavy, heelless 
 shoes were exactly alike. When they stood 
 with their backs to you it was impossible to 
 tell which was Anna and which was Harriet. 
 When you viewed their profiles you discovered 
 that Anna's nose was somewhat sharper than 
 that of her sister. They had been trained to 
 speak with exceeding correctness and their 
 voices were as lifeless as are the mechanical 
 voices one hears from a good phonograph. So 
 far as I had followed it, their conversation 
 consisted of "Yes, Miss Myrten," or "Yes, 
 Mamma," or "Miss Myrten, may I have an- 
 other glass of milk," or "Miss Myrten, may I 
 walk off the gravel?" or some similar com- 
 monplace, until I had begun to doubt whether 
 they had any inner souls. They had seem-
 
 42 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 ingly never had any provocation to deepen 
 or raise the pitch of their voices or to in- 
 tensify the tone. Little did I dream of their 
 dramatic power that was soon to be revealed 
 to me ! 
 
 Each morning, when the rest of the chil- 
 dren started for their surf bath, Anna and 
 Harriet had their lesson in English history 
 with their governess. Not that their physical 
 well-being was neglected. Oh, no ! Each 
 afternoon, when the bathhouses were de- 
 serted, they were taken down to the beach by 
 Miss Myrten. They were allowed to re- 
 main in the warm sea water just nine minutes 
 by her watch, which she held in her hand 
 from the time they stepped out of the bath- 
 house to the minute when in calm, unruffled, 
 but not-to-be-disobeyed tones she called out, 
 "Come, Anna, the time is up." Sometimes 
 Harriet took a longing look at the slow roll- 
 ing of an oncoming wave, but Anna always 
 stepped out of the water in instant obedience 
 to the call, as if the sea and air meant no 
 more to her than did the English his- 
 tory or the botany lessons. I forgot to 
 state that their regular afternoon tramp 
 of a mile and a half was always accompanied 
 by a botany lesson as lifeless and as devoid
 
 The Twins. 43 
 
 of interest as was the face of the governess. 
 They were laboriously compiling an herb- 
 arium and committing to memory the names 
 of each of the plants they pressed, dried and 
 mounted. A revelation was to come, but not 
 yet. 
 
 One Sunday afternoon a group of chil- 
 dren gathered around an enterprising boy 
 who was performing what to them was a 
 wonderful trick of balancing one nail on the 
 head of another. The twins were watching. 
 Harriet's face brightened a bit. "Mamma," 
 she said, turning to her mother, "is it wrong 
 to balance one nail on another on Sunday?" 
 The mother merely answered without look- 
 ing up, "I am reading now, Harriet. You 
 must not interrupt me with questions?" Anna 
 frowned a scarcely perceptible frown. The 
 two exchanged looks, but decided to be on the 
 safe side as to Sunday amusements. So Har- 
 riet subsided, smoothed out the slightly dis- 
 arranged skirt of her gingham dress and 
 dropped her hands idly into her lap. They 
 returned to their motionless watching of the 
 other children as each took turn in trying to 
 make the one nail rest in a horizontal position 
 on the head of the other. 
 4
 
 44 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 All clapped their hands and shouted with 
 childish delight at the end of each experiment, 
 whether it succeeded or failed. For was it 
 not the effort they enjoyed rather than the re- 
 sult? The twins did not stir from the upper 
 step on which they were seated, but their eyes 
 followed admiringly the movements of the 
 group below. Once Anna glanced up at their 
 mother. Was there a gleam of resentment in 
 her eye? It could not have been! I must 
 have been mistaken, for the next instant she 
 was gazing at the sea with the usual expres- 
 sion of ennui on her face, as if nothing in life 
 mattered much. "You poor, lifeless, little 
 creatures," I thought, as I turned back to my 
 book again. 
 
 The next day was one of those dreary 
 wastes of leaden sky and leaden sea, with the 
 atmosphere between so saturated with fog 
 that it too weighed with leaden-like depres- 
 sion upon one's spirits. All the men had gone 
 off fishing and the women had retired to their 
 rooms to write letters or read light novels. 
 The children alone retained their life and vi- 
 tality. A group of them took possession of 
 the veranda just outside of my window. The 
 hotel-keeper's nine-year-old daughter was evi-
 
 The Twins. 45 
 
 dently the leader. "Let's play house," she ex- 
 claimed. "Now, I'll be hotel-keeper and you 
 and Harris (aged eight and two, respective- 
 ly) must go round the corner there, and that's 
 your house." "Now, Annie, you and Sara 
 must be my hired help and we'll be getting the 
 hotel ready for summer boarders." All joined 
 in eagerly and then followed the overturning 
 of veranda chairs to make hotel rooms, halls, 
 office and dining room. One or two more chil- 
 dren, attracted by the noise and hustle, joined 
 the group and were appointed to their role of 
 summer boarders or hired help as seemed best 
 to the self-appointed leader. (For that matter 
 are not all leaders among children self-ap- 
 pointed?) "Now you must write, and then 
 you must telegraph to know if I can let you 
 have a room." This to the eight-year-old 
 whose head was inquisitively protruding from 
 around the corner. "Dear, me ! I must go 
 to town for some soap ! Some people are so 
 fussy about their soap." Her assumed tone 
 of vexation told volumes of the petty annoy- 
 ances to which the eccentricities of city board- 
 ers had put her maternal relative. The new 
 arrivals began to appear and were hustlingly 
 shown to their rooms, and left there with the
 
 4-6 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 parting injunction, "Ring for the maid if you 
 need anything." Then another child would 
 be hastily pressed into role of maid. 
 
 u Ting-a-ling, ling," called the eight-year- 
 old from over the walls of her upturned chair. 
 "Bring me a pitcher of hot water," she said 
 with haughty air to the new maid. "I wish 
 to give my child a baarth." This was said 
 with a clever mimicry of the drawl of some 
 fine ladies. "Has the baarthtub been washed 
 out?" she drawled again. "Yes, marm." 
 "Are there plenty of towels?" "Yes, marm," 
 mumbled the maid, assuming at once an ex- 
 pression of hopeless dullness. "Ve'y well," 
 drawled the fine lady. "You may clean up 
 my room while I am out." At this, up 
 bobbed the young mistress of the hostelry. 
 "The maid has to take care of the parlor and 
 halls," she exclaimed, in a voice of severe re- 
 proof. "She cannot wait on you." All the 
 child's New England ancestry rebelled, even 
 in play, against this snobbery. The imperious 
 guest subsided. "Oh, well, then," in a concilia- 
 tory tone, "I will get some warm water out of 
 this faucet." Then, with wifely superiority, 
 just tinged with irritability, she turned her 
 head, so to speak, over her shoulder, to an in-
 
 The Twins. 47 
 
 visible husband, "My dear, will you shut that 
 door ! I cannot give the baby his baarth in a 
 draught!" After this there followed the 
 imaginary washing of the face of the two- 
 year-old. "There ! Now you have had a nice 
 fresh baarth. You must lie down until dinner 
 time. Dear! dear! I am so dusty!" From 
 the scrupulous brushing and shaking of skirts 
 that followed, I surmised an overly clean, 
 lervous mamma was her type of ideal woman- 
 hood. Going to the edge of the overturned 
 chair (the supposed door of her room), she 
 called out in a querulous tone, "Is dinner 
 ready?" "No," shortly answered the land- 
 lady from the space formed by the next over- 
 turned chair. "We have dinner at twelve 
 o'clock in this house !" Then, in an entire 
 change of tone, "Dear! dear! dear! I forgot 
 the crackers for dinner ! Here, Sallie, you run 
 down to the store and get some quick !" 
 
 The tribulations of hotel-keeping pro- 
 ceeded. "Madam," called out the discon- 
 tented city boarder, will you have one of the 
 maids bring a cup of cocoa to my room? I 
 must feed my baby." 
 
 All her thoughts seemed to center around 
 her baby. The little two-year-old was made
 
 48 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 to sit up, to play drinking the cocoa, was taken 
 out for a walk, was given another "baarth," 
 and was, much against his will, made to lie 
 down again "to rest a little after dinner." 
 
 In the meantime the landlady was bustling 
 about, rearranging the rooms (improvised 
 from more chairs dragged from another part 
 of the veranda), dusting and sweeping with 
 maginary brush and broom, ejaculating, part- 
 ly to herself, partly to the maid who acted out 
 her role of slow-witted hired help, by listlessly 
 following her about: "Dear me ! I do hope 
 some more people will come ! We must have 
 all the rooms ready for them." 
 
 And so the play progressed, reproducing 
 the somewhat uneventful life of a respectable 
 seaside hotel on the New England coast, the 
 petty cares of the landlady, clashing now and 
 then with the petty action of the city boarders. 
 
 Suddenly the twins appeared. For a mo- 
 ment they stood mute and demure looking 
 with their usual stolid stare upon the scene. 
 Then Anna stepped to the front. "Oh," she 
 exclaimed, her voice quivering with excite- 
 ment, "Let's play that we've come to the ho- 
 tel, too ! And let's play a robber comes to the 
 hotel and steals our child !" "Here Antony,"
 
 The Twins. 49 
 
 she cried, seizing an eight-year-old boy in 
 Little Lord Fauntleroy finery, "You can be 
 the robber." "Oh, yes," cried Harriet, her 
 eyes shining with the excitement of the occa- 
 sion, "Let's play he chloroforms us! Then 
 steals our child!" The leadership had 
 changed so suddenly from the landlady's prac- 
 tical daughter to the twins that the rest of the 
 children stood open-mouthed, gazing in dis- 
 mayed astonishment at the change in the na- 
 ture of the pastime. 
 
 "Yes," cried Anna, as she pushed first one 
 child and then another into the prospective 
 bedrooms, "Now we will all lie down and 
 pretend to be asleep. And Antony, you must 
 c-r-a-w-1 in at the window and chloroform all 
 of us and then steal our jewels and run away 
 with our baby." "Oh!" interrupted Harriet, 
 "let's have him cut all our throats and the 
 policemen come next morning and find us all 
 dead!" "No," said Anna, decisively, "Some 
 of us must live so as to testify in the court that 
 the jewels are ours. I'll tell you what we'll do. 
 He can cut your throat and chloroform me 
 and then the landlady can wake up the next 
 morning and see the blood trickling from 
 under the door — and come and bang on our
 
 50 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 door, and of course it will be locked. And 
 then the police can break it open and find you 
 dead and me chloroformed, and the window 
 open and the baby gone !" The rapidity with 
 which the thrilling scene was planned, the ex- 
 ultation with which she threw out her arms at 
 the close, showed that it was an old and be- 
 loved plot in her mind. 
 
 I glanced at the other children. They had 
 partly risen from their prostrate positions and 
 sat or crouched in various attitudes, drinking 
 in the horror and the daring of the proposed 
 drama. "Oh, yes," cried Harriet, in ecstacy 
 of delight. "And let's play that you offered a 
 thousand dollars reward for the child! And 
 let's play the police found the murderer's 
 bloody tracks on the grass. And — " Here 
 she caught her breath, the scene was so real to 
 her — "let's play that they followed the blood- 
 stained footprints to a cave ! And there they 
 found him crouching in a dark corner with a 
 bowie-knife in his hand! And let's play — " 
 "Harriet," called the voice of Miss Myrten, 
 "it is time for you and Anna to come in for 
 your lessons." 
 
 I sighed — but what could / do ?
 
 FOR FATHER'S AMUSEMENT. 
 
 I was strolling through a neighboring park 
 one breezy September day when it occurred. 
 It took less than ten minutes from beginning 
 to end — but did it end then? 
 
 There had been a shower the night before, 
 and the city's dust had been washed from the 
 air and from leaves on trees and shrubbery. 
 All nature seemed in fine mood and had filled 
 me, along with the rest of the town-imprisoned 
 mortals, with some of her exuberance and life. 
 
 This keen enjoyment of mere existence, 
 which nature alone can give, was particularly 
 noticeable in the bouyant movements of a lit- 
 tle three-year-old child, who was dancing in 
 and out of the shadows of the tall trees, now 
 running, now skipping, now jumping in the 
 joyous exhilaration of mere animal life. Ever 
 and anon he looked back at his father and his 
 father's friend, who were strolling along in a 
 more sedate enjoyment of the fresh air and 
 glittering sunshine. The fact that each of 
 them carried a tennis racket showed that they, 
 too, were out for a holiday. 
 
 51
 
 52 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 The child's delight in all the freshness and 
 freedom about him quickened his senses, as it 
 always will quicken a healthy child. In a few 
 moments his attention was attracted by the 
 bending, swaying branches of a nearby clump 
 of willow trees. The fascination of the lithe, 
 graceful movement of the boughs was so 
 strong that he stopped and stood with up- 
 turned face, gazing at them until the two men 
 approached him. Then catching hold of his 
 father's hand he exclaimed, "See ! see !" point- 
 ing to the nodding tree branches. His face 
 was full of happiness, and his eyes were look- 
 ing into his father's eyes expecting sympathy 
 in this new-found wonder of nature. But the 
 father gave no heed to what was interesting 
 the boy. Instead, he began playfully slapping 
 him on his skirts with the tennis racket, at the 
 same time saying, "Will you be good?" "Will 
 you be good?" "No," answered the child in 
 high glee. It was evidently a familiar pas- 
 time between them. "Will you be good?" re- 
 peated the father, in mock threat lifting the 
 tennis racket as if to strike the child over the 
 head. "No, I won't ! No, I won't !" shouted 
 the boy as he scampered off over the grass. 
 This created a chase in which the father play-
 
 For Father's Amusement. 53 
 
 fully spanked the captured boy as with make- 
 believe wrath he dragged him back to the side- 
 walk. Having returned to the starting point of 
 the chase he released the boy with the words, 
 "There, now, I'll spank you hard if you are 
 not a good boy !" He had scarcely let go his 
 hold on the youngster's arm before the latter 
 again ran off, shouting in high glee, "No, 
 I won't! No, I won't be good!" Again 
 came the chase and again the playful 
 spanking and dragging back and the release 
 with an admonition that he would get a beat- 
 ing this time if he were not a good boy. The 
 tone in which the words were said was an in- 
 vitation to the child to renew the game. 
 
 The third time he started off, however, the 
 other man decided that he, too, would take 
 part in the sport. So he quickly put his tennis 
 racket in front of the boy, thus obstructing 
 his path. The child manfully struggled to push 
 it aside, but could not. Soon his "No, I won't" 
 in answer to his father's "Will you be good?" 
 had in it a note of fretfulness, or, rather, 
 of resentment. He was now contending with 
 two grown men and his strength was not equal 
 to the strain. He pushed angrily against the 
 racket in front while trying at the same time
 
 54 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 to avoid the light blows from the one in the 
 rear. With cat-like agility the man in front 
 would withdraw his obstructing tennis racket 
 until the boy started forward and then check 
 — would come the racket just in front of him. 
 The very movement of his arm was like that 
 of a cat regaining his hold on an escaping 
 mouse. A peal of laughter from him each 
 time he caught the exasperated child showed 
 how much he was enjoying the sport. The 
 father seemed equally amused and joined 
 heartily in thwarting the efforts of the boy to 
 escape. The little fellow's face grew red and 
 he was soon short of breath from his strug- 
 gles, and there was the angry sob of defeat in 
 his voice. The scene ended by the child's 
 getting into a towering rage. 
 
 When they passed out of sight the father 
 had seized him by the arm and was forcing 
 him along, the boy kicking and struggling, 
 but powerless to help himself. The two men 
 were laughing heartily. 
 
 The child's blood had been poisoned by the 
 heat of anger, he had exhausted his physical 
 vitality and his nervous system had been dis- 
 arranged, not to speak of his moral stand- 
 ards — but then, the father and his friend had 
 been amused.
 
 A SUNDAY MORNING DIVERSION. 
 
 It was a warm Sunday morning in June. 
 Fatigued from the taxing work of the day be- 
 fore, I sat idly gazing at the rather unattrac- 
 tive rear view of some three-story flats not 
 more than a hundred feet away. They were 
 flats that rented for "moderate" sums, and 
 consequently were small, with little out-of- 
 door air or sunshine. They presented a 
 monotonous row of narrow back balconies. 
 Each one was enclosed by a wooded railing 
 and had a steep, iron stairway that, curving a 
 little to break the steepness, led down to the 
 balcony below, and from that the smooth con- 
 crete pavement of what might be called out 
 of courtesy, their back yards. 
 
 The scene was not unlike thousands of 
 similar rear views in any large city. My eyes 
 wandered listlessly over the dreary picture, 
 and then came the thought, "What a place in 
 which to bring up a child!" It was the old 
 inner protest that I so often found myself 
 making against the imprisonment of children 
 in the congested parts of great cities, and yet
 
 56 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 — "What are working people to do ?" "They 
 have to live near their work!" was the usual 
 reply when my inner protest voiced itself in 
 words. 
 
 This time, being alone, I did not utter my 
 protest, but began instinctively looking for 
 signs of child-life. There they were, sure 
 enough. An old chair turned on its side had 
 been placed on one upper balcony across the 
 opening made for the iron stairway. Of 
 course, it was put there to keep some child 
 from tumbling downstairs and breaking his 
 collar bone, or, possibly, his neck. Still it was 
 a prison door, which prevented the aspiring 
 young explorer from exerting his God-given 
 right of investigating the world around him, 
 of mastering its obstacles and discovering its 
 laws. I wondered if his mother realized this? 
 I wondered if she gave him the partial com- 
 pensation of going to the market with her ? I 
 wondered if she ever took him to the park for 
 an afternoon's holiday? 
 
