The heroes of history and the heroes of fiction whom all of us like to admire are the men and women who know no fear. But most of us make use of fear as a cheap device for attaining immediate results with our children. When Johnny hesitates about going upstairs in the dark to fetch your work-basket, you remind him of Columbus, who braved the trackless sea and the unknown void in the West, and you exhort him to be a man; but when Johnny was younger you yourself warned him that the Bogeyman would get him if be did not go right to sleep. And it is not very long since the day when he tried to climb the cherry tree and you attempted to dissuade him with the alarming prophecy that he would surely fall down and break his neck.

Thus our training consists of countless contradictions: we set up noble ideals to arouse courage and self-reliance—when that suits our immediate purpose; and we frighten with threats and warn of calamity when the child has the impulse to do what we do not wish to have him do. This at once suggests the effect of fear upon character and conduct. We instinctively call upon courage when we want the child to do something; we call upon fear when we want to prevent action. In other words, bravery stimulates, whereas fear paralyzes.

The human race is characterized by an instinct of fear. Very young infants exhibit all the symptoms of fear long before they can have any knowledge or experience of the disagreeable and the harmful effects of the things that frighten them. Thus a sudden noise will make the child start and tremble and even scream. And all through life an unexpected and loud noise is likely to startle us. An investigation has shown that thunder is feared much more than lightning. Children will laugh at the flashes of lightning, but will cower before the roaring thunder.

The feeling of fear is closely associated with what is unknown. It is not noise in general that frightens the children, but an unexpected noise from an unknown source. Indeed, the children like noise itself well enough to produce it whenever they can by heating drums, or barrels, or wash-boilers. The frightful thing about thunder is that the cause remains a mystery, and it is frightful so long as the cause does remain a mystery, if the child lives to be a hundred years old. During a thunder-storm children will picture to themselves a battle going on above. Some think of the sky cracking or the moon bursting, or conceive of the firmament as a dome of metal over which balls are being rolled.

[Illustration: Neither are girls afraid to climb.]

The influence of the unknown explains also why that other great source of fear, namely, darkness, has such a strange hold upon children. Fear of darkness is very common and often very intense. There are but few children who do not suffer from it at some time and to some extent. This fear is frequently suggested by stories of robbers, ghosts, or other terrors, but even children who have been carefully guarded sometimes have these violent fears that cannot be reasoned away.

In order to discover what it is about the darkness that frightens children, a large number of women and men were asked to recall their childish experiences with fear, and from the many instances given the following may be used to illustrate the various terrors of the dark.

One woman described her fears of "an indistinct living something, black, possibly curly," which she feared would enter the room in the darkness from somewhere under the bed. Another could see dark objects with eyes and teeth slowly and noiselessly descending from the ceiling toward her. One little boy, when he had finally overcome fear, said to his father that he thought the dark to be "a large live thing the color of black." A girl of nineteen said she remembered that on going to bed she used to see little black figures jumping about between the ceiling and the bed.

It is well known that the feeling of fear is often very intense among children; and where it is due to ignorance it is not right to laugh it away. Doing so affords no explanation. The ridicule may cause the child to hide his fear, but will not drive the feeling away. Since the feeling of fear is so closely connected with the strange and unknown, the only way that it may be directly overcome is by making the child familiar with the objects that cause such feelings.

In the case of young children with whom we cannot reason it is best, wherever possible, to remove the cause or gradually to make the child familiar with the darkness, or whatever it is that makes him unhappy. One very young child became frightened when he was presented with a Teddy bear. Every time the Teddy bear was produced he would cry with terror. The mother was perplexed about what to do. Now, as the Teddy bear is not a necessary part of the child's surroundings, there is no reason why it cannot be removed altogether and produced again upon some future occasion, when the child is old enough to be indifferent to it. Very many children are frightened by the touch of fur, or even of velvet; but this lasts only a short time, and they soon learn to like dogs and cats.

The fear of darkness is different; we cannot eliminate darkness from the child's experience, and we must patiently try to help the child to overcome his fear, since he will suffer greatly so long as it lasts. The help you give him will also constitute one more bond of sympathy between you and your child, and we cannot have too many such bonds.

One mother got her boy used to going into a dark room by placing some candy on the farther window and sending him for that. Here the child fixed his attention on the goal and had no time to think of the terrors of the dark. After making such visits a few times the boy became quite indifferent to the darkness.

Another ingenious mother gave her little daughter who was afraid a tiny, flat, electric spotlight which just fitted into the pocket of her pajama jacket She took it to bed with her, slipped it under the pillow, and derived such comfort from it that the whole family was relieved. The child soon outgrew her timidity.

A child who from infancy has been accustomed to going to sleep in the dark and suddenly develops a fear of it ought to be indulged to the extent of having a light for a few minutes to show him that there is nothing there to be afraid of. It may take a few evenings and several disagreeable trips to the child's bedroom, but in the end he will be victorious and you will have helped him to win the victory.

