The Monitor. [volume] (Woodstown, N.J.) 1884-1892, 1890-09-05

Children Not Always Perfect, but They
Are Worth Having.


Sometimes ! just think children don't
pay" said INT of my oareworn and dis
couFaged neighbors one day. "What do
you think about it?';
"Well, l don't know" l replied, and
my conscience smote me even while I
spoke. But then l said in mental ~self-re-
proach and seif-excuse for saying it, ~
know didn't pay" and don't think l
did.
But when it comes to my W bairps-
do they pay?
Well, they are "a sight of trouble" In
deed they are, and they cost time and
money and pain and sorrow.
There are three OF them, and they are
little things still, and my friends who have
older children tell ne that | reed not ex-
poet a time to come when my babies will
be "less trouble" than they are now. Ican-
not expect a time to come when they will
not be a source of care and anxiety and
hope and fear-no, not even when they
have gone forth to homes Of their own and
have their own little ones around them.
Do they pay now? Here | am wearing
old clothes and trying to brush up my hat
to ma Ike it look new, that my Johnny and
Sammy may have new kits and REFERS
and hats and shoes and look as well as 9TH
er children. They do kick out shoes so
dreadfully, and they haven't the first COM
junction of conscience about it either.
They tear and smash and destroy and are
into everything particularly the baby.
Does a two-year-old-baby pay for itself
up to the time it reaches that interesting
age? Sometimes | think not. l thought
SO yesterday when my OVID baby slipped
into my study and scrubbed" the carpet
and his best white dress with my bottle
of ink. He was playing in a coal he'd ten
minutes after a clean dress was put on him,
and later in the day heTasted fifty cents
worth of postage stamps on the parlor wall
and poured a dollars worth Of the choicest
"N hite Rose" perfumery out of the win
dow ''to see it vain
Then he dug out the centre of a nicely
itdi tdht, anu 4 IOuIu Ill lIt HE1
die of the dining room table with the sug-
ar bowl aetween his legs and most of the
contents in his stomach.
He has already cost over 800 in doc
tors bills, ard feel that | am right in at
tributing my few gray hairs to the misery
l endured walking the floor with him at
night during the first year Of his life.
What has he ever done to pay me for
thats
All! hear his little feet pattering along
out in the hall. l hear his little ripple of
laughter because he has escaped from his
mother and has found his way up to
my study at a forbidden hour. But the
door is closed. The worthless little vaga-
bond can't get in, and won't openi it fer
him. No, | won't. / can't be disturbed
when I'm writing. He can just cry if he
wants to, l won't be bothered for-''rat,
tat, tat go his dimpled knuckles on the
door. l sit in silence.
"Rat-tat-tat."
l sit perfectly still.
"Papa."
No reply.
"Peeze, papa"
Grim silence.
Baby tam in-peeze, papa"
He shall not come in.
"My papa"
| write on.
Papa" said the little voice Il Tub my
papa; peeze let baby in!i
1 am not quite a brute aud l throw open
the door. In he with outstretche6
little arms, with shining eyes, with laugh
ing face. l catch him up into my arms,
and his warm, soft little aims go around
my neck, the not very clean little cheek is
laid close to mine, the baby voice says
sweetly.
II Tub my papa"
Does he pay?
Well, l guess he docs, He has cost me
many anxious days and nights. He has
cost me time and money and care and self
sacrifice. He may cost me pain and sor-
row. He has cost much. But he has paid
for it all again and again and again in
whis pering those four little words into my
ears, Il lub my papa
Our children pay when their very first
feeble little cries fill our hearts with the
mother love and the father love that ought
never to fail among all earthly passions.
Do your children pay?-J. L. H. in
Detroit Free Press.