 Ah ! there they are now ! The kitchen door 
 had opened and a rather good-looking woman 
 with her hair still in curl papers and wearing 
 a flowered dressing-sacque, came out onto 
 the small porch, followed by a three-year-old
 
 A Sunday Morning Diversion. 57 
 
 boy, dressed in spotless white, with a modish 
 black patent leather belt, short socks and pat- 
 ent leather slippers. 
 
 I had them catalogued before the mother 
 went in and shut the door. She was a young 
 wife, with the bridal days still near enough 
 not to have lost the desire of looking pleasing 
 in the eyes of her husband. The flowered 
 dressing-sacque and hair in curl papers 
 showed that. (Why do women ever grow 
 careless as to their morning attire ? It is one 
 of the priceless gifts they can give to their 
 husbands. A frowzy, dirty-looking woman is 
 enough to take away any man's appetite.) 
 And the boy — he was, in all probability, their 
 first child. Women who live in small, stuffy 
 flats and do all their own housework rarely 
 ever dress a second or third child in spotless 
 white garments with the latest fashionable ad- 
 ditions to the costume. 
 
 I had only a moment in which to ponder 
 over the form of mother love that spent 
 money for a child's clothes and scrimped on 
 air and sunshine. It is such a common mis- 
 take that one learns to expect it. 
 
 The boy soon engaged my attention — he 
 was too bright and active a little fellow to
 
 58 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 stand still long, even if the sunshine were 
 pouring down its glad light upon him. Per- 
 haps that helped to stir the life within him. It 
 does this in plants, — why not in human be- 
 ings ? He raced up and down the ten-by-five- 
 foot balcony several times. Then he worked 
 at the upturned chair which held the gateway 
 to the outside world. Finding that he could 
 not loosen it, however, he soon gave up the 
 effort, good-naturedly enough. It was evi- 
 dently an old experience of his. Then he be- 
 gan climbing up on to the lower horizontal 
 board of the railing that enclosed the little 
 porch. This enabled him to look down to the 
 cement pavement and the alley beyond. He 
 gazed at this larger world for a short time. 
 But normal children are not so constituted 
 that they can be mere spectators. They need 
 to be doing something, to be exercising some 
 power within by using it. So he climbed down 
 and up again, until he had mastered that feat. 
 Then he looked around for some new activity. 
 A tin can stood on the upper railing. He 
 reached for it, held it suspended in the air for 
 a moment, then let it drop and from his 
 mounted position leaned far over the balcony 
 and watched it whirl and whiz through the
 
 A Sunday Morning Diversion. 59 
 
 air, until with a loud clattering noise, it 
 struck the pavement below. Haven't you had 
 the same instinctive impulse to play thus with 
 the law of gravity by dropping a stone from 
 some high place from which you were looking 
 down to some unmeasured depth below? If 
 so, you will understand what followed. You 
 and I are accustomed to the sensation of see- 
 ing objects fall from high places. We know 
 why they do it, and yet we still throw rocks 
 down echoing canons, bits of wood or paper 
 from high bridges. To the boy this was a 
 new and stimulating experience. He danced 
 up and down in glee over it. Then, naturally 
 enough, he wanted to repeat the experiment. 
 He looked around. A broom stood in the 
 corner. He tried to handle that, but it was 
 too much for him. He next stooped over a 
 wooden box to examine the possibilities that it 
 might contain. In a moment more he had 
 climbed on to the lower railing again and was 
 holding high above his head a bottle of beer. 
 Then it went whirling down through space. 
 With a crash of glass and a sputter of beer, it 
 subsided in the concrete below. The little 
 fellow was wild with excitement. The shat- 
 tered glass glistened and gleamed. The beer 
 
 5
 
 60 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 foamed a little from the severe shaking it had 
 received. He leaned farther over the rail- 
 ing and gazed with delight upon the work 
 which his hands had wrought. Then he 
 shouted for joy. Of course, such an exciting 
 experience as this must be repeated. Ask any 
 scientist if he would not reproduce, if he 
 could, any new and hitherto unknown phe- 
 nomenon, which had by accident presented it- 
 self to him in his laboratory work. 
 
 It took but a minute of time to climb down, 
 get another of the beer bottles and send it 
 hurling down, down, down to the concrete 
 pavement below. Then a third bottle was 
 sent after the other two; then a fourth; then 
 a fifth; then a sixth. 
 
 The game was getting exciting. I found 
 myself leaning forward — eagerly anticipating 
 the next and the next. A thrill of the danger 
 of the after consequences intensified my in- 
 terest. But no thought of possible punish- 
 ment was in his mind. He was filled with 
 pure, unadulterated delight. Evidently he had 
 never been allowed to lower an empty spool 
 tied to a string down to the mysterious depths 
 below and then draw it up again at his own 
 sweet pleasure. Apparently this was his first
 
 A Sunday Morning Diversion. 61 
 
 experience in playing with the distance be- 
 tween him and the earth; his first feeling of 
 power over space ! A child instinctively loves 
 to transform the appearance of things. It 
 matters little to him whether the transforma- 
 tion is destructive or constructive. It is the 
 feeling that he has the power to change things 
 that craves satisfaction in outer demonstra- 
 tion. That is why children, when let alone, so 
 often destroy their manufactured toys. Wise 
 is the mother, indeed, who furnishes her child 
 with playthings which can easily be taken to 
 pieces and put together again. Wiser still is 
 the mother who supplies toys which can be 
 transformed into new shapes without injury. 
 But let us come back to our boy. Neither 
 he nor I had time just now for soliloquy or 
 contemplation. The seventh bottle followed 
 the sixth. The eighth quickly followed the 
 seventh. The boy's white skirts fairly switched 
 as he whirled from the beer-case to the rail- 
 ing and from the railing to the beer-case. His 
 excitement was contagious. Would he get the 
 last bottle before a halt was called? was the 
 thought that was uppermost in my mind. Per- 
 haps I ought to have thought of the wasted 
 beer, but I didn't. Why hadn't he been taught
 
 62 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 the right use of high places ? He was merely 
 finding out for himself that which ought to 
 have been taught him long ago. The ninth — 
 tenth — and eleventh bottle followed in quick 
 succession, until at last the twelve lay 
 in a shattered heap at the foot of the stairs, 
 and the boy, flushed with success, leaned far- 
 ther still over the railing in order that he 
 might get a better view of what he had accom- 
 plished. Possibly a dim foreboding of the 
 great law of gravity was stirring the ancestral 
 subconsciousness within him. Perhaps it was 
 the mere joy of doing something that caused 
 him to clap his hands and fairly crow with 
 delight. 
 
 Just at this juncture the mother opened the 
 kitchen door and saw how her child, left to 
 his own resources, had entertained himself. 
 He turned his face toward her and pointing 
 down below called, "Come see !" But she had 
 already seen — from her standpoint — and evi- 
 dently she did not stop to consider his stand- 
 point. She sprang forward, seized him by 
 the arm and exclaimed in a loud, angry voice, 
 Oh, you wretch! What will your father 
 say!" 
 
 A look of bewildered astonishment came on
 
 A Sunday Morning Diversion. 63 
 
 the boy's face. What had he done ? He had 
 merely been amusing himself by testing the 
 velocity of falling bodies and the fragile 
 nature of glass. But there was no time for 
 explanations. He would not have been able 
 to have told her why he had done what he 
 had done if she had given him a chance. As 
 it was, she dragged him into the apartment, 
 slammed the door with a bang, and then soon 
 I heard the long, loud wail of a child's voice, 
 as if in physical pain.
 
 THE GEOGRAPHY LESSON. 
 
 Beta was a dreamy child, one of those chil- 
 dren who seem to live in a world of their own, 
 regardless of the commonplace, everyday 
 things that are going on around them. Her 
 large, dark eyes had a far-away look in them, 
 as if they were seeing all sorts of things that 
 you did not see, and oftentimes her answer to 
 your question or her assent to your plans was 
 given in such a way that you were sure she 
 had not heard a word you had been saying. 
 
 Her brothers were wont to tease her by tell- 
 ing her she had been "wool-gathering." 
 She didn't know just what "wool-gathering" 
 meant, but the tone of derision in which they 
 would say it made her feel that it was a ter- 
 rible fault, to be hidden as much as possible, 
 and of which she ought to be thoroughly 
 ashamed, so she generally answered their ac- 
 cusation with, "I wasn't either, I was just 
 thinking!" This usually brought a shout of 
 laughter on their part, and the deeper accusa- 
 tion, "You couldn't tell to save your life what 
 we were talking about !" And as she couldn't 
 
 64
 
 The Geography Lesson. 6$ 
 
 she usually fled to her room for the relief 
 of tears. Her gentle mother, who real- 
 ized that she must learn the practical side of 
 life also, had frequently begun with these 
 words, "Now, my daughter, listen to what I 
 am saying. It is not well bred to ask an older 
 person to repeat a request." At such times 
 Beta would try her best to forget about the 
 glittering world of fairies and elves, or to 
 stop thinking of how grand St. George must 
 have looked as he galloped forward to kill 
 the horrid dragon and rescue the beautiful 
 princess, or whatever other world of wonder- 
 ful things and heroic people she had been 
 dreaming of and to remember just when 
 mother wanted the baby to be fed, or just 
 what the words were in the message that she 
 was to take to Aunt Sallie on her way to 
 school, for she adoringly admired her gentle 
 mother. Yet she would have submitted to the 
 torture of the rack before she would have re- 
 vealed to this same beloved mother any of her 
 glorious visions. 
 
 Although her mother was to a certain ex- 
 tent responsible for the dream world in which 
 Beta lived, she was a woman of more than the 
 average culture, and had taken refuge in
 
 66 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 books, from the uncongenial surroundings of 
 a small Western town. She was devoted to 
 her children and, naturally, had drawn them 
 into her book-world. Beta's earliest recol- 
 lections were of sitting on the floor at her 
 mother's feet, while Aunt Sallie read Shakes- 
 peare aloud, and her mother's swift needle 
 darted in and out of her sewing. Of 
 course she did not understand it, but the 
 majesty and rhythm of the blank verse fasci- 
 nated her. Every Sunday afternoon since she 
 could remember, the three boys and she had 
 sat listening spell-bound to the mother's Bible 
 stories. She seemed to have had a personal 
 acquaintance, this mother of theirs, with all 
 the old Hebrew prophets, and Beta never 
 questioned her mother's close friendship with 
 Moses and Daniel, her own two favorite 
 Bible heroes. 
 
 (You see she did not have a very clear com- 
 prehension of historic perspective.) Then on 
 week-day evenings they had the old Norse 
 tales of ice caves and giants and bloody 
 battles a thousand years or more old, or 
 the folk stories, gathered from six hun- 
 dred years of myth-making of the Teutonic 
 peoples. Sometimes it was the Aurthurean
 
 The Geography Lesson. 67 
 
 legends, of which her brothers were most 
 fond, but Beta herself loved dear Hans Ander- 
 sen best of all. And often after going to bed 
 she would lie for a long time listening to the 
 stories the moon had to tell, or she would 
 imagine herself riding on the back of the north 
 wind to unknown lands, or playing the part of 
 some other hero or heroine of the dear old 
 Dane. By the time she was eight years old 
 Beta could read fairy tales for herself, and 
 great was her joy when, on her last birthday, 
 because she was eleven years old, her mother 
 had given to her the volume of Homer's 
 "Odyssey," which she herself had read when 
 she was a girl of twelve. She had often told 
 Beta how she had stood beside her mother and 
 read aloud from it while her mother stitched 
 and mended for a family of eleven. They 
 were "Southern gentry," these forefathers of 
 Beta, and had felt that they must have the 
 "world-culture" which their ancestors had 
 had, even if deprived of the leisure of that 
 former time. So Beta's mother had read from 
 Homer and Milton and Shakespeare to her 
 mother when they lived on the old Kentucky 
 farm. Thus you see Beta came legitimately 
 into her love of the heroic and the beautiful,
 
 68 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 and a rich world of romance and adventure 
 it was, peopled with giants and genii, kings 
 and queens, prophets and priests. 
 
 Of course she was very trying to her teach- 
 er, little Miss Simpson, who was honestly 
 striving to earn her thirty-five dollars a month 
 by having the children learn the text-books so 
 thoroughly that they could answer every ques- 
 tion on examination day. It had never en- 
 tered the head of little Miss Simpson that 
 education meant anything else than passing 
 examinations, or that a teacher had other 
 duties than to teach the contents of the text- 
 books which the board of education had se- 
 lected for that year. So don't blame her too 
 severely for what happened one warm June 
 day, when through the open window could be 
 seen the soft white clouds drifting lazily over 
 the blue sky, and when the droning hum of in- 
 sects told plainly of the deliciousness of the 
 out-of-door life. All day it had been hard for 
 Miss Simpson to keep the attention of the chil- 
 dren on their books, and now a geography les- 
 son was in progress. The class were trying to 
 bound the different countries of Europe, con- 
 cerning which they knew but little and cared 
 less. Miss Simpson had been compelled to
 
 The Geography Lesson. 69 
 
 speak twice to Joe Freen about the disturb- 
 ance he was making, and to rebuke Jerry Mac- 
 man for catching flies. Annie Welsh had nod- 
 ded sleepily and had let her book fall out of 
 her hands, and now there sat Beta, staring at 
 the map on the opposite side of the school- 
 room instead of looking at the map in the 
 geography as Miss Simpson had told all the 
 class to do. Then, too, Beta's eyes were lighted 
 with an expression of pleased surprise, so of 
 course she couldn't be thinking of her geog- 
 raphy lesson. Little Miss Simpson was tired 
 and a wee bit nervous, and felt sure Beta 
 would fail in her examination if she did not 
 pay better attention to the bounding of the 
 different countries of Europe. That question 
 was sure to come in the examination. It did 
 every year. So Miss Simpson felt it her duty 
 to say, "Beta, what are you doing?" As I said, 
 she was weary and her voice had just a little 
 edge of annoyance in it. "I — " stammered 
 Beta, "I was watching the Turks carry the lit- 
 ter of the princess to her father's palace." She 
 had been reading in the Arabian Nights the 
 evening before, and now was surprised out of 
 her usual reticence. "You were doing what ?" 
 asked Miss Simpson in wide-eyed astonish-
 
 70 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 ment. She had never heard of Arabian 
 Nights, it was not in her normal school 
 course. Beta was covered with confusion, 
 for now all the school were staring at her, 
 some of them with their mouths open, ready 
 for the laugh that was sure to follow. She 
 gave a swift glance toward the door, then 
 into the faces of the children who were at 
 their desks — she could not see the faces of her 
 classmates. There was no help for it now, she 
 must try to make them understand that she 
 was not dreaming, that she was only thinking 
 of Constantinople and the beautiful church 
 there, and the strange men with the baggy 
 trousers that the moment before her imagina- 
 tion had pictured to her. So she hurried on, 
 suffering acutely as she spoke, "I was looking 
 at the map on the wall and hunting up Con- 
 stantinople, and it all changed into a great city 
 with minarets and tall towers and queer for- 
 eign men in Turkish trousers, and red fezes 
 on their heads, and dogs following at their 
 heels, and — and — " She hesitated, but stum- 
 bled on, "I thought I saw a beautiful princess 
 being carried in a litter, a chair with curtains 
 around it, you know" — She looked up help- 
 lessly at Miss Simpson — " Don't you know
 
 The Geography Lesson. 71 
 
 the kind of a chair they carried Scherara- 
 Zade in when she went to marry the Sultan?" 
 Miss Simpson looked blank. 
 
 "Don't you remember," pleaded Beta, still 
 more confused by the hush that had fallen on 
 the room, "the Sultan whose brother was king 
 of Tartary?" Some boys giggled, Miss 
 Simpson cut her short. "No, I don't remem- 
 ber; besides Tartary hasn't anything to do 
 with bounding the countries of Europe. You 
 would better stop your wool-gathering and 
 pay attention to your lesson if you want to 
 pass the examination." At this all the boys 
 snickered, and some of the girls stuffed their 
 handkerchiefs into their mouths. Beta strug- 
 gled bravely to keep back the tears, and over- 
 whelmed with shame, hung her head, nor did 
 she once again lift it that afternoon. She had 
 not meant to displease her teacher, nor had 
 she known how wrong it was to call up the 
 pictures of the people who lived in the coun- 
 tries one was studying about — you see she was 
 a little mixed as to where the Sassanian Mon- 
 archy was located. But it must have been 
 very wicked, else Miss Simpson would never 
 have said she was "wool-gathering," before 
 all the children ! It was terrible ! Too ter-
 
 72 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 rlble to bear, and she had to bite her lips hard 
 to keep back the quick, hot tears. 
 
 That night, when alone in her little bed- 
 room, with only the stars to listen (she didn't 
 mind them, they were so near God, they must 
 be kind), she poured forth her passionate 
 grief, and kneeling beside her bed she sobbed : 
 
 "Oh, God, dear God, make me to be like 
 other children." Then more pleading. "Oh, 
 God, dear God, don't let me go wool-gath- 
 ering any more ! And please, dear, dear God, 
 don't let me see princes and palaces and things 
 where there is only a cracked wall with a map 
 hanging on it. For Jesus' sake. Amen. 
 
 Then she rose. Somehow she felt as if the 
 dear God would understand that she hadn't 
 meant to do wrong, and that thought com- 
 forted her much.
 
 THE SAND PILE. 
 
 It was a warm summer afternoon and, just 
 recovering from a headache, I sat listlessly 
 at my window, too weary to attempt any 
 work, too indolent to seek any amusement. 
 My eyes drifted aimlessly over the familiar 
 scene of an empty lot, and on beyond to a 
 new house which had recently shut out my 
 view of a busy thoroughfare. 
 
