Every body wants to know what to do with him — every body is quite sure that he can’t stay where they are. The cook can’t have him in the kitchen, where he infests the pantry to get flour to make paste for his kites, or melts lead in the new saucepan. If he goes into the wood shed, he is sure to pull the wood pile down upon his head. If he be sent up garret, you think for a while that you have settled the problem, till you find what a boundless field of activity is opened amid all the packages, boxes, bags, barrels, and cast-off rubbish there. Old letters, newspapers, trunks of miscellaneous contents, are all rummaged, and the very reign of Chaos and old Night is instituted. He sees endless capabilities in all things, and is always hammering something, or knocking something apart, or sawing or planing, or dragging boxes or barrels in all directions to build cities, or laying railroad tracks, till every body’s head aches, quite down to the lower floor, and every body declares that Charley must be kept out of the garret.
Then you send Charley to school, and hope you are fairly rid of him, for a few hours at least. But he comes home noisier and busier than ever, having learned of some twenty other Charleys every separate resource for keeping up a commotion that the superabundant vitality of each can originate. He can dance like Jim Smith; he has learned to smack his lips like Joe Brown; and Will Briggs has shown him how to mew like a cat; and he enters the house with a new war-whoop learned from Tom Evans. He feels large and valorous; he has learned that he is a boy, and has a general impression that he is growing immensely strong and knowing, and despises more than ever the conventionalities of parlor-life — in fact he is more than ever an interruption in the way of decent folks, who want to be quiet.
It is true, that if entertaining persons will devote themselves to him exclusively, reading and telling stories, he may be kept in a state of quiescence; but then this is discouraging work, for he swallows a story as a dog does a piece of meat, and looks at you for another, and another, without the slightest consideration, so that this resource is of short duration; and then the old question comes up, What is to be done with him?
But, after all, Charley is not to be wholly shirked, for he is an institution, a solemn and awful fact; and on the answer of the question, What is to be done with him? depends a future. Many a hard, morose, and bitter man has come from a Charley turned off and neglected —— many a parental heartache has come from a Charley left to run the streets, that mamma and sisters might play on the piano, and write letters in peace. It is easy to get rid of him — there are fifty ways of doing that — he is a spirit that can be promptly laid for a season, but if not laid aright, will come back by and by a strong man armed, when you cannot send him off at pleasure.
Mamma and sisters had better pay a little tax to Charley now, than a terrible one by and by. There is something significant in the old English phrase, with which our Scriptures make us familiar — a MAN child! A man child! — there you have the word that should make you think more than twice before you answer the question, What shall we do with Charley?
For to-day he is at your feet — to-day you can make him laugh, you can make him cry, you can persuade and coax, and turn him to your pleasure; you can make his eyes fill and his bosom swell with recitals of good and noble deeds; in short, you can mould him if you will take the trouble.
But look ahead some years, when that little voice shall ring in deep bass tones; when that small foot shall have a man’s weight and tramp; when a rough beard shall cover that little round chin, and all the strength of manhood fill out that little form. Then, you would give worlds to have the key to his heart, to be able to turn and guide him to your will; but if you lose that key now he is little, you may search for it carefully with tears some other day, and not find it. Old housekeepers have a proverb, that one hour lost in the morning is never found all day — it has a significance in this case.
One thing is to be noticed about Charley, that rude, and busy, and noisy, as he inclines to be, and irksome as carpet rules and parlor ways are to him, he is still a social little creature, and wants to be where the rest of the household are. A room ever so well adapted for a play room cannot charm him at the hour when the family is in reunion; he hears the voices in the parlor, and his play room seems cold and desolate — it may be warmed by a furnace and lighted with gas, but it is human light and warmth he shivers for — he longs to take his things down and play by you; he yearns to hear the talk of the family, which he so imperfectly comprehends, and is incessantly promising that of the fifty improper things which lie is liable to do in the parlor, he will not commit one if you will let him stay there.
This instinct of the little one is Nature’s warning plea — God’s admonition. O, how many a mother who has neglected it, because it was irksome to have the child about, has longed, when her son was a man, to keep him by her side, and he would not! Shut out as a little Arab —— constantly told that he is noisy, that he is awkward and meddlesome, and a plague in general — the boy has at last found his own company in the streets, in the highways and hedges where he runs, till the day comes when the parents want their son, the sisters their brother; and then they are scared at the face he brings back to them, as he comes all foul and smutty from the companionship to which they have doomed him. Depend upon it, mothers and elder sisters, if it is too much trouble to keep Charley in your society, there will be places found for him, warmed and lighted with no friendly fires, where he who “finds some mischief still for idle hands to do,” will care for him if you do not. You may put out a tree, and it will grow while you sleep; but a son you cannot. You must take trouble for him, either a little now, or a good deal by and by.
Let him stay with you at least some portion of every day. Put aside your book or work to tell him a story, or read to him from some book. Devise still parlor plays for him, for he gains nothing if he be allowed to spoil the comfort of the whole circle. A pencil and a sheet of paper, and a few patterns, will often keep him quiet for an hour by’ your side; or in a corner he may build a block house, annoying nobody; and if occasionally he does disturb you now, balance in your own mind which is the greatest evil, to be disturbed by him now, or when he is a man.
