The Bolivar bulletin. [volume] (Bolivar, Hardeman County, Tenn.) 1865-1888, 1872-05-31
NUMBER Al.
A Good Word for Romping Girls.

Most women have a dread OF
these. Mothers would rather their lit
tie daughters were called anything but
rOmps. They say to them, "be very
quiet now, my dears-dont run or
Jump, try and be little ladies'" As
if healthy child could be still; as if
it could take time to walk or step
over what came In its way; as if il
could fold its little hands in its lap,
when its little heart is brimful OF tic
kle. 1t is so absurd and wrong
because it is unnatural. Children,
giIls as well a. boys, need exercise,
indeed they must have it to be kept
in healthy condition. They need
it to expand their chests, strengthen
their muscles, tone the r nerves, and
develop themselves generally. And
this exercise must be out of doors
too. 1t is not enough to have calls
thenics IN the nursery or parlor.-
They need to be out in the sunshine,
out in the wind, out on the grass,
out IN the woods, out of doors some
where, if il be no bigger place than
the COMMON park. Suppose then
they do tan their faces. Better be
as brown as berry and have the
pulses quick and strong; than white
as a lilly and complain of cold feet
and headache. Suppose they do
tear their clothes, tear them every
which way suppose they do wear
out their clothes, q pair a month,
even; it don't try mothers patience
and strength half so much to patch
and mend it as it does to watch night
after night a querrulous sick child;
and it don't drain a fathers pocket
book, half so quick 90 buy shoes as
1t does to pay doctors bills. The odds
are all on the side Of the romps =
Indeed, we don't believe there is
prettier picture in all the wide world
than that of a little girl balancing
herself on the topmost rail of zig zig
fence, her bonnet on one arm and a
basket of blackberries on the other,
her curls streaming out In the wind
or ripping oyer her flushed cheeks,
her apron half torn from her waist,
and dangling to her feet, her fingers
stained with the berries she has
picked, and her lips with those she
eaten. Mother, mother, don't seold
that little creature when she comes
in and puts her basket on the table,
and looks ruefully at the rent in her
new gingham apron, and at the lit
tie bare toes sticking out OF the last
pair of shoes. Wash off her hot face
and soiled hands, and give her
bowl of cool milk and light bread,
nd when she has eaten her fill and
got rested, make her sit down beside
you and tell you what she has seen
off in those meadows and woods
Her heart will be full of beautiful
things-the sound of the wind, the
talk OF the leaves. the music of the
wild birds and the laugh of the wild
flowers, the rippling of the streams
and the color of pebbles, the shade
of the clouds and the hue Of the sun
beams-all those will have woven
their spell over her innocent
thoughts, and made her poet in
feeling, if not IN expression.
No, mothers, don't nurse up your
little girls Like house plants. The
of this generation are to
be the mothers Of the next, and if
you would have them healthy in body
and genial in temper, free from ner-
vous affections, fdgets and blues if |
you would fit them for life, its joys,
It's cares, and its trials, let them have
a good romp every day wEEu EazsyT
are growing. Is is natures OWE KDs-
cifc, and, if taken in season, war
ranted to cure all the ills of the girl
and the woman. -.--