 I had been detained in the city that summer 
 by some necessary work, and my soul was in 
 a state of rebellion. I wanted the mountain- 
 tops with their exhilarating air and ever- 
 changing marvel of outline and color, vary- 
 ing each hour with every change in the at- 
 mosphere ! I longed for that thrill of free- 
 dom which comes with the vast stretches of 
 level prairie, where, 
 
 "There are no hills, although one ran 
 For miles beyond the outer rim." 
 
 for, 
 
 "The large remoteness of the air 
 Had found within my heart a place." 
 
 73
 
 74 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 and ever and anon a vision stretched before 
 me, a long, smooth beach of yellow sand 
 with the ceaseless rhythm of the surf beating 
 upon it, and I saw the rise and fall of count- 
 less waves, extending seemingly into eter- 
 nity, so dimly distant was the horizon where 
 the sea and sky met ! And here I was, shut 
 up in town, with nothing before me but weeks 
 of taxing, relentless work ! I was out of 
 mood with myself, and, of course, with my 
 world. In vain my more rational self ar- 
 gued, "You stayed in town of your own 
 accord. You must realize that this work 
 is of more value than a vacation could 
 be!" I moved petulantly in my chair, shift- 
 ing my position uneasily. I was in no mood 
 to be rebuked. "If there were only some di- 
 version in between times I" I muttered. "All 
 work and no play makes Jack a dull boy!" 
 Then that rational self which is the God- 
 image in each one of us whispered, "There 
 are a thousand diversions all around you, if 
 you choose to see them. One doesn't have to 
 have mountains and oceans and thousands of 
 miles of prairie air to see and feel the Eternal, 
 the Infinite, the Divine ! Look at the sand- 
 pile and what is going on there, and you will
 
 The Sand-Pile. 75 
 
 find enough to fill a dozen leisure hours with 
 pleasure, and profit too. Stop thinking about 
 yourself and think about what a wonderful 
 world this is in which you have the blessed 
 privilege of living!" 
 
 Being thus sternly admonished, I turned my 
 eyes to the sand-pile which had been left by 
 the builders of the new house. A group of 
 children had been inevitably attracted to it. 
 Was there ever a sand-pile that did not attract 
 children if they were within reach of it? 
 
 One sturdy boy of ten, with sleeves rolled 
 to the armpits, was digging at one side of the 
 sand-pile, evidently intent upon enlarging a 
 hole which he had already made large enough 
 to stand in. His only instrument for excava- 
 tion was an old tin can and his two hands. 
 He loosened the damp sand with his tin can 
 and then scooped it out with his hands. The 
 constant bending and rising caused by the 
 digging and throwing out of the sand had 
 brought rich red to his cheeks and a sparkle 
 to his eyes. His small cap was pushed far 
 back on his head, and every now and then he 
 wiped the perspiration off his face with 
 the sleeve of his blouse. "In the sweat of thy 
 brow shalt thou eat bread," I thought. "How 
 6
 
 76 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 the curse of old Adam has been changed into 
 the play of Adam's hundred-thousandth or 
 ten-hundred-thousandth descendant ! The 
 labits of generations of toilers in the soil have 
 so trained the muscles of the body that they 
 rejoice in the labor of digging. Ah ! is that the 
 explanation of this boy's play? No, the 
 brightness of that face comes from the feeling 
 of triumphant mastery over nature. For 
 countless ages man has grappled with the 
 binding despotism of nature, has struggled 
 and has gained, or is slowly gaining, the 
 knowledge which gives to him the power to 
 use all her forces as he will. It is this divinely 
 implanted instinct in the boy that makes him 
 dig so persistently and energetically on this 
 warm day. Bless him, I am glad he has a 
 spot where he can dig without being scolded 
 for spoiling the looks of the back yard !" 
 
 That other boy over there sprawling lazily 
 on the sand with his legs far apart, occasion- 
 ally kicking up one heel and then the other, 
 is idly grasping a handful of sand, and just 
 as idly letting it run through his fingers. He 
 is only beginning, as it were, to feel a dim 
 consciousness of this same power of man to 
 transform matter. He is only testing its form-
 
 The Sand-Pile. 77 
 
 ableness. Even that is being listlessly done. 
 No creative impulse is driving him forward 
 to make his mark in the world, even if that 
 mark be, at present, only a hole in a sand-pile. 
 I wonder how much his indolent ancestors 
 are to blame for his not having caught up in 
 the race development with the boy who is 
 digging the hole. I wonder how much the 
 mother's ignorance of how to prepare whole- 
 some food has to do with his lack of energy 
 and loss of vigorous play. I wonder if pos- 
 sibly some deeper sin of his father has sapped 
 the springs of life and given him as an in- 
 heritance a feeble constitution or a weak will. 
 Anyhow, he is losing to-day's enjoyment, and 
 will probably be more or less of a laggard 
 through life. Heaven help the child who does 
 not care to play heartily! Life can never 
 make up for that loss ! 
 
 What of this third boy, who is standing 
 there with his hands thrust into his pockets 
 and is giving directions in a tone of authority 
 to two younger boys? They are busy mold- 
 ing first one thing and then another out of the 
 moist sand. He stands coolly looking on, 
 now criticising, now encouraging their efforts, 
 but never once stooping to lend a hand to their
 
 78 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 work. What will he be? A critic? always 
 ready to find fault with what other people are 
 trying to do, but never himself doing anything 
 worth finding fault with? Or, is he a born 
 leader, one who sees statues in the unchiseled 
 block of marble, farms on untilled prairies, 
 cities rising along unbuilt railroads? Sure it 
 is that he sees results more quickly than the 
 average boy — can "look ahead," as the saying 
 is. In how far is his training to be held ac- 
 countable for the final outcome of this indi- 
 cation of talent. Will it develop into cyni- 
 cism or into leadership? Can the sarcasm 
 of his teacher turn his power downward, or 
 her encouraging smile turn it upward? Les- 
 ser things than these have changed men's 
 lives. 
 
 And what about the two boys who are 
 just at present carrying out his commands? 
 Neither of them seems to have the slightest 
 desire to rebel against his authority, nor does 
 either of them make a suggestion as to the 
 work they are doing. Are they in the stage of 
 hero worship ? Or, will there always be people 
 without ideas of their own? Is there ever a 
 mortal born without some original genius? I 
 believe not. Each one of us has some message
 
 The Sand-Pile. 79 
 
 for the world, some notes to play in the great 
 orchestra of life. How, then, is this origi- 
 nality to be awakened? In how far are chil- 
 dren to be led to submit to a leader? With- 
 out such training all organized effort is impos- 
 sible. And yet, unless a child is allowed to 
 freely exercise his creative power, how is he 
 ever to become conscious of it? Is not play 
 primarily for this purpose? A score of such 
 questions rise as I watch the two patient 
 little laborers toiling away at the command 
 of another. 
 
 Here comes a fat, bull-necked boy. His 
 low brow and thick lips tell how near 
 the brute he is. He picks up a handful of 
 sand and throws it at the two little fellows. 
 It comes perilously near their eyes, but they 
 are peaceful citizens, intent upon their work, 
 so they pay no attention to the would-be 
 brawler. He stoops, picks up a double hand- 
 ful of sand and throws it into their faces, this 
 time with some jeering words. He is a born 
 bully, for he has picked out the two smallest 
 boys to taunt and torment. Is it a fight he 
 wants? I think not, a bully rarely ever wants 
 to fight. He is anxious to show his power, 
 and his contempt for steady, honest pursuits.
 
 80 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 The group of boys have been getting along too 
 quietly to suit him. Again he throws a hand- 
 ful of sand into the faces of the two little un- 
 derlings. They cry out. He laughs, and an- 
 other taunt accompanies another handful of 
 sand. Suddenly, from the other side of the 
 sand-pile appears a tall boy in a red sweater. 
 A few hot words ensue. I cannot hear them, 
 but a fight is on. In less than three minutes 
 the bully retreats, bellowing, and breathing 
 out threats of dire revenge. The tall boy goes 
 back to the other side of the sand-pile. Here 
 is law, authority, military force, we may call 
 it, settling the cause of right and justice when 
 it could not be settled without force. And 
 then peace returns and the mimic industries 
 go forward. Is the fighting instinct a normal 
 instinct in a boy? Will war always be neces- 
 sary? Certain it is that as long as there are 
 bullies in the world there will always have to 
 be big boys who can thrash them and make 
 them behave. But is there no way by means 
 of which these boastful Goliaths can be turned 
 into Saint Christophers? The old legend tells 
 us that St. Christopher had once been a giant 
 in the service of the devil, but the thought of 
 the Christ changed him into a servant of the
 
 The Sand-Pile. 81 
 
 Cross. Is there no Christ-thought, no ideal 
 that can be brought before these bull-necked 
 offspring of ignorance and vice that will stir 
 within them some better desires? Or must 
 they always be thrashed into decent regard 
 for other people's rights? Has anyone ever 
 established a school for bullies? In the his- 
 tory of nations they are always thrashed. Will 
 any Hague Arbitration Tribunal bring forth 
 a better remedy? 
 
 But the group is not altogether masculine. 
 The eternal law of attraction of sex comes 
 here too. At one side, somewhat removed 
 from the sand-pile, are two little girls of six 
 and seven. They, true to the housewifely 
 instincts of a thousand generations, are mak- 
 ing sand pies, and turning them on to a long 
 board, giving them loving little pats as they 
 do so. One of them stops now and then on 
 her way to and from the sand-pile for fresh 
 supplies of sand to utter a word or two of 
 admiration for the work of the vigorous hole- 
 digger. (I wonder if her presence has any- 
 thing to do with his digging so manfully.) 
 Another of the "eternally feminine" element 
 again and again fills a small basket with sand
 
 82 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 and thriftily carries it over into her own yard. 
 And so the play goes on. Heigh-ho! It is 
 six o'clock! I am no longer weary, I am 
 rested.
 
 A SHOP SCENE. 
 
 The great store was crowded with hurry- 
 ing, jostling, anxious people, each one intent 
 upon his or her own purchase, regardless of 
 everyone else. I stood idly waiting for my 
 package, which I wished to take home with 
 me, when my attention was attracted to the 
 face of a young mother. Any keen observer 
 of human faces can always tell a young 
 mother. There is an expression of proud and 
 tender humility on her face, especially if she 
 has with her that marvelous being — her first 
 child. They all have this something in com- 
 mon, be they rich or poor, high or low. I 
 suppose it is this tender beauty shining 
 through the plainest faces that made the 
 old masters think they could paint the Ma- 
 donna — the mother of God — for there is in a 
 young mother's face a touch of that far-off 
 divine holiness which suggests angels and vast 
 worlds of celestial thoughts. As I said, they 
 all have it, though some young mothers ex- 
 press it in a tenderer, more refined way than 
 do others. Some even allow the loud notes of 
 
 83
 
 84 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 their proud emotions to blare forth like a 
 trumpet, but with most of them the softer, 
 more sacred emotions of mother-love, remind 
 one of the muted violins in the vast orchestra 
 of humanity. It is the loveliest of all sounds 
 to one who can hear the silent music of the 
 soul. 
 
 This particular young mother was one of 
 the latter class. Her fine-looking young hus- 
 band was with her, vigorously pushing their 
 baby boy's perambulator through the 
 crowded aisle of the store. That she adored 
 him one could easily see by the way she looked 
 up at him, and the radiant smile that lighted 
 her face if he chanced to return her glance. 
 Still she was unaccustomed to having anyone 
 else take charge of baby's perambulator, so 
 even with her husband's strong hand on its 
 handle she involuntarily reached out her own 
 daintily gloved hand to steer it if the crowd 
 opened a space through which they might 
 pass, and ever and anon her head bent down 
 unconsciously to see if her young princeling 
 was all right. 
 
 They made their way to a toy counter just 
 opposite to the one against which I was idly 
 leaning. "Here it is!" exclaimed the sweet,
 
 A Shop Scene. 85 
 
 fresh voice of the young mother. "See, dar- 
 ling! See the pretty pussy-cats." This to the 
 two-year-old boy, bending lovingly over him, 
 much as the worshiping angel bent over the 
 sleeping Christ-child in the pictures by Fra 
 Angelica or Botticelli. "Well, my son," said 
 the father, "which will you have, a pussy-cat 
 or a doggie-dog?" The tone was an inimit- 
 able blending of proud comradeship with his 
 young son and fond fatherly love for his 
 baby boy. "Oh, dad-dad, dad-dad!" cried 
 the little fellow, raising his body and stretch- 
 ing up that he might the better observe the 
 array of animal toys in the showcase. "Oh, 
 dad-dad !" he repeated in affectionate tones of 
 excited pleasure. "Well, which shall it be, my 
 boy?" said the father, "a pussy-cat?" "Puz- 
 ze-kad, puzze-kad !" exclaimed the child, ex- 
 tending both arms toward the coveted treas- 
 ure. "Wait a minute, my son," said the 
 father, gravely, although his eyes were shin- 
 ing with the pleasure of the child, "Think a 
 bit. Wouldn't you rather have a doggie-dog?" 
 pointing to a spotted tin dog in the showcase. 
 "A doggie-dog, dad-dad !" gurgled the child, 
 turning his eyes and outstretching his hands 
 toward the particular toy dog which the
 
 86 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 father had pointed out. The father laughed 
 a gleeful, boyish laugh as he turned toward 
 his young wife to see if she were observing 
 how completely he could control his son's at- 
 tention and interest. I wondered if he faintly 
 realized what a responsibility that power laid 
 upon him. Her look of adoration seemed to 
 satisfy him, for he turned again to the child. 
 "Look here, young man," he said, "you want 
 to make up your mind as to what you want, 
 and then stick to it." (Ah, me ! there was such 
 fatherly pride in this admonition, such a reve- 
 lation of the day-dreams of what he wanted 
 his son and heir to become.) "Now, then, 
 which shall it be, the pussy-cat or the dog- 
 gie-dog?" "Oh, dad-dad! Gim'me, gim'me 
 puzze-kad, gim'me, gim'me doggie-dog!" and 
 the young monarch of all he had ever sur- 
 veyed reached out both hands to his father. 
 "Here, here, youngster, you will break me if 
 you don't look out," cried the father in mock 
 dismay. "Give me the dog," said he, turning 
 to the saleswoman, who stood waiting with a 
 bored expression upon her face. Why 
 couldn't she see that here was something 
 sweeter than green fields and fresher than 
 pure air? Had the mother love in her heart
 
 A Shop Scene. 87 
 
 died of starvation? Had she killed it by an 
 artificial life of false excitements and selfish 
 indulgences? If she would but realize it, 
 every day there was passing before her eyes a 
 panorama of human joys and sorrows that 
 was far more thrilling than the most thrilling 
 novel could tell or stage-set drama could por- 
 tray. 
 
 The dog was nonchalantly handed out and 
 paid for. As it reached the child's hands he 
 uttered a prolonged "Oh-h-h" of ecstacy, and 
 the father involuntarily stooped down and 
 kissed the little forehead while waiting for his 
 change. 
 
 The child had time to look at his new treas- 
 ure as they waited, and then to hold it out 
 toward another child, a year or two older 
 than himself, who was being dragged along by 
 her mother. "See, see dad-dad's doggie," 
 cried the boy, as he held his treasure toward 
 the little girl. The child thus appealed to hesi- 
 tated, smiled and almost stopped. His joyful 
 desire to share his pleasure with her was too 
 great to be resisted. "Come along! What 
 are you stopping for?" exclaimed the mother, 
 as she gave her a jerk. Then her eyes fell 
 upon the boy with his toy outstretched in his
 
 88 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 * 
 
 hand. She frowned and gave her child an- 
 other jerk, "Come along! You don't know 
 that child." And she hurried on. The boy- 
 looked astonished and instinctively turned his 
 eyes, questioningly toward his father. "It's 
 all right, my son. Father will look at it." 
 And the man stooped and again kissed the 
 forehead of the child. "Oh, dad-dad!" joy- 
 fully exclaimed the child, his peace of mind 
 being once more restored, "Kiss de doggie!" 
 The father stooped again and touched his lips 
 to the toy. 
 
 The change for which they had been wait- 
 ing came, and in a moment more they moved 
 on. The crowd closed in and hid them from 
 my sight, but once again I heard the sweet, 
 childish voice bubbling over with happiness 
 further down the aisle, exclaiming, "Dad-dad, 
 Kiss de doggie !" 
 
 The whole of this little domestic drama of 
 one act took place in less than five minutes, 
 but it remained in my heart all day, and I 
 found myself exclaiming, "Thank God for lit- 
 tle children, they are the salvation of the 
 race !" What other power on earth could 
 have made that well-dressed, well-groomed, 
 self-satisfied man stoop down and kiss a little
 
 A Shop Scene. 89 
 
 tin dog In the presence of unnumbered wit- 
 nesses? And yet, I feel sure, he was a better 
 man for having thus shared in his child's joy. 
 Then came, like a shadow over a sunlit land- 
 scape, the thought of that other child's 
 mother. Would she ever realize that she was 
 robbing both herself and her child of what is 
 more precious than diamonds or rubies?
 
 JACK AND THE ALLEY BOYS. 
 
 Jack was arrested yesterday! Our dear, 
 dear, little Jack! 
 
 He fell into company with some older boys 
 and with them indulged in the hilarity of 
 throwing stones at some little girls. Of course 
 I know it wasn't right for Jack to throw 
 stones at girls. But then he is only seven 
 years old, and who has ever taught him that 
 it is unmanly to throw stones at creatures 
 weaker than himself? And Jack is beginning 
 to want to do manly things. His baby days 
 are over. Why is it so hard for a mother to 
 realize that her boy is no longer her baby? As 
 for Jack's father, he was too busy making 
 money to have any time to give to his son. 
 Why, he hardly had time to read the daily 
 newspapers; what time could he, a rising 
 young lawyer, give to talk with the boy? He 
 bought him nice clothes and expected to put 
 him through college by and by. What more 
 could be expected of a busy father? 
 
