Why should we write of children as if they were just like grown-up
people? They are not in the least like, any more than they are like one
another; but here they are, and if we can neither love nor understand
them, woe betide us!
"No more crying, my dear," John had said that morning to his youngest
daughter.
He had just administered a reproof to her as he sat at breakfast, for
some infantile delinquency; and she, sniffing and sobbing piteously,
testified a desire to kiss him in token of penitence.
"I'm good now," she remarked.
"Where's your pocket-handkerchief?" said her father, with magisterial
dignity.
The infant replied that she had lost it, and straightway asked to borrow
his.
John lent the article, and having made use of it, she pushed it back
with all good faith into his breast-pocket, and repeating, "I'm good
now," received the coveted kiss, and presently after a donation of
buttered toast, upon which she became as happy as ever.
In ordinary life it devolves on the mother to lend a handkerchief; but
if children have none, there are fathers who can rise to such occasions,
and not feel afterwards as if heroic sacrifices had been demanded of
them.
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