CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON, in one of her novels, thus describes a discourtesy to which mothers of young children are much given:

“Talking with a mother when her children are in the room is the most trying thing conversationally; she listens to you with one ear, but the other is listening to Johnnie; right in the midst of something very pathetic you are telling her she will give a sudden, perfectly irrelevant smile over her baby’s last crow, and your best story is hopelessly spoiled because she loses the point (although she pretends she hasn’t) while she arranges the sashes of Ethel and Totsie.”

There is a protest in the paragraph quoted that will find an answering groan in many a heart. Who of us does not wish that mothers of small children would adopt a few rules of ordinary politeness and courtesy, and, when talking to a guest, give attention that is not shared and almost monopolized by the child who happens to be present?

Parents make the mistake of thinking that their children must be as absorbingly interesting to all visitors and acquaintances as they are to those to whom they belong. This is a vast mistake. No matter how fond one may be of the young of his species, one does enjoy a conversation into which they are not dragged, and talks with more freedom if they are not present. Certainly it is far better for the child to learn to run off and amuse himself than to sit by, listening to talk not meant for his ears. Those of us who were children many years ago were not allowed to make nuisances of ourselves to the extent that children of to-day do, and surely we were happy. In one home there is a small boy, very good, and very affectionate, whose mother can not receive a caller without the presence of the ubiquitous infant. He sits still, his great eyes fixed upon the face of the caller, and she feels ashamed for wishing that he would get out of the room. Occasionally he varies the monotony by saying, “Mother, don’t you want to tell Mrs. Blank about what I said the other day when I was hurt and did not cry?” Or, “Mother, do you think Mrs. Blank would like me to recite my new poem to her?”

This may be annoying, but it is still more pitiful. To talk so much to a child and of him in the presence of others that he is a poseur at the early age of five, is cruel to the little one himself. We frown on the old adage which declared “children should be seen and not heard,” but there are homes in which the guest wishes that they might be invisible as well as inaudible.

One mother defers constantly to her fourteen-year-old son, and allows him to be present during all chats she has with her friends. She says, “You do not mind Will, I am sure. You may say what you like where he is, for he is the soul of discretion, and I talk freely with him.” But the visitor does not feel the same confidence in “Will,” and certainly objects to expressing all her opinions with regard to people and things in his presence.

Our own children are intensely interesting; the children of other people are, as a rule, not! Let us, once in a while, put ourselves in the place of another person, and think if we are willing to have that person’s child always in the room when we would talk confidentially with her. I think if we are frank we shall acknowledge that while we do not mind the presence of our own children, we do talk more freely when other people’s children are not present. Said a man not long ago:

“Mrs. Brown is a marvelous woman. She is one of the most devoted mothers I know. Her children are with her a great part of the time. Yet, whenever I call there, alone or with a friend, a signal from her empties the drawing-room or library of the entire flock of five infants, and she is just as much interested in what her callers have to say as if she had no youngsters cruising about in the offing.”

It is not to be supposed that children are never to be allowed to come into the drawing-room. They should be trained to enter the room, greet the guests politely and without embarrassment, answer frankly and straightforwardly, and to speak when spoken to. Then, they should be silent unless drawn into the conversation. The truest kindness is, after a few moments, to let the little ones run away and play with their toys or in the outdoor air.

The child who hangs his head shyly, and refuses to speak politely to any one who addresses him, should be taught the courtesy of friendliness. From the cradle a baby may be taught to “see people,” and, as soon as he is old enough to return a greeting, he must be trained to do so.

The only way to make small ladies and gentlemen of children is to teach, first of all, perfect obedience. This is, in this day, an unpopular doctrine, for there is prevalent a theory that the child must be allowed to exercise his individuality,—in other words, to do as he pleases. Why the child should develop his individuality, and the parents curb theirs, may be matter for wonder to those not educated up to this twentieth-century standard of ethics. If “days should speak, and multitude of years should teach wisdom,” the father and mother are better fitted to dictate to the child than the child to dictate to them. And yet, in the average home, the last-mentioned form of government often prevails.