 So Jack had to look elsewhere for "manly" 
 companionship. Naturally enough, he turned 
 
 90
 
 Jack and the Alley Boys. 91 
 
 to the ten and twelve-year-old boys who 
 haunted the alley just back of his home. 
 They allowed him to play mumbley-peg for 
 pennies, and two of them could smoke real 
 cigar stumps without getting sick at the 
 stomach. Jack couldn't. He tried it and 
 the big boys laughed at him when he grew 
 pale and sick. Their greatest accomplishment 
 in Jack's eyes was that they could swear, oh, 
 such oaths that it made him tremble to hear 
 them. So when the big boys began throwing 
 stones at the prim young misses who stuck out 
 their tongues at them, Jack began throwing 
 stones too. Why shouldn't he? The big boys 
 were his heroes. They even called him "kid" 
 and permitted him to squat down behind the 
 fence with them and listen to their talk. Of 
 course Jack could not understand all that they 
 said, for he had lived heretofore in his home 
 with his mamma and had never been allowed 
 to see much of other children; besides his 
 mamma preferred his playing with girls, when 
 he did play with other children. They made 
 less noise than boys. It was only of late that 
 Jack had been allowed to go with "the fel- 
 lows." Therefore, he didn't know exactly 
 why the big boys called each other "Capt." or 
 
 7
 
 92 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 "Shanks" or "Slim" when their real names 
 were Joe and Bill and Tom. But when they 
 began calling him "Kid" he understood that 
 these were secret names and that they meant 
 some sort of distinction. Just what that dis- 
 tinction was he could not have told, but it 
 didn't matter much. His new name meant 
 that he was one of them now. When he heard 
 them speak contemptuously of the policeman 
 as "an old cop" his heart thrilled within him. 
 So when the big boys began to throw stones 
 Jack threw stones too. He could do that 
 much, anyhow, even if he could not yet talk 
 the wonderful dialect of alley slang. 
 
 But the irascible old gentleman who lived 
 next door telephoned to the police to come ! 
 Why couldn't he have gone out and reasoned 
 with the boys in a straightforward, manly 
 way? Or, better still, why couldn't he have 
 hired them to do some odd job of work for 
 him by way of turning their surplus energies 
 into a constructive activity? His yard needed 
 raking over, his wood-pile needed straighten- 
 ing, and his own heart needed warming. 
 I wonder if he was ever a little boy, or if he 
 had forgotten how when seven years old he 
 had loved to do as the big boys did. Well,
 
 Jack and The Alley Boys. 93 
 
 he acted as if he had never been a boy, and 
 his angry telephone message brought two big 
 burly policemen into our alley. And before 
 the boys knew it they were all four "nabbed" 
 and were being marched off to the police 
 station. 
 
 To be sure, they were merely talked to by 
 the big police officer in charge of the station, 
 and were dismissed with a warning that a 
 second arrest would mean a "lock-up." 
 
 But the disgrace in our highly respectable 
 neighborhood was just as great as if they had 
 already been locked up, and the news had 
 spread like wild-fire, "Jack Halloway had 
 been arrested!" And we knew only too well 
 that it would be on the tongue of every school 
 child before a week had passed, and Jack 
 would be branded by these fierce little Phari- 
 sees as a bad boy. 
 
 "What shall we do?" exclaimed Gertrude 
 as she paced nervously up and down the floor. 
 "Think of our Jack being called 'a jail-bird,' 
 'a coppe-catch' — 'a thug,' just as likely as not ! 
 There will be a dozen odious names invented 
 or imported before to-morrow night," she 
 continued. "And just think of our dear, sen- 
 sitive Jack's having to endure it all. What 
 can we do?"
 
 94 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 I pretended to go on with my writing and 
 said nothing. What could I say? I knew 
 even better than she the mischief that had 
 been done. I was older and far back in the 
 past I had had an experience which sickened 
 me even yet whenever I recalled it, although 
 twenty years had come and gone since that 
 dark day when another boy with just such 
 earnest dark eyes as Jack's had been branded 
 for a childish sin! And there had been no 
 soul near him wise enough to save him ! 
 
 "We must do something!" Gertrude cried, 
 suddenly stopping in front of me. "Yes," I 
 replied, "But it will take time. I will try to 
 find a chance to talk with Jack's father about 
 him." "What good will that do," she ex- 
 claimed, petulantly. "He will merely give you 
 a well-bred stare and manage to let you know 
 that he considers you a meddlesome woman ! 
 No, no, no, you can never reach his father! 
 It is Jack himself we must get hold of!" 
 
 "Yes, we'll try," I answered, still mechanic- 
 ally moving my pen across the page. I did 
 not want even Gertrude to know how the old 
 wound was bleeding. I knew that she had 
 spoken wisely — we must get hold of Jack, our 
 dear, loving-hearted, thoughtless Jack! What
 
 Jack and The Alley Boys. 95 
 
 could we two spinsters do when neither his 
 father nor mother understood him nor helped 
 him? But we could try — there was always 
 some comfort in that — we could try. 
 
 That evening Jack's young mother, a 
 blond-haired young creature with a charming 
 dimple in her chin and a pretty pout on her 
 red lips, came in and said she wanted to have 
 "a real talk" with me. So Gertrude disap- 
 peared while Jack's child-mother and I sat in 
 the gathering twilight and talked about Jack, 
 of course. 
 
 She said he puzzled her; she didn't see why 
 he wanted to go with those horrid Sloam boys. 
 She had whipped him twice for going with 
 them, and then he had lied to her about being 
 with them the next time she questioned him ! 
 What more could she do? His father would 
 be "horrid mad" with Jack when he heard 
 about the arrest. No, of course she hadn't 
 told him about it yet. She had shut Jack up- 
 stairs in his room and would not let him have 
 any supper. Hadn't she done right? This 
 last was said with tears brimming in her eyes. 
 Perhaps she had read some disapproval in my 
 face. I don't know. "What more can I do ?" 
 she asked. "Shall I tie him up ?" Her pretty
 
 g6 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 mouth trembled now, and the tears dropped 
 on her clasped hands. "I don't see why Jack 
 can't be satisfied with his toys and his picture 
 book," she continued; he used to like them 
 and to play with me in his nursery. But now 
 nothing seems to satisfy him but to be with 
 those horrid Sloam boys." Then she wished 
 the Sloam boys would move out of the neigh- 
 borhood, or that she could persuade Jack's 
 father to sell their home and move into a 
 neighborhood where there were no bad boys. 
 Her helplessness appealed to me. I tried to 
 explain to her that Jack was no longer a little 
 child; he was a boy now, and needed a larger 
 world than his nursery and the back yard: 
 that he was longing for larger and more 
 varied experiences, and that this longing was 
 perfectly natural, in fact, it would show a sad 
 lack of mental growth if he did not want a 
 larger world. 
 
 She gazed at me with big, childish eyes 
 filled with surprise. Seeing that she did not 
 understand my generalities, I began to par- 
 ticularize. "I would suggest," I continued, 
 "that you so arrange your housework that 
 after school on pleasant days you could go 
 with Jack for a long walk, or take a tramp to
 
 Jack and The Alley Boys. 97 
 
 some unfamiliar locality or a street car ride to 
 the next suburb. Send him on errands to the 
 grocery or the dry goods store," I added. 
 "Take him into the city with you on Satur- 
 days, occasionally. Get his father to take him 
 out on Sunday afternoons. In such ways en- 
 large his little world yourselves, so that he 
 will not seek the Sloam boys for a change or 
 new experience. "Perhaps it might be well," 
 I suggested, "to invite some of his nice school- 
 mates in to take tea with you. This would 
 probably result in his being invited to eat in 
 some of their homes. This, too, would help 
 to satisfy his hunger for new experiences." 
 We talked on for a while longer. When she 
 rose to go I followed her to the door. Evi- 
 dently Jack had defied imprisonment. I saw 
 him and Gertrude coming across the lot, both 
 warm and flushed by their rapid walk. They 
 were chatting merrily, and evidently were 
 just returning from one of their long walks 
 together. 
 
 To-day is Saturday, and just after our noon 
 meal I chanced to see Jack dressed in his best 
 suit with a stiff collar and a big bow necktie 
 (how he hates those babyish big bows) , start- 
 ing from his home, tugging in a sullen sort of
 
 98 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 a way at a pair of kid gloves into which he 
 was striving to thrust his hands. Following a 
 short distance behind him were his father and 
 mother, both dressed as for an entertainment. 
 All three seemed out of mood and in a 
 hurry of unpleasant excitement. As they disap- 
 peared in the direction of the railway station 
 I surmised that they were going to town, and 
 the thought of them dropped out of my mind. 
 
 To-night, however, Jack's mother came in 
 to see me in quite a flutter of pleasure. She 
 said she had told Jack's father what I had 
 said about Jack needing a change. "And," she 
 added, triumphantly, "he took Jack and me to 
 a vaudeville show this afternoon, and he has 
 promised to take us, or to send us, every Sat- 
 urday ! Won't that be fine." 
 
 Gertrude was right, we must get hold of 
 Jack himself !
 
 THE BOY AND THE SCARLET COAT. 
 
 One bright, frosty morning, when the air 
 was full of life-giving energy, I chanced to be 
 crossing one of the small parks which the wis- 
 dom of the twentieth century has planted in 
 our congested city districts. Just in front of 
 me walked a young mother and her two-year- 
 old son. I judged that this was her first child 
 from the fact that, although she herself was 
 quite plainly dressed, the boy was gorgeously 
 attired in a scarlet coat, white astrakhan cap, 
 white cloth leggins and white mittens. 
 
 Young mothers frequently feel that they 
 must give vent to their proud joy of owner- 
 ship by arraying their offspring in the most 
 expensive clothing they can possibly afford. 
 Their sacrifice of girlish vanity and innocent 
 enough desire to be charmingly dressed them- 
 selves, is often touching proof of the self-for- 
 getting nature of maternal love, although to 
 the student of childhood this is a sadly mis- 
 taken way to show it. 
 
 Near the center of the park was a thicket 
 or cluster of barberry bushes. The little fel- 
 
 99
 
 ioo Misunderstood Children. 
 
 low let go of his mother's hand, and, running 
 forward, parted two of the bushes and peered 
 in. It was evidently a new phase of nature 
 to him, a field of discovery ! For a moment he 
 hesitated and looked back toward his mother, 
 then forward into the thicket. The lure of 
 the unknown was too great to be resisted. 
 He parted the bushes and stepped in among 
 them, at first timidly, but as the excitement of 
 the adventure became intoxicating he stead- 
 ily pushed farther and farther into the 
 brush, looking up now and then at the taller 
 ones, whose spreading branches met over his 
 head. This was, indeed, an adventure worth 
 having. 
 
 "No, no, my boy," called the mother, as 
 she quickened her steps. "Come out of those 
 bushes !" But the boy pushed farther in. 
 Here was a new experience in his limited 
 world. Hitherto he had been a "sidewalk 
 child," and had trodden beaten paths. This 
 was evident from the timidity which he had 
 shown when he first ventured into the thicket. 
 But the eager haste with which he now pushed 
 branch after branch aside and the steady de- 
 termination with which he squeezed his chub- 
 by body between close-growing bushes showed
 
 The Boy and The Scarlet Coat. 101 
 
 that all the pioneer instincts of his ancestors 
 were awakened. "Did you not hear me, 
 Ned?" called his mother. "Come out of those 
 bushes, they will dirty your clothes." Alas! 
 alas ! how many times have fine clothes 
 checked the spirit of adventure ! One has but 
 to recall how the wise old Solon advised the 
 Persian general not to kill off the young men 
 of a province which he had conquered, but to 
 dress them in soft silk and fine linen and thus 
 enervate them, and they would not want to 
 throw off his tyrannous yoke. 
 
 However, my two-year-old had evidently 
 come of sturdier stock. The appeal to his 
 supposed interest in his scarlet coat and white 
 cloth leggins was of no avail. The young 
 mother had to enter the thicket and drag him 
 back to the beaten path. As she vigorously 
 brushed the precious coat, she exclaimed, 
 "You naughty, naughty boy ! See how you 
 have dirtied your clothes ! Just look at your 
 coat with those dry leaves stuck all over it!" 
 No mention was made of any other cause for 
 her irritation than this, — that his clothes, for 
 which he was not in the least responsible, had 
 been slightly soiled by contact with the bar- 
 berry bushes. How I longed to have a game
 
 102 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 of hide-and-seek with him in those same 
 bushes; to see his eyes dance, and hear his 
 shout of delight when he discovered me; to 
 feel the growing consciousness of selfhood 
 which would come to him as he hid from me ; 
 and the quickened social instinct as he would 
 rush out of hiding and reunite himself with 
 me ! But — ah, me — what would have been 
 the condition of the scarlet coat and the white 
 cloth leggins at the end of the romp ! And yet, 
 I doubt not that the young mother loved her 
 boy a thousand times more than I ever could 
 have loved him. The trouble was she showed 
 her love through outer adornment of his body 
 instead of helping the inner development of 
 power to master each new condition which life 
 presented. 
 
 The two passed on. The sunlight on the 
 frost-covered grass of the park next attracted 
 the attention of the youngster. Again he 
 dropped his mother's hand as the "touch- 
 hunger" common to all children called out for 
 satisfaction. He stepped over on to the frost 
 field, and stooping, touched it with his hand. 
 The glitter and sparkle vanished! Here was 
 a mystery, indeed ! He stood up, looking puz- 
 zled and perplexed, then the "touch-hunger"
 
 The Boy and The Scarlet Coat. 103 
 
 called again for testimony, and, bending over 
 once more, he passed his small white mitten 
 over the glittering specks of frost. As fast 
 as they disappeared he brushed a new patch 
 of grass. Here, indeed, was an evidence of his 
 power over nature! "Come off that grass, 
 you little nuisance," called his mother. "See 1 
 see!" answered the child excitedly, and he 
 brushed away more of the sparkling white. 
 "That's nothing but frost," said the mother. 
 "Come along, you are dirtying your nice 
 gloves." 
 
 The contempt in her tone took the glory 
 out of the frost world. What other standard 
 of the beauty or of the mystery of nature 
 could he have than hers? He had felt the ap- 
 peal of the frost-covered ground, but she had 
 spoken in derision of it, so the little fellow re- 
 turned to her side. Perhaps some day she 
 would sigh because her boy did not show any 
 love for nature, and would wonder why he 
 preferred the excitement of the city streets to 
 a day in the woods. 
 
 The sharp frost of the night had scattered 
 a number of willow twigs on the pathway. 
 The child stooped and picked up one of them. 
 Here was new material for him to experiment
 
 104 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 with. He began bending it back and forth. 
 Elasticity was now revealing itself to his 
 young mind. "Throw that dirty stick away," 
 said the young mother. But a stronger com- 
 mand than hers was telling him to find out just 
 how far this willow twig would bend. It was 
 the race-instinct, the same that had brought 
 about man's first mastery over wood. So the 
 boy did not obey her. She took the twig out of 
 his hand and tossed it away, as she once more 
 brushed his clothes, saying as she did so, 
 "What shall I do with you! You seem de- 
 termined to spoil your pretty clothes ! Now 
 see if you can't walk along like a nice, clean 
 little boy." 
 
 Silently I mused as I walked on. I won- 
 dered what that mother would have thought 
 had I said to her, "Madam, why do you value 
 your child's clothing more than his heart's 
 glow or the quickening which nature was try- 
 ing to give to his mind? You are doing that 
 which is worse than stifling his body, you are 
 stifling his inner life."
 
 KATIE MacMAHON. 
 
 When 1 first moved into the neighborhood, 
 the large, broad-chested charwoman who 
 helped me to transform the chaos of moving 
 into the cosmos of home informed me that my 
 next-door neighbor's name was Miss Dorothy- 
 Duncan; that she was "a real nice lady," but 
 that she "enjoyed ill-health most of the time," 
 and so did not go out much. 
 
 The next morning I chanced to see Miss 
 Duncan as she stood on her porch, fastening 
 into the proper place some stray branches of 
 the wistaria vine which the wind had dislodged 
 the night before. She was tall and sparely 
 built. Her hair was iron gray, and, although 
 her head was turned from me, I judged from 
 her thin neck and colorless ear that her face 
 was thin and pale. Over her shoulders she 
 wore a small white shawl. There is perhaps 
 no better evidence of physical vigor or lack 
 of vigor than the pose of chest and shoulders; 
 and her profile showed relaxed shoulders, that 
 meant depressed chest, i. e., ill-health. 
 
 I sighed involuntarily as I thought, "Poor 
 thing, another one of the left-overs." Alone in 
 
 105
 
 106 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 the world, with old age fast approaching and 
 ill-health already fastened upon her. In- 
 stinctively I began to wonder to how great an 
 extent I would have to be taxed by listening to 
 accounts of her "bad nights" — I was sure 
 she had plenty of bad nights — and was rap- 
 idly making an estimate of how much of my 
 precious time would have to be consumed in 
 giving courteous attention to her detailed ac- 
 counts of aches and ailments. 
 
 I had moved to the suburbs to get more time 
 for study and writing, but of course I knew 
 one could not utterly ignore one's neighbors 
 in a suburb as in the social isolation of a great 
 city. In fact, if the truth be told, I had felt 
 the barrenness of my city life and had real- 
 ized that I was becoming dehumanized by it, 
 and was counting on neighbors as one of the 
 assets to be gained by moving out to where 
 air and sunshine were not too expensive to be 
 indulged in by people of modest means. Still, 
 I had not planned for recitals of the torture 
 of neuralgia, the pangs of rheumatism or the 
 melancholy forebodings caused by indiges- 
 tion. I was not altogether heartless, but I 
 had counted on neighbors as a recreation, not 
 an added care.
 