A child that is not in good health is likely to be possessed by his fears much longer than one who is well. In the latter case there is a fund of energy to go exploring, and the child thus becomes more readily acquainted with his surroundings, and as his knowledge grows his fears vanish. Again, the sickly child has not the energy to fight his fears, as has the healthy child. Indeed, the high spirits of the healthy child often lead him to seek the frightful, just for the exhilaration he gets from the sensation.

The period of most intense fears is between the ages of five and seven, and while imaginative children naturally suffer most, they are also the ones that can call up bright fancies to cheer them. Robert Louis Stevenson must have had a lovely time in the dark, seeing circuses and things, as he tells us in his poem which begins:

All night long and every night
When my mamma puts out the light
I see the circus passing by
As plain as day before my eye, etc.

Although fear is a human instinct, it is not universal, and once in a while we find a child who has no instinctive fear. If such a child is not frightened he may remain quite ignorant of the feeling for many years. I know a boy who, at the age of five, was unacquainted with the sensation of fear, and, never having been frightened, also did not know the meaning of the word "fear." He had heard it used by other children and knew that it was something unpleasant, but when one day at dinner he said to his mother, "You know, I think I am afraid of spinach," meaning that he did not like it, it was evident that the feeling of fear was quite foreign to him.

Many parents have a feeling of helplessness in the face of a trait that is said to be "instinctive," as though there were some fatal finality in that classification. But, while it is true that fear is instinctive, it is equally true that it can often be successfully fought by having recourse to other instinctive traits. Thus the instinct of curiosity, which is more widespread even than the instinct of fear, may be used to counteract the latter. Since fear rests so largely on ignorance, curiosity is its enemy, because it dissipates ignorance. A little boy who had a certain fear of the figures in the mirror that were so vivid and yet so unreal used to try to come into a room in which there was a large mirror, and steal upon the causes of his curiosity unawares. His double was always there as soon as he, and caught his eye; but the child lost his fear only after he became familiar with the characters in the looking-glass. In the same way curiosity will often compel the child to become gradually so well acquainted with the source of his fears as to drive the latter quite out of his experience.

We must be careful to avoid confusing fear and caution. Fear arises from ignorance, and is not necessarily related to any real danger. Caution, on the other hand, is a direct outcome of the knowledge of danger. Two little boys were watching a young man shooting off fire-crackers. Whenever a bunch was lit the older boy stepped away, while the younger one held his ground. Someone taunted the older boy, saying, "You see, Harry is not afraid, and you are." To which he very sensibly replied, "I ain't afraid neither, but Harry doesn't know that he might get hurt, and I do."

Therefore, while we do not wish our children to be cowards, neither do we want them to feel reckless. Caution and courage may well go together in the child's character. Constantly warning the child against possible danger does not develop caution; it is more likely to destroy all spontaneous action. Too many mothers are always saying to their children, "Don't do this, you might hurt yourself," or "Don't go to the stable, the horse may kick you," and so on. If a child is properly taught, he will get along with the ordinary knowledge concerning the behavior of things and animals that might be injurious, and he will learn to be careful with regard to these without being constantly admonished and frightened.

The fear of being considered afraid has its evil side as well as its good side. While it may often make the child "affect the virtue" when he has it not, it does, on the other hand, make many a boy and girl, especially in the early teens, concede to the demands of prevailing fashions in misconduct, when the conscience and the knowledge of right and wrong dictate a different course. The taunt "you dassent" is stronger than the still small voice saying "thou must not." And so Harry plays truant for the first time not so much because he is tired of school, or because the smell of the young spring allures him, as because Tommy "dares" him to go swimming on the risk of getting caught and licked. Harry yields for fear of being called a "cowardy custard."

It is important to guard against the moral effect of fear when it is directed against the judgments of others. By always referring the child to "what others will think" of him, we are likely to make moral cowards. A child can be taught to refer to his own conscience and to his own judgment, and, if he has been wisely trained, his conscience and judgment will be at least as effective guides in his relations with human beings as his attempt to avoid misconduct for fear of what others will think or say.

The use of fear as a means of discipline is being discarded by all thoughtful parents and teachers. We have learned that authority maintained by fear is very short-lived; when a child gets past a certain age, the obedience based upon fear of authority is almost certain to turn into defiance. The fear of punishment leads directly to untruthfulness and deception; parents who rely upon affection and good-will to assure the right conduct of their children get better results than those who terrorize them.

Fear and hatred are closely connected, and in cultivating fear we are fostering a trait that may in a critical moment turn to hatred. The only things that we should teach our children to fear are those we should be willing to have them hate. Let your children learn to fear and hate all mean and selfish acts, all cunning and deception, all unfairness and injustice. But even better than teaching them to hate these vices, teach them to love and admire and to aspire to realize the positive virtues.

When we observe the undesirable physical effects of fear, such as the effect upon the heart and blood-vessels, the effect upon the nerve currents, etc., we can hardly expect it to have a beneficial effect upon the mental or moral side of the child's nature. Fear always cramps and paralyzes; it never broadens or stimulates. All the progress made by our race has been accomplished by those who were not afraid: the men and women of broad vision and independent, fearless action. Every mother has lurking in some corner of her heart the fond hope that her children will in some way contribute to the advancement of humanity, to make our life here better worth living. To contribute in this way, our children must be without fear.