Nothing is more unkind than to allow a child to do always as he pleases, for, as surely as he lives, he must learn sooner or later to yield to authority and to exercise self-control. The earlier the training begins, the easier it will be. The child creeping about the room soon knows that the gentle but firm “No!” when spoken by the mother means that he must not touch the bit of bric-À-brac within reach. And even this lesson will stand him in good stead later on.

The basic principle of home government must be love enforced by firmness. A punishment should seldom be threatened, but if threatened, must be given. The time for threat and punishment is not in public. In the parlor, on the train or boat, it is the height of ill-breeding to make a scene and to threaten a punishment of any kind. Were the child properly trained in private, parents and beholders would be spared the humiliating spectacle that too often confronts them in visiting and traveling.

One word here as to the child on train or boat. The person who is truly well-bred will not turn and frown on the mother of the tiny baby who, suffering with colic, or sore from traveling, is wailing aloud. Of course the sound is annoying, but it is harder on the poor mortified mother than on any one else. I already hear the question, “Why doesn’t she keep the infant at home then?” Frequently she can not do this. The child may be ill, and be on its way to seashore or mountains to gain health; or the mother may be summoned to see some relative, and can not go unless the baby goes too. Whatever the cause of her going, the fact remains that she derives no pleasure from holding a screaming baby, and her discomfort is turned into positive anguish by the disgusted looks of the women, and the muttered imprecations of the men.

I saw once under such circumstances a woman who was an honor to her sex. Opposite her in the train sat a young mother, and in her arms was a fretful wailing baby. It was evidently the first baby, and the poor girlish mother was white and weary. At every scream the baby gave she would start nervously, change the little one’s position, look about at the passengers with an expression of pathetic apology,—all the time keeping up a crooning “Sh-h-h!” that produced no effect on the crying atom of humanity. And, as is often the case, the more nervous the mother became, the more nervous did the baby grow, and the louder did he scream. An exclamation of impatience came from a woman seated behind the suffering twain, and, at the same moment, a man in front threw down his paper with a slam and rushed out of the car and into the smoker. Then the woman who was an honor to her sex came across from the seat opposite, and laid a gentle hand on the mother’s shoulder, smiling reassurance in the tear-filled eyes lifted to hers.

“My dear,” said the soft voice, “you are worn out, and the baby knows it. Let me take him for a minute. No, don’t protest! I have had four of my own, and they are all too big for me to hold in my arms now. I just long to feel that baby against my shoulder! Give him to me! There, now! you poor, tired little mother, put your head down on the back of the seat, and rest!”

She took the baby across the aisle, laid him over her shoulder with his head against her cheek, in the comforting way known to all baby-lovers, and in three minutes the cries had subsided and the baby was asleep in the strong motherly arms, where he lay until Jersey City was reached. And the tired little mother fell into a light slumber, too, comforted by the appreciation that she was not alone, nor an intolerable nuisance to all her fellow passengers.

Was not such an act as this woman’s the perfection of true courtesy, the courtesy that forgets itself in trying to make another comfortable?

This same spirit spoken of by Saint Paul as “in honor preferring one another” can be inculcated in the children in our homes. The small of the human species are, like their elders, naturally selfish, and must be taught consideration for others. It is the grafting that makes the rose what it is. You may graft a Jacqueminot or MarÉchal Neil upon the stump of the wild rose. The grafting, the pruning, and the training are the work of the careful gardener. The mother can never be idle, for, while the stock is there, she does the grafting.

Obedience must be taught in small things as well as in great. The tiny child must be taught to remove his hat when he is spoken to, to give his hand readily in greeting, to say “please” and “thank you”; not to pass in front of people, or between them and the fire; to say “excuse me!” when he treads on his mother’s foot or dress; to rise when she enters the room; and to take off his hat when he kisses her. The mother who insists that her child do these things at home need not fear that he will forget her training when abroad.