 Katie MacMahon. 107 
 
 Just at that moment Miss Dorothy Duncan 
 turned her face toward me, and in an instant I 
 realized that she enjoyed something, if not ill- 
 health, then something else, which was as 
 ever-present as was her ill-health. I had sur- 
 mised correctly; her face was thin and lack- 
 ing color — but her eyes ! I had not thought 
 of what kind of eyes she might have. They 
 were deep blue eyes, fringed with long black 
 lashes, but it was their expression of perfect 
 peace which told of the rich, silent soul-life 
 within this frail body that made them so at- 
 tractive to me. I have never seen such eyes 
 on any other human being. They said so 
 much, and yet gave you the same feeling that 
 comes when one views the vast aerial perspec- 
 tive of far-extended prairies. They seemed 
 to hold in reserve so much more than 
 they expressed. Years afterward I learned 
 through what suffering and what struggle 
 had been born the peace that made her 
 eyes so wonderful. She smiled and bowed 
 slightly, and, although her smile was sweet 
 and gentle and lighted up her face as does 
 a soft afterglow which sometimes follows a 
 fine sunset, it, like everything else about her, 
 was secondary to those strong yet tender, 
 8
 
 io8 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 far-seeing eyes. When later on I heard her 
 speak I found that her voice, like her smile, 
 was sweet and gentle, low in tone, yet with 
 the distinct enunciation that marks well- 
 bred people. As yet I know nothing of 
 her voice, nothing of her past training; but I 
 looked into those deep, beautiful eyes and, — 
 I may as well confess it, I fell head-over- 
 ears in love with her on the spot. I after- 
 ward found out that plenty of other people 
 had already done the same thing, and many 
 more did it in the years that followed, long 
 beautiful years in which I learned to count as 
 my greatest blessing the fact that Dorothy 
 Duncan was my next-door neighbor and my 
 friend. One of greatest charms was that she 
 joined a rare inner culture with an almost 
 childish enjoyment of the common every-day 
 things of life. The ordinary blossoms of 
 June-time became miracles when she called 
 your attention to the richness of their color or 
 the softness of their texture. The activities of 
 an ant-hill in the garden walk became a con- 
 suming drama if she leaned over it with you. 
 The fretwork of shadows which the street- 
 lamp caused the trees to cast upon the porch 
 floor became as fascinating as Saracenic carv-
 
 Katie MacMahon. 109 
 
 ings if she chanced to sit beside you, and as to 
 sunsets, they were as much enjoyed as great 
 orchestral performances if she were with you 
 when the heavens played their mighty sym- 
 phony of color. Yet she never wearied you 
 with these things, she simply lent you her 
 eyes and you saw undreamed-of beauty all 
 about you. You might glance through the 
 morning paper and throw it down with an 
 exclamation of disgust because its headlines 
 told only of the riot of lust and greed or the 
 trickery of avarice, or the selfish vanity of 
 some social set seeking notoriety ; and ten min- 
 utes later she would stir you with the account 
 of some generosity of wealth or some deed 
 of bravery which that same paper had given, 
 or she would have you laughing over the un- 
 conscious humor of some misfit announcement 
 that had escaped your notice, or before you 
 knew it she would have you discussing the 
 leading editorial. She was merely lending 
 you the quickness of her wits, yet she was 
 never sparkling, rarely ever what might be 
 called vivacious, although her sense of humor 
 was abundant. 
 
 It goes without saying that her interest in 
 the people about her was greater than her in-
 
 no Misunderstood Children. 
 
 terest in the things by which she was sur- 
 rounded. She was the chief friend, adviser 
 and helper of every individual in the neigh- 
 borhood; yet she was never meddlesome, nev- 
 er prying. Others came to her with their joys 
 and their sorrows; she did not go to them. 
 But her sympathy never failed, and each one 
 knew that his or her confidence was a sacred 
 trust so far as Miss Dorothy Duncan was 
 concerned. Mothers talked over their prob- 
 lems with her, and many a child went to her 
 with its childish doubts and perplexities. 
 
 I believe, after all, her strongest point was 
 her love of children and her beautiful way of 
 dealing with them. Somehow she seemed al- 
 ways to expect them to be their best and al- 
 ways treated them as if they were little gentle- 
 men and ladies, not little prigs, but with man- 
 ners enough not to quarrel or be selfish when 
 with her, and somehow they usually lived up 
 to her expectations. She gave them her stand- 
 ards of conduct, that was all. They were ordi- 
 nary children, with ordinary faults, but some- 
 how they became wonderfully interesting 
 specimens of humanity when she was with 
 them. She loaned you her imagination if you 
 chanced to be with them when she was there,
 
 Katie MacMahon. Ill 
 
 and somehow you felt that there was no such 
 thing as an ordinary child. John and Jack and 
 Harry allured you into the study of their in- 
 dividuality, and before you knew it you were 
 puzzling over their manifestations inherited 
 from long lines of ancestors; while Susie and 
 Ethel and Marie Ann captivated you by in- 
 stantly reflecting the influences of the environ- 
 ment about them. Why hadn't you thought 
 of all this before? And you a teacher, 
 too. All you had ever learned in the normal 
 school about heredity, environment and self- 
 activity were insignificant compared with a 
 few months of watching this woman's under- 
 standing of the children of the neighborhood, 
 and before you knew it you were enjoying 
 them almost as much as she enjoyed them. 
 She loaned you her heart that was all. How 
 can I describe her relationship to children? 
 As I have said, she treated them as equals, 
 never talked down to them, never ignored 
 their presence. Her inner world was so 
 rich and full and varied and theirs so simple 
 and limited and empty of any content which 
 would have seemed significant to you or me, 
 yet they never seemed to bore her. Perhaps I 
 can best help you to understand the life she
 
 112 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 led with these children and the influence she 
 exercised upon them by relating some one of 
 the almost daily occurrences in which, by a 
 touch, as it were, she would transform dark- 
 ness into light, or sadness into joy for this or 
 that child. The particular occasion which 
 comes just now into my mind was one morning 
 when by a few words she changed a child's 
 shame and misery into honor and glory. It 
 was perhaps because I so keenly enjoyed the 
 after sequence that I recall the scene so vividly. 
 The time was early June and Miss Dorothy 
 sat on her shady side porch shelling peas for 
 dinner. Little Katie MacMahon sat on a low 
 stool beside her, proudly helping to shell the 
 peas. It was always considered an honor by 
 the neighborhood children to help Miss Dor- 
 othy. Little Katie MacMahon was the only 
 girl in the large family of partially disrepu- 
 table and always dirty MacMahon boys who 
 lived with their shiftless father and slatternly 
 mother in the shabby old frame house in the 
 alley just beyond Judge Nelson's barn. Our 
 neighborhood was thrifty and respectable. 
 We were not rich enough to have to be 
 formal in our intercourse with each other 
 and not poor enough to disregard each
 
 Katie MacMahon. 113 
 
 other's privacy. The MacMahons were the 
 only family of what is known as "city pov- 
 erty" that we had with us. Just why the old 
 frame house had been allowed to remain in 
 our prosperous suburb, and just how it had 
 held together year after year without paint or 
 repairs, was always a wonder to me. Each 
 year the roof sagged a little more, each win- 
 ter a few more bricks tumbled out of one or 
 the other of the two chimneys, each spring a 
 few more panes of glass were broken and a 
 few more rags were stuffed in to fill up the 
 holes in the autumn, and almost every year a 
 new baby was born to the MacMahons until 
 their muster roll was now, Jerry, aged 12; 
 Jimmy, aged 11; Michael, aged 10; Danny, 
 aged 9 ; Katie aged 8 ; Johnny, aged 6 : Roose- 
 velt aged 4, and the baby aged 2. I must not 
 forget the three dogs and the two Maltese 
 cats, as they are a part of the story I am about 
 to relate. Of course rabbits, guinea pigs, white 
 mice and the like came and went in the Mac- 
 Mahon household, but they were not mem- 
 bers of the family, whereas the three dogs and 
 two Maltese cats were fed at the table and 
 slept in the house, and, so far as one could see, 
 were treated in the same happy-go-lucky way
 
 114 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 as were the children. They even received their 
 share of the beatings, which I am glad to say 
 were not as frequent as might have been ex- 
 pected. Old Tommy MacMahon (he was 
 not forty-five, but everybody called him Old 
 Tommy) was easy-going, even when under 
 the influence of liquor. His wife was too 
 lazy to punish more than with a box of the ear 
 unless she were unusually irritated by her hus- 
 band's having spent all the week's earnings at 
 the saloon. Wifely shame, motherly solicitude 
 and perhaps personal hunger then manifested 
 themselves by her seizing the first child or dog 
 she came across, as the case might be, and giv- 
 ing him, or it, what she called a "good round 
 walloping." Herein she showed a fine dis- 
 crimination in English, as Webster defines the 
 word "wallop" as boiling or bubbling up. 
 And such chastisements were never for the 
 purpose of punishing an offender, or revealing 
 the nature of a misdeed, but merely to relieve 
 her own nerves. 
 
 But let us come back to my story. What a 
 long way we have wandered from Miss Dor- 
 othy and her sunny porch ! However, the di- 
 gression was necessary in order that you 
 might realize the fact that even in our neigh-
 
 Katie MacMahon. 115 
 
 borhood we had the upper and lower strata of 
 society varying in shades and degrees from 
 Judge Nelson and his stately wife down to the 
 MacMahons, for upon this distinctly marked 
 feeling of caste hangs the joy of my story. 
 Little Katie MacMahon was lame and rather 
 slow in her movements and in consequence 
 had been given almost no training in house- 
 hold duties by her easy-going mother, who 
 frequently declared that she would rather 
 have her "out from under her feet than to be 
 bothered with her." So, whenever the weather 
 permitted, Katie and the dogs were turned out 
 of doors each morning before the so-called 
 cleaning up began. Of course she soon drifted 
 over to the brooding, fostering care of Dor- 
 othy Duncan. For as steel filings seek the 
 magnet, children are drawn towards motherly 
 women, therefore it was not an uncommon 
 sight to see her and Miss Dorothy perform- 
 ing some light housework together, although 
 Hannah, who had reigned supreme in Miss 
 Duncan's kitchen for twenty years, grumbled 
 and growled occasionally over the untidiness 
 of the little girl. I picked up my sewing and 
 joined my friend and her little protege on the 
 shady porch. Miss Dorothy was telling a
 
 1 1 6 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 fairy tale about a beautiful princess who was 
 visited by her fairy godmother on each of her 
 birthdays. "I am going to have a birthday 
 next week," interposed Katie, "Then," she 
 added, eagerly, "my papa's going to buy me 
 a great big doll, as big as a real baby, and my 
 mamma's going to give me a whole lot of 
 candy, enough to give some to all the children 
 in the neighborhood." It was evident that the 
 MacMahon imagination had awakened, so 
 why stop short of princely doing. "And my 
 brother Jerry," she continued, "is going to 
 take us all over to the Zoo, and — " "Yes, I 
 guess you'll do all that," drawled out a voice, 
 contemptuously. "Your daddy drinks like a 
 fish; he can't even pay his grocery bill; I 
 heard Mr. Harding say so. I think I see him 
 buying you a doll as big as a baby." Hot in- 
 dignation at the boy's cruel taunt rushed over 
 me. I knew it was Arthur Nelson, Judge Nel- 
 son's ten-year-old son, who had spoken. They 
 were the wealthiest family in the neighbor- 
 hood, and the boy had most unfortunately been 
 brought up to feel himself superior to the 
 other children because his father had done 
 something worth while in the world. And this 
 feeling of superiority, not being accompanied
 
 Katie MacMahon. 117 
 
 by any effort to live up to his father's stand- 
 ard, had degenerated into a supercilious con- 
 tempt for most of the people about him. 
 Katie's face crimsoned and her head drooped 
 as a flower might droop at the sudden touch 
 of frost. She was a warm-hearted child and 
 loved her good-for-nothing father with a de- 
 votion that made this sudden exposure of his 
 weakness almost more than she could bear. I 
 saw the quick winking of her eyes to keep 
 back the tears, and the nervous biting of the 
 lips to stop their quiver of pain. The boy 
 stood with his feet apart, his hands in his 
 pockets and his head a little to one side, 
 watching the effect of his taunt. Miss Dor- 
 othy continued shelling the peas as if nothing 
 had happened. "Good morning, Arthur," she 
 said pleasantly, "would not you like to help 
 me get these peas ready for dinner? Hannah 
 is quite busy this morning." Of course he 
 wanted to help ; every child in the neighbor- 
 hood, as I have already stated, felt it a priv- 
 ilege to help Miss Dorothy do anything, no 
 matter what. In a moment or two he had 
 brought a chair from the dining-room and was 
 eagerly sharing in the shelling of the peas. 
 The three worked on in silence for a few min-
 
 1 1 8 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 utes, long enough to allow little Katie to re- 
 gain her self-control. "And next Thursday is 
 your birthday, Katie. So it is, I had almost 
 forgotten that it came this month." Miss 
 Dorothy spoke so quietly that no note in her 
 voice indicated the slightest inward disturb- 
 ance. "I would like to have you come over 
 and dine with me that evening. When you go 
 home to-day will you ask your mother to let 
 me have you for that part of your birthday, or 
 shall I write her a note about it?" "Oh, Miss 
 Dorothy," was all that Katie could say, but 
 the clasped hands, the radiant face, the joyful 
 tone in which were uttered these three words 
 showed that the sensitive young heart which 
 the moment before had been battling with 
 wounded pride and humiliated love had sud- 
 denly leaped from the black abyss of social 
 ostracism and stood once more in the sunlight 
 of human comradeship. I glanced at Arthur. 
 He had dropped upon the porch floor the 
 handful of peas he was shelling and was star- 
 ing at Miss Dorothy with an expression of 
 mingled amazement and indignation. What 
 could she be thinking of to invite that dirty 
 little Irish Katie MacMahon into her dainty 
 dining-room to dine with her. Why even he,
 
 Katie MacMahon. 119 
 
 Arthur Nelson, had never dined with Miss 
 Duncan. He had lunched with her once in a 
 while if he chanced to be in her house when 
 luncheon was announced, but to be ceremoni- 
 ously invited to a dinner was to his mind the 
 climax of social distinction. He had absorbed 
 a good many of his mother's ideas of conven- 
 tional society and an invitation to dine with 
 anyone brought to his mind the vision of cut 
 glass and dainty china and long, formal 
 courses of expensive food. 
 
 He turned and looked at Katie. There was 
 no contempt now in his face; instead there 
 was a puzzled look of wonder, almost of ad- 
 miration. I could not help thinking of the 
 stories of disguised princesses suddenly being 
 changed by some fairy wand from beggar 
 maids into royal personages. 
 
 Unless one has lived in a small conservative 
 village where the record of one's parents and 
 grandparents have been handed down as town 
 property one can have no realization of the 
 keen demarkation of social strata that exists 
 in such places. The news of the invitation 
 rapidly spread. The simple dinner was soon 
 magnified by childish imagination into "a big 
 party with lots and lots of ice cream and
 
 120 Misunderstood Children 
 
 candy?" Katie suddenly became the most 
 popular child in the neighborhood. Invita- 
 tions to attend the party were hinted at each 
 day. Arthur, who hitherto had been the ac- 
 knowledged social leader of the community, 
 held aloof for a day or two, then changing his 
 policy on the day before the birthday, accom- 
 panied by Katie, appeared on Miss Dorothy's 
 porch and asked for an invitation, strengthen- 
 ing his position with "Katie wants me to come. 
 Don't you, Katie?" and docile, kind-hearted 
 little Katie, flattered (as has been many a 
 climber into society) by the unusual attention 
 said "Yes." Miss Dorothy Duncan, however, 
 was equal to every situation. There was to 
 be no "butting in" upon her social arrange- 
 ments. She quietly replied, "No, Arthur, I 
 can't invite you without inviting some of the 
 other children; this is to be a dinner for Katie 
 and me only." Arthur looked baffled, but the 
 two went off the porch together, and I heard 
 Arthur say, "Come over to our yard this 
 afternoon, Katie, and I'll play ball with you." 
 Katie went, of course. 
 
 On the morning of the birthday, before 
 breakfast Miss Duncan's bell rang. There 
 stood Katie. "I came to tell you," she said,
 
 Katie MacMahon. 121 
 
 her face beaming with happiness, "that I sure- 
 ly am coming to-night. Ma washed my pink 
 calico dress last night, and she is ironing it 
 now; Jerry is getting breakfast so she can, 
 and Mikey is takin' care of the baby for 
 Jerry." Evidently social aspiration was stir- 
 ring the MacMahon family. The daughter of 
 the house was to be received in society that 
 evening. 
 
 "All right," answered Miss Dorothy, with- 
 out a quiver of a smile, "come over at six 
 o'clock." Katie limped away accompanied by 
 two of the family of dogs who had followed 
 her on her errand of making sure that the in- 
 vitation still held good. 
 
