Frostburg mining journal. [volume] (Frostburg, Md.) 1871-1913, 1885-01-10
FROSTBURG, MD. JANUARY TO- 1SS4

mail would be mixed, and the son
would get the fathers due bills, and
father the sons love-letters.
A beautiful picture that group
made of an evening, as George, with
George on his knee and Helen by his
side, told story after story, never for
getting the all-lmportant moral that
makes SO deep an impression on the
young and plastic mind, and then,
when tho sprite of night came and
sprinkled his sand in those little
brown eyes, the goodnight kiss was
given, and robed all in white, the
chubby little bundle of love was tuck
ed away in the trundle-bed where
angels ought always to stand guard
to keep the dreadful bugaboos
away.
But, Notwithstanding the moral
lessons taught, human nature was
strong in little Georgie. One day he
stole some jam. He who hasn't
stolen jam has never been boy-not
regular boy-and doesn't know how
licking good jam can be when the
conditions are all in it's favor. But
that is not all George did. He slip
ped off the shelf and pulled down
the jar, and broke half a dozen plates
and pitchers and painted himself
from chin to shoes with very red jam.
Then, when his mother ran to see
how many times the dreadful clatter
had killed her darling, the impudent
little chunk of human nature stood
there, with his daubed fingers spread
apart, and declared, swore, affirmed,
and deposed that he didn't do it; that
he wasn't in that part of the United
States when it was done; that it was
Aunt Sallie's little poodle dog in
Chicago that did it. When George
came homo Helen told him the story,
not forgetting to add the charge of
falsehood to that of theft.
Now, George was five years old,
and something must be done to nip
his tendency to falsehood in its very
bud. The stealing was bad enough,
the lying was terrible. What was
to be done? Spare the rod and
spoil the child? The child must be
spared though it spoil the rod. So,
with heavy heart, George led his lit
tie one to the shed, the mother shut
ting herself in her bedroom to keep
out the piteous cries. George had
never struck his child. 1t was q
tremendous effort that conquered his
warm heart. 1t was the chlld's well
fare, he thought, that urged him to
| give the blows he would rather have
taken with multiplied force on his
own back. When the father and son
returned, that pretty face, so wont to
be sunny and CHEEKY, was striped and
streaked with tears, and catchy sobs
seemed to be breaking the little heart,
while the fathers wet eyes, turned
away that the culprit might not see
the evidences of sympathy, told how
heavily on his heart lay the childish
! appeal that still rang in his ears: SO,
don't hit little George. "
| That was sad evening in George
| Danvers' house. The stern realities
Of fatherhood had presented them
! selves. His reason had armed itself
with sharp-pointed arguments and
declared bitter war against his heart,
which, though fortified with sym
pathy and love, was all unarmed fo1
! such battle.
81 must be firm,' he said to his
head, while in his heart he pleaded
for his baby boy.
"No. | will not kiss you tonight
l do not kiss boys who steal and lie.
kiss only good boys. When you
are good boy l will kiss you," said
he, as the little white-robed fellow
came and stood at his knee and turn
ed up his round, swollen face to get
the good night kiss,never before with
held from him.
| A fresh flood of tears told that this
was severer punishment than the
rod had inflicted, and the battle in
the fathers breast ragged fiercer than
before. Would he yield? Could he
hold out against himself? George
Danvers was strong. Cruel reason
prevailed over tender sympathy.
"Please, papa, tiss little George 2"
"No, naughty boy, no."
And George was put away up
stairs, where, after vainly appealing