Of all that you can give your Charley, if you are a good man or woman, your presence is the best and safest thing. God never meant him to do without you, any more than chickens were meant to grow without being brooded.
Then let him have some place in the house where it shall be no sin to hammer, and pound, and saw, and make all the litter that his various schemes of business require. Even if you can ill afford the room, weigh well which is best, to spare him that safe asylum, or take the chance of one which he may find for himself in the street.
Of all devices for Charley which we have tried, a few shelves, which he may dignify with the name of a cabinet, is one of the best. He picks up shells, and pebbles, and stones — all odds and ends; nothing comes amiss; and if you give him a pair of scissors and a little gum, there is no end of the labels he will paste on, and the hours that he may innocently spend in sorting and arranging. A bottle of liquid gum is an invaluable resource for various purposes; nor must you mind though he varnish his nose, and fingers, and clothes, so that he do nothing worse. A cheap paint box, and some engravings to color, is another; and if you will give him some real paint and putty, to paint and putty his boats and cars, he is a made man. All these things make trouble — to be sure they do and will — but Charley is to make trouble; that is the nature of the institution. You are only to choose between safe and wholesome trouble and the trouble that comes at last like a whirlwind.
God bless the little fellow, and send us all grace to know what to do with him.
The stories following are some of those with which one mother has beguiled the twilight hours of one Charley; they are given in hopes that other mothers may find pleasure in reading them to their Charleys.
THE HAPPY CHILD.
“PAPA” said Edward Thompson to his father, “you don’t know what beautiful things James Robertson
has, of all kinds.”
“O, yes,” said little Robert, “when we were there yesterday, he took us up into a little room that was all full of playthings, just like a toy shop.”
“He had little guns, and two drums, and a trumpet, and a fife,” said Edward; “and one of the drums was a real one, papa, such as men play on.”
“And, papa, he had railroad cars, with a little railroad for them to go on, and steam engine, and all,” said Robert.
“And a whole company of wooden soldiers,” said Edward.
“And all sorts of blocks to build houses,” said Robert.
“And besides, papa,” said Edward, “he has a real live pony to ride on; such a funny little fellow you never saw; and he has such a pretty little riding stick, and a splendid saddle and bridle.”
“Really,” said their father, “you make out quite a list of possessions.”
“O, but, papa, we have not told you half; he has a beautiful flower garden, and a gardener to cultivate it for him, so that he don’t have to take any trouble with it, and he can do any thing with the flowers he chooses.”
“O, and, papa, he has rabbits, and a beautiful gray squirrel, with a cage fixed so nicely; and the squirrel plays so many droll tricks; and he has a parrot that can talk, and laugh, and call his name, and say a great many funny things.”
“Well,” said their father, “I suppose you think that James is a very happy boy.”
“O, yes, indeed, papa; how can he help being happy?” said both boys. “Besides, his mamma, he says, lets him do very much as he likes about every thing.”
“Indeed!” said their father; “and was he so very happy all day when you were there?”
“Why, no, not all day,” said Edward; “but then there was a reason for it; for in the morning we had planned to go out to the lake to fish, and it rained, and it made James feel rather cross I suppose.”
“But,” said his father, “I should have thought, by your account, that there were things enough in the house to have amused you all.”
“But James said he was so used to all those things that he did not want to play with them,” said Robert; “he called some of the prettiest things that he had ‘ugly old things,’ and said he hated the sight of them.”
“Well,” said their father, “I suspect, if the truth was known, James is not so much to be envied after all. I have been a week at a time at his father’s house, and I have thought that a more uncomfortable, unhappy-tempered little fellow I never saw.”
“Well, that is strange,” said Edward; “I am sure I would be happy if I was in his place.”
“I am afraid you would not,” said his father; “for I believe it is having so many things that makes him unhappy.”
“Having so many things, papa!” said both boys.
“Yes, my sons; but I will explain this more to you some other time. However, this afternoon, as you are going to have a ride with me, I think I will take you over to see a little boy who is a very happy boy, as I think,” said their father.
* * *
“I wonder if this can be the house?” said Edward to Robert, as the carriage stopped before a very small brown house.
Their father got out, and asked them to walk in with him. It was a very little house, with only two rooms in it; and in the one they entered they saw a very pale, thin little boy, lying on a small, low bed in front of the door. His face was all worn away by disease, and his little hands, which were folded on the outside of the bed, were so thin one could almost see through them. He had a few playthings lying by him on the bed, and on a little stand by him was a cracked brown mug, in which were some sweet peas, and larkspurs, and lavender, and bright yellow marigolds; beside which lay a well-worn Bible and hymn book. His mother was ironing in the next room; but when she saw the boys and their father, she came forward to receive them.
“Well, my little fellow,” said Mr. Thompson, “how do you do to-day?”
“O, pretty comfortable,” he said.
“I have brought my boys to see you,” said Mr. Thompson.
The sick boy smiled, and reached out one of his thin little hands to welcome them. Edward and Robert took his hand, and then turned and looked anxiously at their father.
“Papa, how long has he been so sick?” asked Robert.