 At five-thirty the children of the neighbor- 
 hood assembled on my front porch to await 
 the arrival of Katie. At five-forty Jerry, Jim- 
 my and Michael MacMahon filed out of the 
 alley house and took their station just across 
 the street from Miss Duncan's front door. 
 At five-forty-five, Johnny and Roosevelt 
 joined them. These two younger members of 
 the family had evidently been prepared for 
 the occasion; their faces, necks and ears were 
 shining from recent contact with soap, and 
 their curly hair had been wet and plastered
 
 122 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 down. In a minute or two more the three 
 dogs appeared, but were ignominiously driven 
 back by Jerry. His sister's entrance into so- 
 ciety was evidently not the time for dogs to be 
 present. The five brothers stood in a line, 
 each face aglow with happiness over Katie's 
 celebration. At five-fifty there was a flutter 
 among the group of children on my porch, 
 with whispered, "There she comes, look! 
 look!" The five boys on the opposite side of 
 the street had also felt the thrill of the ap- 
 proaching debutante, for Jerry and Jim im- 
 mediately began a nonchalant picking up of 
 pebbles and shying them down the street, to 
 show that they were not the least excited over 
 the matter in hand, while Mikey and Johnny 
 began a' scuffle by way of working off their 
 surplus emotions. But little Roosevelt was 
 too unsophisticated in the ways of the world 
 to try to disguise his pride. He swung his 
 arm high and shouted, "Hurrah," only to be 
 jerked down, however, by Davie, and told to 
 behave himself. I looked down the alley, and, 
 sure enough, there came Katie, radiant in the 
 stiffly starched pink calico. Evidently Mrs. 
 MacMahon had risen to the occasion for once 
 in her life. Her daughter's coiffure was the
 
 Katie MacMahon. 123 
 
 latest mode. Ordinarily Katie's hair hung 
 down her back in a tangled, frowzy plait ; now 
 it was plaited in two tight braids and wound 
 around her not unshapely head. On each side 
 of the head was a huge bow of cheap pink rib- 
 bon. It was an evidence of the motherly love 
 and pride which have made many a mother 
 scrimp and pinch in order that her daughter 
 might appear well-dressed in society, and it 
 touched my heart. She passed our porch 
 group with nods and radiant smiles. There 
 was no retaliation for past snubs in the sweet, 
 childish heart. But the brothers on the other 
 side of the street were properly ignored. It is 
 not well to show too much family affection in 
 public. Doubtless she knew their loyalty and 
 they were sure of her love. 
 
 With an instinctive dignity she walked up 
 the short pathway leading to Miss Duncan's 
 porch. The door was opened by Miss Dor- 
 othy herself and as she shook hands with 
 Katie we all saw that she had on her lavender 
 gown, usually worn only on Sunday. The 
 door closed behind them, and the brothers, 
 having seen their sister safely through the 
 ordeal, filed away. The group on my porch 
 left by ones and twos, suddenly remembering 
 
 9
 
 124 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 that they had supper at their own homes wait- 
 ing for them. 
 
 An hour later word was passed around that 
 Miss Dorothy Duncan was on her porch and 
 was going to tell stories. That was always 
 a signal for every child who could to station 
 himself on the porch steps or floor, for among 
 her other excellences Miss Dorothy was a de- 
 lightful storyteller. 
 
 As the afterglow faded from the summer 
 sky and the gentle twilight settled down upon 
 our small community there was a breaking up 
 of the interested group of children and I 
 heard Miss Dorothy's voice say, "Thank 
 you, I have enjoyed telling the stories almost 
 as much as any of you, but it is Katie you 
 must thank, not me. It was she who sug- 
 gested that we have stories this evening. 
 Haven't we all enjoyed her birthday!" and a 
 chorus of voices answered, "Yes, indeed!" 
 Arthur Nelson and his cousin, Agatha Pea- 
 body, passed my door just as he was saying, 
 "I think Katie MacMahon is the nicest girl 
 in our neighborhood, don't you ?"
 
 A STARVED SOUL. 
 
 While spending the winter in the South one 
 year, being somewhat troubled with my eyes, 
 I asked my regular physician to recommend 
 to me a good oculist. He thought for a mo- 
 ment or two and then said, "Young Dr. 
 
 has just returned from three years 
 
 of study in Paris. I hear he has the latest 
 scientific methods and apparatus. You might 
 try him. He seemed to be a fine young fel- 
 low before he went away." Then he added, 
 laughingly, "I reckon Paris hasn't spoiled 
 him. I will give you a letter of introduction 
 to him." 
 
 The next week, having made an engagement 
 by letter with the young oculist, I went at the 
 appointed hour to his office, which I found 
 was in his own home in a pleasant resident 
 part of the town. 
 
 It was a bright, sunny afternoon in late 
 February. The children of the neighborhood 
 were at play in the fresh, sunshiny air. Two 
 little tots were digging vigorously in a sand- 
 pile left by some recent builders. Several 
 children were gathering yellow dandelions in 
 
 125
 
 126 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 a vacant lot near by. Some boys were gallop- 
 ing as horses with cord reins held by equally 
 spirited drivers. Two or three little girls 
 were trundling their doll-carriages along the 
 sidewalk with true motherly pride and solici- 
 tude. Every now and then one or another of 
 them would stop and readjust her doll's pil- 
 low or carriage robe. Here was a group of 
 neighborhood children gathered together in 
 eager but friendly discussion concerning some 
 new project upon which they were about to 
 venture. A little farther on were larger boys 
 who had taken possession of a side street and 
 were playing ball so vigorously that every 
 muscle in their bodies seemed to be in exercise 
 as they bowed, or bent, or leaped into the air 
 to catch the ball, or ran far down the street 
 after it, in case they failed to catch it. All 
 around me was the life-giving air and sun- 
 shine and the children at play in such sur- 
 roundings seemed to me to have all that 
 children long for. Nothing could have 
 been better for their physical upbuilding than 
 such vigorous, free play, and nothing could 
 have been better for their social training for 
 comradeship than their voluntary co-opera- 
 in this same free play.
 
 A Starved Soul. 127 
 
 My thoughts traveled back to the little ones 
 of my own home city in the North, who at 
 this season of the year were imprisoned in 
 furnace-heated rooms. And I mentally ejacu- 
 lated, "Bless them! I wish they were every 
 one of them here enjoying this balmy air and 
 filling their hearts with the love of Nature's 
 blue sky and green fields I" I consoled myself 
 with the thought that many hundreds of them 
 were at least in kindergartens, learning to use 
 hands and heads and hearts in co-operation 
 with other children. And my thoughts, natur- 
 ally enough, traveled back to scenes and expe- 
 riences in these child-gardens of the North. 
 
 I suddenly remembered that I had not 
 come out to watch children at play, or for 
 a leisurely saunter in the pleasant air. I 
 was on what was to me an important errand. 
 So I began to look at the numbers on the 
 houses. In a few moments my eyes were at- 
 tracted by the pathetically sad face of a child 
 about five years of age, which was pressed 
 close against the window-pane of an upper 
 window of a handsome brick house. The 
 wistful blue eyes looked longingly out at a 
 group of children who were playing in 
 front of the house. The pretty yellow hair
 
 128 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 that framed the sad little face was carefully 
 curled and tied back with a large blue ribbon 
 bow. And her dainty white frock showed that 
 she was fondly cared for. Yet the face was 
 one of the loneliest, saddest faces I had ever 
 seen on a child. "Poor little thing!" I 
 thought, "She must be a cripple shut away 
 from all this joyous child-life." I nodded and 
 smiled, and the child instantly smiled back. 
 Just then I discovered that the house was the 
 one for which I was hunting. With the pity 
 for the little cripple still tingling in my heart, 
 I ran? the door-bell. Then I heard the sweet 
 chatter of a child's voice calling to someone 
 in the house as I waited. The door was 
 opened by a maid in a snowy cap and apron. 
 Imagine my surprise to see the little girl 
 whom I had pictured as moving painfully 
 about on crutches come running down the hall 
 with a doll in her arms as if to meet a friend. 
 I held out my hand and she took it. At the 
 same time she looked up questioningly into 
 my face with an anxious expression that puz- 
 zled me. The maid stated, in pretty broken 
 English, that Monsieur, the doctor, had been 
 much pained by one tooth and much regretted 
 that he must go to the dentist, but would
 
 A Starved Soul.' 129 
 
 madam come in. Monsieur, the doctor, would 
 soon be home. In just one little time he would 
 be here. "All right" I said as I turned to enter 
 the office. "The little girl will entertain me." 
 "Come here, and tell me about your dolls," 
 I said to the child, who had dropped my hand, 
 but stood listening with acute attention. She 
 came into the office somewhat hesitatingly. I 
 sat down and, holding out both hands, said, 
 "Well, now, come here and tell me what is 
 the name of your doll. Then I will tell you 
 something about my dolls!" Instantly an ex- 
 pression of bitter disappointment overspread 
 her face. And the haunting loneliness came 
 again into her eyes. "Why, what is the mat- 
 ter, my child!" I exclaimed. "Come here, I 
 want to talk to you. I am very fond of little 
 girls, and of dolls, too." She merely shook 
 her head and drew away as if I had hurt her. 
 "Won't you come and talk to me while I wait 
 for papa?" I said, coaxingly. She replied 
 in a tone of bitterness, almost resentment, and 
 backed out of the room shaking her head in a 
 sad, weary fashion. What could be the mat- 
 ter? I was still puzzling over the situation 
 when the handsome young wife of the oculist 
 came into the room, and in a charming way
 
 130 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 explained her husband's absence, and ex- 
 pressed regret over my having to wait for him. 
 
 She was delightful and we fell into an easy, 
 pleasant conversation. Soon the door opened 
 a little and in the crack appeared the wistfully 
 sad face of the little child. Again I smiled 
 and held out my hand. The mother said 
 something to her. I did not understand what, 
 and the child came into the room. Again I 
 said, "Please let me see your dolly! Won't 
 you?" Her mother again spoke to her. I 
 did not catch what she said, but the child in- 
 stantly came forward and laid the doll in my 
 lap. Then looking searchingly into my eyes, 
 she said eagerly in French, "You will under- 
 stand me, will you not?" "What is it she is 
 saying," I asked of the mother. "Oh, noth- 
 ing," she replied, pleasantly, as she signaled 
 to the child to leave the room. She does not 
 speak English and she was asking if you 
 would talk to her in French." 
 
 "Does not speak English!" I involuntarily 
 exclaimed, "What do you mean?" The 
 mother laughed an amused little laugh and 
 said, "We have just returned from a three- 
 years' residence in Paris, and while there 
 Annetta acquired such an excellent French ac-
 
 A Starved Soul. 131 
 
 cent that I could not bear to have it spoiled. 
 So we brought a French maid home with us, 
 and I never allow Annetta to go out unless my 
 maid or I go with her, as I do not wish her to 
 hear other children talk in English. Her fa- 
 ther and I always use the French language 
 when speaking with her, or in her presence." 
 
 "But," I protested — realizing fully that I 
 was trespassing on forbidden ground — "are 
 you not depriving her of much when you shut 
 her away from all other children?" "Oh, 
 yes," she replied. "She often begs to be al- 
 lowed to go out to play with the children of 
 the neighborhood, but I can't bear to have her 
 beautiful French spoiled." 
 
 It was clear to me now. I knew why 
 the little face was so sad. Why the pathetic 
 blue eyes had in them such depth of longing. 
 Her poor little soul was starving for compan- 
 ionship. I rose and nervously began pacing 
 up and down the room. Then summoning all 
 the moral courage I could, I stopped before 
 the mother and said, "Please pardon me, if 
 what I say seems rude and intrusive, but I 
 am a kindergartner, and have had the care of 
 many scores of little children. They have 
 been the study of my life. Do you not realize
 
 132 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 that a child's soul can be starved as well as 
 its body. Every child needs the companion- 
 ship of other children, just as you and I need 
 the society of our equals." Then I added as 
 politely as I could, "Forgive me for the free- 
 dom I have taken with you, an entire 
 stranger." She did not reply, but the smile 
 was gone from her lips, and faint lines of 
 worry came on her smooth, white forehead. 
 
 Just then the doctor came in, and the young 
 mother excused herself, and left the office. 
 When I was once more in the street I in- 
 voluntarily glanced up at the window and 
 there stood the lonely, sad-faced little girl, 
 watching the other children at their play. Just 
 as she had stood an hour ago when I first saw 
 her. And then came trooping before me 
 images of all the little lonely children who are 
 shut away from companionship with other 
 children because their mammas wish to be ex- 
 clusive, or do not want Marie's or Herbert's 
 manners spoiled, or fear contagious diseases, 
 or for some other such reason. And my heart 
 grew fierce and hot as I thought of what such 
 solitary confinement would mean to any of 
 these fathers or mothers. Then the still small 
 voice within whispered, "Father! forgive 
 them, for they know not what they do !"
 
 DAUGHTERS OF MEN. 
 
 I was on a suburban train one bright Sep- 
 tember day, when my attention was attracted 
 to a group who sat across the aisle from me. 
 It was evidently a father with his two chil- 
 dren, who were returning home from a shop- 
 ping expedition. 
 
 The man had the face of a refined gentle- 
 man, but his broad shoulders and alert ways 
 showed the virility of a strong, masculine 
 nature. The threads of silver here and there 
 in his thick dark hair also showed that the im- 
 pulsive days of youth were over, and the firm 
 lines about his shaven mouth and chin spoke 
 of the habit of authority and command. Still 
 there was a pleasant smile in his eyes and a 
 kindly tone in his voice. On the seat opposite 
 sat a boy about eight years of age, a manly- 
 looking little fellow, and by his side was his 
 six-year-old sister. Both children gave evi- 
 dence of wholesome feeding and careful 
 "grooming." It was quite apparent that their 
 physical needs were well looked after. 
 
 It was the quiet, dignified conversation 
 
 *33
 
 134 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 which was being exchanged between father 
 and son that first attracted my attention. My 
 silent comment was, "He is certainly a father 
 who respects his son. No wonder the boy is 
 such a manly little fellow." They were near- 
 ing their destination, and the father had be- 
 gun assorting several packages, preparatory 
 to leaving the train. "Here, my son," he said, 
 "You may carry the basket of grapes. Take 
 it carefully by the handle. Ah, that is right !" 
 This last was said with a smile of approval, as 
 the boy, with evident pride at being entrusted 
 to such an extent, had carefully taken hold of 
 the handle of the basket and had balanced it 
 on his two knees. 
 
 The little girl looked up wistfully, but she 
 sat still with her hands clasped tightly in her 
 lap. The father next took up a lighter bundle. 
 The little daughter's eyes grew anxiously 
 bright and her slight body leaned eloquently 
 toward her father. Her hands unclasped and 
 one of them involuntarily moved forward a 
 trifle. The yearning in the child's heart to 
 share in the usefulness of her brother was 
 clearly manifest, although she said not a word. 
 But the father evidently did not see, or at 
 least did not heed the mute appeal. How
 
 Daughters of Men. 135 
 
 many generations of fathers have been just as 
 blind ! And how many generations of daugh- 
 ters have been just as mute. 
 
 The bundle was laid down again. The 
 father stood up slowly filling the capacious 
 pockets of his light overcoat with other pack- 
 ages. Then, looking slightly perplexed, he 
 again picked up the light-weight package. 
 After a moment's hesitation, he said, laugh- 
 ingly, "My son, I seem to have more than I 
 can carry. Do you think you can manage to 
 take charge of this package also?" 
 
 "Oh, let me carry it! Please let me!" 
 broke from the lips of the little girl. Her 
 cheeks had flushed, and there was real heart- 
 pleading in her tone. "No, no!" said the 
 father, "Brother can carry it, I am sure. Can 
 you not, Brother?" 
 
 "Of course I can," cried the boy, as, with 
 the tone of inborn superiority, derived from 
 generations of masculine burden-bearing, he 
 took the package and showed how he could 
 carry the two. A momentary glance of 
 triumph was cast toward the little sister. But 
 it was enough to cause her to shrink back and 
 retreat within herself, as the look of eager an-
 
 136 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 ticipation which had come into her eyes died 
 out. 
 
 As the train slowed up the three arose to 
 their feet. "Well, I declare I" exclaimed the 
 father, "I had almost forgotten my news- 
 paper." As he picked up the closely rolled 
 sheet a light once more broke over the face of 
 the little girl. "Oh, father, let me carry it! 
 Please let me I" There was no mistaking of 
 the tone of entreaty now. Nor was there, to 
 my mind, at least, any mistaking of the motive 
 which caused the boy to hastily transfer his 
 bundle to his hand which carried the basket. 
 He reached out the hand thus freed, saying in 
 an easy, indifferent tone, "Give it here ! I'll 
 carry it !" But the daughter of the house had 
 been too quick for him. She had the coveted 
 burden already in her hand and her eyes were 
 full of happiness. She had asserted her right 
 to be a sharer in life's burdens and had won! 
 "Ah! pshaw! exclaimed the boy, contemptu- 
 ously, "You can't carry anything! You'll 
 drop it ! Give it to me !" With these words 
 he reached out his hand and took hold of the 
 paper. A struggle ensued. A struggle as old 
 as recorded history! 
 
 The father had already stepped into the
 
 Daughters of Men. 137 
 
 car aisle. Turning his head, he saw the 
 cause of the trouble, and, quickly adjusting a 
 bundle which he himself was carrying, he 
 leaned down and, taking the rolled newspaper 
 from the girl's hand, he gave it to the boy 
 with the remark, "Girls must not carry bun- 
 dles ! That is what brothers are for." Then 
 he turned and the three left the car. But he 
 saw not the droop of the shoulders or the 
 expression of despair that spread over the 
 face of the little girl. Her lip quivered for a 
 second and then she made a brave effort to 
 smile. But it was a pathetic little smile, and 
 only half concealed the chagrin of defeat. 
 
 As the train sped on I gazed out of the 
 window, but I did not see the trees and pas- 
 tures. Instead, there passed before me a long 
 procession — centuries long — of "daughters 
 who must not carry bundles," bending some- 
 times breaking under the burdens which every 
 true woman must sooner or later carry. And I 
 wondered when well-meaning, loving fathers 
 would learn that a hot-house training is not 
 the best training for their daughters, who 
 must one day take part in the battles of life, or 
 let their souls wither and die under the first 
 chilling frost of adversity. Perhaps, what
 
 138 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 is worse, far worse, they might grow callous 
 and selfish through indolence and trample un- 
 der foot the love and devotion which every 
 true man brings to his bride, and unwittingly 
 crush out this precious love, because they 
 have never been trained to take responsibili- 
 ties, and therefore could not know how to 
 help him bear the burdens that must come 
 sooner or later to all daughters as well as all 
 sons of men.
 
 HERBERT AT HIS GRANDMOTHER'S 
 
 My friend Margaret Sayre and I were in- 
 vited one summer to spend a week in the home 
 of some friends in the beautiful valley of the 
 Mohawk. Their's was one of those dear, 
 lovely old homesteads which had grown with 
 the growing family, adding here a wing and 
 there an ell, regardless of architecture of pro- 
 portion. But it had the beauty of utility, that 
 sure evidence of the sincerity of the life which 
 had been lived within its walls. The yards, 
 too, with its large lilac bushes, taller than a 
 man's head, its old-fashioned roses and climb- 
 ing honeysuckle told of the loving care which 
 its owners had bestowed upon the place in 
 years gone by. The undulating hills stretched 
 to the far-away horizon and added to the air 
 of quiet and peace that hovered over the en- 
 tire landscape. It was the time for the harvest- 
 ing of the hop fields which surrounded the vil- 
 lage, and each morning a picturesque line of 
 hoppickcrs wended their way up the hill past 
 my friend's house. The village itself lay silent 
 and asleep in the sunshine. One felt as if the 
 
 10 139
 
 140 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 vexatious problems of life could not enter 
 here. I was soon to learn that such a notion 
 was but a dream; for where life is must come 
 life's problems. I found that the young mar- 
 ried daughter of my hostess was spending the 
 summer at the old home. She had with her 
 her only child, a boy of five. 
 
 The grandmother expressed herself as 
 pleased that we had come while the child was 
 there, and lost no time in telling me privately 
 that she hoped I would discover what was the 
 matter with him. "Nobody," she said, seemed 
 to understand him. "And," she added, "He is 
 a source of great anxiety to his father and 
 mother. I am sure I don't know what to do 
 with him ! I don't think he is a bad boy, and 
 yet he is always getting into some mischief." 
 
 We saw nothing of the child during the 
 morning, but at the noon dinner he appeared. 
 He looked strong and well and was neatly 
 dressed, and was scrupulously clean, showing 
 that the best possible care had been given to 
 his bodily welfare. But an expression of 
 irritability and discontent was on his face and 
 his whole manner was that of extreme ennui. 
 He had to be coaxed by both his grandfather 
 and grandmother to eat his dinner, while his
 
 Herbert at His Grandmother's 141 
 
 mother looked on in distress, adding now and 
 then a word or two of reproach or rebuke to 
 the boy. I noticed, however, after a due 
 amount of coaxing, he ate with the hearty 
 relish of a healthy child. 
 
 A little later in the afternoon Margaret 
 and I were sitting on the porch in front of the 
 house, when he came wandering in listless 
 fashion down the gravel walk towards the 
 side gate. After a few moments of idle look- 
 ing about, he began picking up pebbles and 
 throwing them, one at a time, at the young 
 turkeys and chickens that were scattered about 
 in the back yard. 
 
 "Don't do that, Herbert," said his mother 
 from the parlor window near by. The boy 
 glanced up carelessly for a minute and then 
 continued throwing the pebbles at the fowls. 
 His face did not change in the slightest degree 
 its expression of indifference. "Herbert!" 
 called his grandmother from the rear of the 
 house, "I have told you again and again that 
 you ??iust not throw stones at the chickens!" 
 The boy smiled wearily as if recalling the oft- 
 repeated but somewhat stupid command, then, 
 selecting one or two large pebbles, he took de- 
 liberate aim at the defenseless fowls and
 
 142 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 threw them singly, but so skillfully that one of 
 them struck sharply against the wing of a 
 young turkey, which ran off squawking until it 
 reached a safe distance. "Herbert, Herbert!" 
 called the grandmother in a tone of exaspera- 
 tion, "Didn't you hear what I said ?" 
 
 "Oh, dear! What shall I do with that 
 child," came plaintively from the parlor win- 
 dow. "He is always tormenting something or 
 somebody!" Then the young mother added 
 in a louder voice, "Herbert, mamma will cer- 
 tainly have to whip you again if you do not 
 let grandma's chickens alone !" The boy 
 glanced up, lifted his eyebrows slightly, and, 
 gathered up some more pebbles, took a po- 
 sition a little to one side in order that he 
 might aim more accurately at the chickens in 
 the rear of the yard. 
 
 Margaret rose from the low chair in which 
 she had been sitting and sauntered down the 
 walk and began to pick up the pebbles also. 
 The boy stopped his attack on the fowls and 
 eyed her, at first contemptuously and then 
 with some degree of curiosity. Soon she began 
 laying her pebbles in regular rows about two 
 inches apart. "What's that you are doing," 
 said the child, as he came slowly toward her.
 
 Herbert at His Grandmother's. 143 
 
 "These are the hop-gatherers going up the 
 hill," she replied. "Don't you see," she con- 
 tinued quietly, without looking up, "these 
 large pebbles are the women and the small 
 ones are the boys and girls who go along to 
 help." Master Herbert nonchalantly drew a 
 little nearer, but unconsciously his face 
 showed interest and surprise. She continued to 
 place the smooth, white pebbles at regular in- 
 tervals without seeming to take any further 
 notice of the boy. He came a step or two 
 nearer, then thrust his hands into his trousers 
 pockets and stood looking down at her with 
 the air of a superior being who was amused 
 for the moment by the purile play of an in- 
 ferior. She continued to extend the line of 
 pebbles towards the gate. He noticed that she 
 picked up one or two and then tossed them 
 aside. "Why don't you use those pebbles?" 
 said he, pointing condescendingly to one of 
 them with the toe of his shoe. "Because I want 
 only the clean, white ones," replied Margaret, 
 still intent upon her work. "I want all the 
 mothers to be beautiful and all their children 
 to have clean faces." "See!" she added. 
 "What a long line of them there is ! They will 
 soon be up to the bop fields picking the hops."
 
 144 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 The curious, half-contemptuous look on his 
 face changed slowly to one of amused interest. 
 After a time, stooping down and picking up 
 a smooth, white pebble, he handed it to her. 
 "Good !" she said. "That's right, bring some 
 more people from your neighborhood. We 
 want all the workers we can get this week. 
 That will do for a mother. Now, find her 
 little boy and let him walk by her side." The 
 scornful look vanished from the child's face. 
 Margaret and he were soon in high glee call- 
 ing to each other from the two ends of the line 
 that this or that woman had brought along 
 two of her children, even three or four. 
 "Where are the papas?" said the boy, rising 
 from his stooping position that he might the 
 better contemplate their work. "You may 
 select some large pebbles for the fathers," 
 said Margaret, "and put one by the side of 
 each mother." He was delighted with the 
 idea, and began working once more with -lively 
 energy. She next suggested that he build a 
 large hop field at the upper end of the walk 
 and put a fence of pebbles around it. Then 
 excusing herself, saying she must go to her 
 room for a few moments, she left him, busy 
 and intent upon the completing of the repre-
 
 Herbert at His Grandmother's. 145 
 
 sentation of this strange new life of the hop- 
 gatherers into which he so lately had come, 
 differing so greatly from the city life to 
 which he had been accustomed. When he 
 entered the parlor a little later to ask Mar- 
 garet to come out and see what he had made, 
 his eyes were sparkling and his face was 
 flushed with pleasure. Later on, after he had 
 completed the work to his own satisfaction, he 
 came once more to where his mother, Mar- 
 garet and I sat talking, and, leaning affection- 
 ately on the arm of his mother's chair, he 
 gazed eloquently into Margaret's face. The 
 mother lovingly stroked his hair and said 
 something laughingly about my friend's hav- 
 ing captured her boy's heart. "Oh, no !" an- 
 swered Margaret, quickly, "Herbert's heart 
 is still with his mother. He and I have just 
 been having some fun together. We'll have 
 some more to-morrow, won't we Herbert?" 
 He nodded a delighted assent and began ask- 
 ing some eager and earnest questions about 
 the hop-pickers. His grandfather came in just 
 then and offered to take him to see the hop 
 fields, which were less than a half a mile away. 
 The boy bounded off for his cap and the two 
 walked down the gravel path hand in hand,
 
 146 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 Herbert gayly asking questions and the happy- 
 grandfather answering them in a tone of voice 
 which told of the pride he felt in having so 
 intelligent a grandson. Soon after the two 
 had disappeared Margaret came down 
 dressed for a walk, and informed me that she 
 was going by another path to the hop fields so 
 as to surprise Herbert and his grandfather by 
 meeting them there, "and also to gather some 
 more facts for the romance Herbert and I are 
 weaving," she added, as she pointed laugh- 
 ingly to the row of pebbles, and then ran 
 down the gravel walk. 
 
 "What a strange girl she is," said my 
 hostess: "What possible romance can she find 
 in playing with a few white pebbles and a five- 
 year-old boy. In my day, girls of her age 
 were thinking of clothes and beaux." 
 
 "In some unexplainable way she has 
 touched my son's heart," said the young 
 mother, gently. "I have not seen him as happy 
 in a long time as he was when he came in from 
 their play together. Herbert is of such an 
 unhappy disposition. He is never satisfied, 
 no matter how much we do for him." "Pos- 
 sibly that is the difficulty," I replied. "Per- 
 haps you do too much for him. No child is
 
 Herbert at His Grandmother's. 147 
 
 happy unless he is using his own powers. 
 That is the law of all nature." Both women 
 looked at me inquiringly and the grandmother 
 said, sharply, "Stop your teacher-talk and tell 
 us why Margaret was able to make Herbert 
 happy in so short a time, when we had been 
 taxing ourselves ever since he came to keep 
 him out of mischief, not to speak of making 
 him contented." 
 
 Seeing that they were really in earnest, I 
 replied. "The expression on a child's face and 
 the tone of his voice tell of his mental con- 
 dition as surely as hectic flush or extreme 
 pallor tell of physical condition. In your 
 boy's case, these indicated to me, and I pre- 
 sume suggested the same to Margaret, that 
 the world of fancy had not been opened to 
 him. His mind had been fed on facts, and 
 therefore his imagination had not had suf- 
 ficient wholesome play. The imagination is 
 the great awakener of creative thought. The 
 boy instinctively longed to make his own 
 world. Do we not each one of us want to 
 fashion our own lives? In your extreme care 
 of him you have crowded upon him things 
 and facts which yon had selected from your 
 world of experiences and observations until
 
 148 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 he was weary. All that Margaret did was to 
 help him re-create in play the new world of 
 country life into which he has so recently 
 come. The long line of hop-pickers going 
 past your house each morning is the one stir- 
 ring event of the day, especially to a city child 
 who knows more about city people than he 
 does about nature. First, she aroused his 
 curiosity by silently arranging the pebbles in 
 such a way as to show that she had some defi- 
 nite plan in mind. This awakened his in- 
 terest, and when he asked her what she was 
 doing she plunged him into the life of the 
 hop-pickers whom he had watched each morn- 
 ing climb the hill and disappear. With this 
 difference, however: these were his hop-pick- 
 ers and he could do what he chose with them. 
 He not only reproduced the life about him by 
 his play, and therefore began to understand 
 that life better, but he idealized it and added 
 what he felt it needed, by suggesting that the 
 fathers walk with the mothers, and that they 
 climb the hill together, also that three or four 
 children were in some of the pebble-families. 
 Thus, his sympathies were quickened by this 
 world of poetic fancy into which the play 
 had led him." "You watched with keen
 
 Herbert at His Grandmother's. 149 
 
 attention," continued I, turning to the young 
 mother whose earnest eyes were inviting me 
 to prolong the explanation. "Having inter- 
 ested him in the hop-pickers, Margaret next 
 led him to fence in a field of his own for them 
 to come to. You may laugh if you wish, but 
 could you see in the small activities of child- 
 hood the embryo activities of life at large as 
 we kindergartners do, you would see in this 
 simple building of an imaginary hop field the 
 same instinct which Goethe portrayed in the 
 aged Faust, when, having redeemed a new 
 land from the sea, he called a free people to 
 come and live upon it. This was one of the 
 great Goethe's greatest insights. No soul is 
 contented until it has created a world for it- 
 self and its own activity. You saw the bright- 
 ness on Herbert's face as he came into the 
 house. It was but the reflection of the bright- 
 ness of the spirit within his breast which had 
 been stirred by its own activity into creating a 
 miniature world, the hop field. If you will 
 watch you will doubtless see Margaret de- 
 velop this creative power in your boy in a 
 hundred ways. To her this is not foolish 
 play. It is an opportunity to quicken the heart 
 of a little child, and to awaken in him a new
 
 150 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 and wonderful world of poetry and romance, 
 of ideals and activities which, if rightly di- 
 rected, will lead him on to a larger and richer 
 life than would be possible without such play." 
 The tears stood in the young mother's eyes. 
 The grandmother and I rose, as if by one in- 
 stinct, and left her to ponder all these things 
 in her heart as Mary of Old had pondered in 
 her heart her Child's Kingship. I was not an 
 angel who had brought to Herbert's mother 
 this message of her son's divine rights. But 
 I was a kindergartner, and she had the 
 mother-heart that eagerly listens to such mes- 
 sages, no matter who or what the messenger 
 may be.
 
 GERTRUDE'S STORY. 
 
 Gertrude had gone with her mother to a 
 summer encampment where, during the sum- 
 mer, several missionary conferences, and one 
 or two literary institutes were to be held — not 
 that Gertrude cared particularly for either 
 missionary conferences or literary institutes. 
 She was a young woman of a practical turn of 
 mind, but her mother was devoted to "the 
 improvement of the sex" and was never hap- 
 pier than when in attendance upon a conven- 
 tion of some sort. Besides, this summer re- 
 sort offered rowing and sailing as added at- 
 tractions and Gertrude had been teaching all 
 year and wanted the fresh out-of-doors life 
 these latter offered. 
 
 I fear I may have given you a wrong impres- 
 sion of my friend Gertrude. She was fond 
 of her kindergarten work, and loved each 
 child in it with an intensity that was almost 
 pathetic; it showed so clearly how hungry the 
 mother-heart within her was. Notwithstand- 
 ing her study of "the fundamental interests of 
 childhood," and "the universal tendency of 
 
 I5i
 
 152 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 the race," each child was to her a joy, a won- 
 der, a marvelous being, entirely unlike any 
 other mortal. 
 
 Therefore, I was not surprised that she re- 
 turned from her outing with many new and 
 interesting stories of this and that child who 
 had attracted her ever ready interest. Among 
 the stories was the following: I will give it 
 as nearly as I can in Gertrude's own lan- 
 guage. She came in with the fresh, breezy 
 way which was one of her gifts, tossed her hat 
 on the sofa and dropped into a rocking-chair 
 and began, "I haven't told you of that awful 
 game the children played one afternoon while 
 we were at Silver Lake, have I?" "No; what 
 was it?" "Well, one morning mamma was 
 bent on having me go with her to a mother's 
 missionary meeting, where Dr. Agnes Blank 
 was going to speak on 'The little heathen of 
 our city slums.' " "That was a good subject 
 for women to think about, I am sure," I re- 
 plied. "Did you go?" "No, I didn't," she an- 
 swered, emphatically. "I can't bear to hear 
 people talk about these children as if they 
 were diseased, or had to be set apart from 
 other children ! I would far rather take one 
 dear, dirty little urchin up in my arms and
 
 Gertrude's Story. 153 
 
 carry him over to where I could wash his face 
 and hands, and then coddle him up in my lap 
 and tell him a great big fairy tale, which 
 would make his eyes dance, than to hear all 
 the well-fed, well-dressed women in Christen- 
 dom talk about 'the slum-children.' " 
 
 She gave her head a defiant toss, and con- 
 tinued, "I took mamma to the door of the big 
 tent and then I strolled off to where I saw a 
 group of children at play. The children were 
 evidently from a number of different families, 
 and were not accustomed to playing together, 
 but they all knew the game of which I am go- 
 ing to tell you. It is called 'crossing the 
 brook.' The children sat in a row on a log 
 which they called their home. With a stick 
 they had drawn a deep line in the sand. This 
 represented the brook. The little girl chosen 
 to play the mother stood in front of the rest 
 of them with a long stick in her hand. She 
 was extremely dramatic, throwing herself into 
 play with an intensity that made my heart 
 ache, it showed so much power so poorly 
 used." The impulsive young kindergartner 
 stopped short in her narrative, and, turning 
 her head away, stared out of the window. 
 I waited a moment or two and then said,
 
 154 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 "Well, what about the game ?" "Oh, I don't 
 know that I have a right to talk about it. I 
 ought to have joined in with them and taught 
 the blessed little souls some better game ; I 
 knew a score that they would have enjoyed 
 just as heartily. It is so much easier to criti- 
 cise than to help set things right." "But 
 what of the game ?" I said,"Tell me about it." 
 "Perhaps I am foolish," she said, "but it 
 hurt me. It was this : The child who was 
 playing the part of mother walked up and 
 down in front of the row of children much as 
 a policeman might walk back and forth in 
 front of a row of prisoners, then another child 
 jumped up and exclaimed, 'Mother, may I go 
 out to play?' 'No,' answered the mother, 
 sharply. 'Oh, Mother, I want to go out to 
 play!' cried the child. 'I don't care, you shan't 
 go !' said the mother, shaking the stick at her. 
 'Why can't I go out to play?' whined the 
 child. 'Because I say you can't,' shouted the 
 mother, flourishing the stick in the air. 
 'Please let me go' whined the child. 'No, I 
 won't,' cried the mother, stamping her foot. 
 'Oh, please let me go,' again whined the child. 
 Then she pretended to cry. 'Oh, well,' said 
 the dramatic little mother, in a tone of utter
 
 Gertrude's Story. 155 
 
 weariness of spirit, 'if you begin to cry I 
 s'pose I shall have to let you go, you little 
 tease! But don't go across the brook! There, 
 go along with you !' " 
 
 Gertrude was re-enacting the scene so viv- 
 idly that she unconsciously gave a shove to an 
 imaginary child in front of her, and her own 
 tone was that of a weak, querulous mother 
 yielding to her child's entreaty, even though 
 it was against her own judgment. I smiled, 
 but my storyteller did not notice it. 
 