“More than a year, young gentlemen,” said his mother; “it’s a year since he has been able to sit up; and it’s four months since he has been able to be turned at all in bed; he has to lie all the time, just as you see, on his back.”
“O, what a long, long time!” said Edward; “why can’t you turn him, and let him lie on his side?”
“Because it hurts him to lie on either side.”
“What is the matter with him?” asked Robert.
“Why, the doctor says it’s a complaint of the bone; it began more than two years ago, down in his foot, and they had to cut the foot off, in hopes that that would stop it; but it didn’t; and then they cut off the leg above the knee, and that didn’t stop it; and it’s creeping up, up, up, and finally it will be the death of him. He suffers dreadfully at nights; sometimes no sleep at all for two or three nights.”
“O father, how dreadful!” said Edward, pressing close to his father.
“Papa,” said Robert, looking up and whispering, “I thought we were going to see a little boy that was very happy.”
“Wait a while,” said Mr. Thompson, “and you will see;” and then he turned to the sick boy.
“My little fellow,” said he, “you find it very tiresome lying here so long.”
“A little so,” said the boy, smiling very pleasantly; “but then I have so many things to make me comfortable.”
“What things?”
“O, I have a knife, and I can whittle a little at a time, and I have this little china dog that a lady gave me. I play with that sometimes; and then, don’t you see my flowers?”
The little boy pointed to a small bed of flowers just before the door, where there were some pinks, and some larkspurs, and marigolds, and sweet peas; it was weeded very clean, and the flowers made it bright enough.
“Mother planted all those flowers for me in the spring,” he said, “and she has watered and weeded them every night after she had done her work; they grow beautifully, and I lie here every day and look at them. Sometimes, when the rain is falling, or in the morning when the dew is on them, they look so bright and fresh! Mother puts some in the mug to stand by me every day.”
“But don’t you suffer a great deal of pain?”
“Sometimes I do; but then, sir, I know that God would not send it if it was not best for me, so I am willing to bear it; besides, I know that the Lord Jesus Christ suffered more pain for me than I suffer. There are some beautiful hymns about it in this book” he added, taking up his little hymn book; “and then I have the Bible. O, I don’t know how I could get along if it were not for that.”
“But are you never unhappy when you see other boys jumping and playing about?”
“No, I am not; I know God knows what is best for me; besides, my Saviour comforts me. I love to lie here, when it is all still, and think about him.”
“Don’t you hope that sometimes you will get well, and be able to go about again?”
“No, I know that I can’t; I shall not live a great while; they all say so.”
“And don’t you feel afraid to die?”
“O, no; I feel as if I would be glad to. I long to see my Saviour. All I feel sad about is, that mother will be lonesome when I am gone.”
“Well, my little boy, if there is any thing that I can send you to make you more comfortable, I shall be glad to.”
“O, thank yon, sir; but I don’t know as I want any thing.”
“I wish I could relieve your pains, my little fellow,” said Mr. Thompson.
“God would do it in a minute, if it was only best for me,” said the boy; “and if it is not best, I had rather he would not do it. Besides, I think I am happier now than I used to be when I was we
ll.”
“Ah! how can that be?”
“I did not love God so much then, and I used to forget to read the Bible. I had not so much pleasure in thinking about heaven,” said the little boy.
“You remember,” said Mr. Thompson, “it says in the Bible, ‘Before I was afflicted I went astray; but now have I kept thy word.’”
“That is just it, sir,” said the boy; “just the way I feel. O, I’ve been very happy since I have been sick here.” Edward and Robert looked at their father, at these words. Mr. Thompson now rose to go.
“If you please, sir, perhaps the boys would like some of my flowers; there is a beautiful root of pinks there, and some roses,” said the sick boy.
“O, no,” said Edward, “we won’t take them away from you.”
“O, I like to give them away,” said the boy, earnestly; “do take some.”
“Take some, my dear children; it will please him,” said Mr. Thompson, in a low voice, as he picked a few and gave to each of the boys; and then added aloud, “We will keep them to remember you by, my dear little fellow.”
As they parted with the little boy, he smiled sweetly, and put out his hand, and added, —
“If you’ll come when my latest rose bush is in blossom, I’ll give you some roses.”
* * * * *
“Papa,” said Edward, “that poor little boy really does seem to be happy, and yet he is poor, and sick, and in pain; and he has very few things, too. It is strange; he is certainly a great deal happier than James Robertson.”
“Well, I can tell you the reason,” said his father. “It is because James Robertson is a selfish boy, that he is unhappy from morning till night he thinks of nothing but how to please himself. His father and mother have spent all their lives in contriving ways to please him, and have never required him to give up his own will in any thing; and now he is so selfish that he is always unhappy. He does not love God, and he does not love his parents, nor any thing else, so well as he loves himself; and such a boy will always be unhappy. And the reason that this poor little sick boy is happy, is because he has learned to love God, his Saviour, better than any thing else, and to find all his pleasure in trying to do His will instead of his own. This is what makes him peaceful. If he did not love God, and love to give up his will to Him, and to bear and suffer whatever He thought best, how miserable he would be now!”
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 510