 "Of course," she continued, throwing out 
 her hand with a gesture of despair, "The 
 child in the game immediately ran over the 
 brook to the other side, where she danced up 
 and down in triumphant glee while each of 
 the other children went through the same do- 
 mestic drama of coaxing, cajoling, whining 
 and teasing, until the mother's consent had 
 been obtained for each to go out to play, the 
 final injunction every time being, 'But don't 
 go across the brook.' 
 
 "After all the children were across the 
 brook the mother suddenly seemed to awaken 
 to her responsibility, and cried out, 'My chil- 
 dren ! my children! It is after dark! Where 
 are my children?' Then she called out in a 
 
 11
 
 156 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 tone of assumed distress, 'Children!' 'What?' 
 answered the children, impudently. 'Where 
 are you?' called the mother, peering to right 
 and left with her hand shading her eyes as if 
 searching the darkness for her neglected off- 
 spring. 'Where are you?' she cried again. 
 'Across the brook!' they shouted in chorus. 
 'How shall I get to you?' called the mother. 
 'With sticks and stones !' shouted the children, 
 derisively. 'What if I break my bones?' 
 called the mother. 'We'll be glad of it ! we'll 
 be glad of it ! Goody ! goody ! goody !' shouted 
 the children. Then they all ran wildly about, 
 the mother chasing them with her stick. The 
 one she first touched with her stick was 
 mother next time, and the game was repeated 
 with a little more roughness and insolence 
 each time. It was evidently a game made by 
 children, not by grown people. But what do 
 you think of it?" Gertrude was leaning for- 
 ward now, her blue eyes looking earnestly into 
 mine. Then she added without waiting for my 
 reply, "What do you think the mother of two 
 of these children said to me when that evening 
 I told her of the game ?" "What ?" I asked. 
 " 'Oh, well,' she drawled out, 'I don't think it 
 matters much what children play, so that they
 
 Gertrude's Story. 157 
 
 are occupied and keep out of mischief.' 
 'What do you call mischief?' said I. 'Oh, so 
 they don't play with fire or get into the water.' 
 And yet that woman," exclaimed Gertrude, 
 rising to her feet to add emphasis to her 
 words, "that woman had subscribed twenty 
 dollars that very morning to the fund for the 
 improvement of the morals of the 'slum- 
 children!' What do you think of such a 
 mother?" "I think," I replied, "that she was 
 like thousands of other mothers who do not 
 understand the deep significance of play, or 
 the influence which the part that a child plays 
 has upon him. If mothers understood that 
 the emotions are more easily stirred through 
 play and the interest more readily awakened 
 by it than in any other way, we would have 
 kindergartens springing up all over the land." 
 Gertrude sighed and dropped into a chair as 
 she exclaimed, "When will that day come!"
 
 MISS ELEANOR'S GARDEN. 
 
 Miss Eleanor Hutchlns was what you 
 might have called "a typical old maid"— that 
 is, if you had never seen her garden in spring 
 or summer, or had never chanced, on a cold 
 winter's day, to pass her bay-window, gor- 
 geous with bright rows of blossoming plants 
 and green ferns. 
 
 Somehow, garden plants grew and multi- 
 plied in her side garden as nowhere else, and 
 potted plants bloomed all winter long in her 
 windows, as if touched by an enchantress' 
 wand. Perhaps the love and care she be- 
 stowed upon them was a kind of magic felt 
 by them. How do we know how much plants 
 can feel the mood of the human being who 
 tends them? That's a question the scientists 
 of the future will have to answer. 
 
 However, if you had ever leaned over the 
 picket fence to look at her tall hollyhocks in 
 the rear, with the eastern sunlight shining 
 through their crimson and pink cup-shaped 
 blossoms, making them look like huge jewels, 
 or to wonder at the profusion of the white, 
 
 158
 
 Miss Eleanor's Garden. 159 
 
 pink, lilac, purple and yellow asters, or to 
 sniff the spicy odor of her red and yellow nas- 
 turtiums that rioted in rich abandon over the 
 side fence as no other nasturtiums this side of 
 California ever dared to riot, or to admire 
 her dignified row of foxgloves,superbly aristo- 
 cratic in their exclusive hues and tones of 
 color, you would never have thought of her 
 spinsterhood, not to speak of the appeal that 
 would be made to you by the more modest 
 beauty of the heliotrope and quiet mignon- 
 ette, to say nothing of the border of pert 
 English daisies and saucy pansies — I say if 
 you had this experience, or had ever had the 
 more subtle pleasure of finding that you had 
 involuntarily smiled back courteous return 
 for the smile which her winter window boxes 
 had seemed to give you, you would have 
 known that a motherly, warm-hearted woman 
 lived in the little white house shaded by the 
 two tall elms in front. 
 
 Miss Eleanor's garden was the pride of the 
 neighborhood, as well as one of the deep 
 joys of her life; so when the new family 
 moved into the red brick house next door, and 
 it became known that they were well-to-do 
 city folks and had moved to a country town on
 
 160 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 account of their only child, a boy of eight, 
 there were many misgivings and shaking of 
 heads, for our village people had learned 
 from sad experience that city boys, usually 
 summer boarders or visiting relatives, knew 
 and cared nothing for nature's beauty. They 
 generally betrayed their inner savage condi- 
 tion by skinning the bark off of the tree 
 trunks, swinging on slender branches until 
 they broke them off, trampling down the 
 flower beds unless they were stopped, and 
 when allowed to go into the fields to gather 
 wild flowers, grabbing handfuls of them, and 
 frequently pelting each other with them. 
 
 Such conduct seemed nothing short of crim- 
 inal to our small community, most of whom 
 could not understand that these dreaded city 
 boys, never having been taught to love nature, 
 were merely manifesting the savage delight of 
 showing their mastery over her by abusing 
 her and destroying her beauty. 
 
 " 'Tain't no use plantin' yer garden this 
 year, Miss Eleanor," grumbled the old gar- 
 dener who for thirty years had spaded and 
 raked Miss Eleanor's garden for her. "That 
 there boy next door will tear up everything 
 you plant. I never seen such a destructive fel-
 
 Miss Eleanor's Gut den. 1 6 1 
 
 lcr ! He jest sets on the grass and pulls it up 
 by the handful and throws it at the dog. I seen 
 him break off a great big limb from ol' Miss 
 Grayson's lilac bush, jest fur sheer cussedness. 
 He never done nothin' with it, jest thrashed it 
 around a bit and then throwed it away. You 
 ain't a-goin' to be able to keep your garden 
 like it used to be, with that there boy next 
 door," and the old man shook his head. Miss 
 Eleanor smiled. She had a way of getting 
 along amicably with most people, and she did 
 not doubt her ability to do so with the boy 
 next door. Still, she was wise enough to 
 know that the pent-up energy of the new 
 neighbor's boy must find vent somehow, so 
 early next day, being one of those bright 
 spring days that makes mere existence a joy, 
 she called pleasantly to the boy, asking him if 
 he would not come over and dig some holes 
 in the newly-prepared garden, as she wanted 
 to set out her pansies. What boy is there who 
 could resist an invitation to dig holes in the 
 ground ? It is a racial instinct, and dates back 
 thousands of years to those old Aryan ances- 
 tors who changed from hunters and shep- 
 herds to tillers of the soil. 
 
 The pale-faced new boy was over the fence
 
 1 62 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 in a minute, and soon he and Miss Eleanor 
 were busy with what was to him the entirely 
 new and delightful activity, namely that of 
 setting out potted plants. Of course, Miss 
 Eleanor managed to have two pots of 
 pansies left over, and in a matter-of-fact sort 
 of way proposed that the new boy should 
 plant them in his garden. "My garden!" ex- 
 claimed the boy. A sudden light leaped up 
 into his eyes and then died down as he added, 
 almost derisively, "Pshaw, I haven't any gar- 
 den!" "But you can have one," said Miss 
 Eleanor. "The last people who lived in that 
 house had a beautiful garden. You can dig it 
 up yourself, and I'll show you how to plant 
 it and care for it." 
 
 To make a long story short, the boy's gar- 
 den became a reality, and Miss Eleanor and 
 he became fast friends. She found him a shy 
 sensitive lad, terribly afraid of being 
 laughed at. It seems that one of his father's 
 amusements had been ridiculing the child and 
 making fun of anything he said that was at all 
 out of the commonplace. Of course the father 
 meant no harm by it. He was working hard 
 to pile up a bank account for the boy to have 
 by and by, but his habit of making fun of
 
 Miss Eleanor's Garden. 163 
 
 everything that the boy did had caused the 
 child to grow silent and reserved in mere self- 
 defense. 
 
 However, few people could resist Miss 
 Eleanor Hutchins' friendliness, and the sun- 
 shine and fresh air helped to thaw out the hid- 
 den corners in the child's heart. As the pale 
 face grew tanned in the open air, the painful 
 self-consciousness grew less also, because he 
 was busy now, working side by side with a 
 friend who did not ridicule everything he said, 
 but seemed instead to be really interested in 
 what he was thinking of. 
 
 One morning, about two months after the 
 friendship had begun, the two were digging 
 up the weeds in Miss Eleanor's pansy border. 
 "Why do you want the weeds dug up ?" asked 
 the boy. "Because they are ugly and greedy," 
 replied Miss Eleanor, "They take all the best 
 of the food the soil has to give, so there is not 
 enough left for our pretty flowers." "God 
 made the flowers, didn't he?" said the boy, 
 stopping suddenly. "Yes," said Miss Eleanor, 
 "and isn't it wonderful," she continued, "how 
 one flower will come up yellow and another 
 will come up purple?" She lightly touched a 
 nasturtium blossom and a pansy with the tip
 
 164 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 of her trowel as she spoke. "And yet they 
 both come out of the same ground and are 
 warmed by the same sunshine and watered by 
 the same rain." The boy nodded his head 
 thoughtfully, then gazed far off into space for 
 a few minutes, as was his habit. His face and 
 attitude showed that he was feeling the pres- 
 ence of a power beyond man's power, that 
 sense of infinite mystery which comes to us 
 all when once we really think of the marvel- 
 ous miracles which nature is constantly reveal- 
 ing to us. It was perhaps the earliest dawn of 
 the religious instinct in the race — when man 
 began to look through nature up to nature's 
 God. Miss Eleanor worked on in silence. 
 She knew the boy too well to intrude upon his 
 thoughts just then. 
 
 By and by some soft, tiny, white cotton- 
 wood seeds floated down from the tall tree in 
 the neighboring yard. One of them touched 
 the little boy's hand and settled down upon it. 
 "Tell me about this," said the boy, as if sud- 
 denly awakening from a dream. He held out 
 his hand, in which the tiny Cottonwood seed 
 lay. "That," said Miss Eleanor, "is a seed 
 from the big Cottonwood tree over there. All 
 spring it has been growing and growing and
 
 Miss Eleanor's Garden. 165 
 
 drinking more and more of the rain and 
 juices of the soil that came to it from its roots 
 far down underground, and everyday it has 
 stretched out its branches just a little farther, 
 that it might get more air and more sunshine, 
 so that it could make these tiny little seeds." 
 As she spoke she took the small seed from the 
 boy's hand and looked admiringly at it, as one 
 might look upon a jewel or a rare bit of carv- 
 ing. The boy leaned forward and looked 
 eagerly at it also. "Tell me about it, all about 
 it," he said, in an earnest, expectant tone. The 
 woman smiled. The miracles of the seasons 
 were to her the greatest of all miracles, and 
 the illumined book of nature was her favorite 
 book. "Did you ever think of it," she said, 
 as she laid down her trowel and picked up a 
 number of the white-winged seeds that had 
 drifted into a small heap near by, "every one 
 of these tiny, tiny seeds has within it the 
 power to become a great big Cottonwood tree, 
 as large, possibly, as that great big tree over 
 there?" 
 
 The boy involuntarily moved a trifle closer 
 to her, and looking into her eyes, said in a 
 low tone, "God made those little seeds too, 
 didn't He?" "Yes," she answered, reverently,
 
 1 66 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 "God made all our garden and all the trees 
 and everything that grows in all the fields. 
 They are telling us how good and wise He 
 is." And now a troubled, puzzled look came 
 into the boy's face. After a moment of em- 
 barrassed silence he said, somewhat hesitat- 
 ingly, as if fearing a rebuke, "Why did God 
 make the weeds ugly and give them a bad 
 odor? Why didn't He make them as beauti- 
 ful as He made the flowers?" The mother- 
 heart in the woman almost stopped beating. 
 How could she answer that question so as to 
 satisfy the young soul before her? He had 
 uttered the cry of all humanity, had asked the 
 question as old as the human race. "What is 
 evil? Why is it in the world?" The conflict 
 of the inner life as portrayed in that oldest of 
 all dramas, the story of Job, rose before her. 
 How was she to satisfy this childish heart? 
 
 "We cannot always understand why God 
 does as He does, but we know that He is wise 
 and good because we see so many good and 
 beautiful things around us that He has put 
 there to help us. But I think," she added, 
 softly, "that perhaps He wanted us to under- 
 stand Him better and love Him more, so He 
 has let us help Him make the world beautiful."
 
 Miss Eleanor's Garden. 167 
 
 "You know," she continued, a rare smile 
 lighting her face as she spoke, "all the beauti- 
 ful flowers were once what we call weeds, and 
 it is because men have taken care of them and 
 helped them to grow the best they could that 
 they have changed into flowers. And these 
 weeds have in them possibilities of becoming 
 beautiful flowers if we will only learn how to 
 take care of them. Don't you see, God is let- 
 ting us help take care of the world, just as 
 I let you help me take care of my garden and 
 you let me help you take care of your garden. 
 Isn't it a wonderful thought that we can help 
 God make His world more beautiful!" 
 
 The boy made no answer, but his hand 
 reached out and took hold of hers. They sat 
 thus in silence for a few minutes. Just then 
 his mother came to Her back door and called 
 to the boy to come home and study his Sun- 
 day-school lesson. It was a rather difficult 
 lesson that week, it was the condemnation of 
 Sodom and Gomorrah. 
 
 Miss Eleanor picked up her garden tools 
 and, putting them into her basket, went into 
 her own house. As she passed through the 
 kitchen the maid asked, "What have you been
 
 1 68 Misunderstood Children. 
 
 doing this morning?" and Eleanor Hutchins, 
 spinster, answered quietly, "I have been sow- 
 ing some seeds."
 
 NATIONAL KINDERGARTEN COLLEGE 
 
 2944 Michigan Boulevard, Chicago, III. 
 
 PUBLICATION DEPARTMENT 
 
 A STUDY OF CHILD NATURE. By Elizabeth Harrison. 
 
 Forty-sixth American edition ; translated into six foreign lan- 
 guages; used as text-book in state normal schools, kindergarten 
 training schools, mothers' and teachers' study classes throughout 
 the country; extensively ordered by all denominations for Sunday 
 school workers. Every parent, teacher, Sunday school worker 
 and student should possess this book. Price, $1.10, postage 
 prepaid. 
 
 IN STORYLAND. By Elizabeth Harrison. 
 
 A book of fifteen charmingly original stories for children. 
 "Nothing better since Hans Christian Andersen." Reprinted in 
 England. Twenty-third American edition. Price, $1.16, postage 
 prepaid. 
 TWO CHILDREN OF THE FOOTHILLS. By Elizabeth Harrison. 
 
 A story from real life, showing the practical use of kindergar- 
 ten principles in the home. Translated into Swedish and Japa- 
 nese; used as text-book in Japan. Fifth edition. Price, $1.16, 
 postage prepaid. 
 
 WHEN CHILDREN ERR. By Elizabeth Harrison. 
 
 This book contains many experiences and observations of the 
 just and unjust punishment of children. It tells how to remedy 
 faults without injuring self-respect or alienating their affection. 
 Price, $1.10, postpaid. 
 
 THE KINDERGARTEN BUILDING GIFTS. By Elizabeth Harrison. 
 
 A treatise on the kindergarten gifts and how to use them. 
 Contains more than 200 illustrative lessons, with many more 
 suggestions. Fourth edition. Price, $1.16, postage prepaid. 
 
 SOME SILENT TEACHERS. By Elizabeth Harrison. 
 
 "This is one of the few really great books on education, and 
 should be read by all teachers in every grade and department of 
 school work." Third edition. Price, $1.10, postage prepaid. 
 
 THE VISION OF DANTE. By Elizabeth Harrison. 
 
 A story for little children and a talk for their mothers. "The 
 Vision of Dante, written for the first time for little children, is 
 told to them by that queen of story-tellers." Printed on Wind- 
 sor hand-made paper, beautifully bound, illustrated by Walter 
 Crane. Price, $1.05 and $1.15, postage prepaid. 
 
 OFFERO. THE GIANT. By Elizabeth Harrison. 
 
 A Christmas story adapted from one of the legends of olden 
 times. Illustrated. Price, 54 cents, postage prepaid.
 
 
 
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