The American Child | Page 8

that mother to
allow her daughter to have what she wanted. May not some subtle
sense of this have been the basis of the child's happiness in the
fulfillment of her desire? She wanted to go to dancing-school because
the other children were going; but may she not have liked going

because she felt that her mother understood and sympathized with her
desire to go?
A Frenchwoman to whom I once said that American parents treat their
children in many ways as though they were their contemporaries
remarked, "But does that not make the children old before their time?"
So far from this, it seems, on the contrary, to keep the parents young
after their time. It has been truly said that we have in America fewer
and fewer grandmothers who are "sweet old ladies," and more and
more who are "charming elderly women." We hear less and less about
the "older" and the "younger" generations; increasingly we merge two,
and even three, generations into one.
Only yesterday, calling upon a new acquaintance, I heard the four-year-
old boy of the house, mentioning his father, refer to him as "Henry."
His grandmother smiled, and his mother said, casually: "When you
speak of father, dear, it would be better to say, 'my father,' so people
will be sure to know whom you mean. You may have noticed that
grandma always says, 'my son,' and I always say 'my husband,' when
we speak of him."
"Does he call his father by his Christian name?" I could not resist
questioning, when the little boy had left the room.
"Sometimes," replied the child's mother.
"He hears so many persons do it, he can't see why he shouldn't. And
there really is no reason. Soon enough he will find out that it isn't
customary and stop doing it."
This is a far cry from the days when children were taught to address
their parents as "honored sir" and "respected madam." But, it seems to
me, the parents are as much honored and respected now as then;
and--more important still--both they and the children are, if not dearer,
yet nearer one another.

In small as well as in large matters they slip into their parents'
places--neither encouraged nor discouraged, but simply accepted.
Companions and friends, they behave as such, and are treated in a
companionable and friendly manner.
The other afternoon I dropped in at tea-time for a glimpse of an old
friend.
Her little girl came into the room in the wake of the tea-tray. "Let me
pour the tea," she said, eagerly.
[Illustration: THE BOY OF THE HOUSE]
"Very well," her mother acquiesced. "Be careful not to fill the cups too
full, so that they overflow into the saucers; and do not forget that the
tea is hot" she supplemented.
The little girl had never poured the tea before, but her mother neither
watched her nor gave her any further directions. The child devoted
herself to her pleasant task. With entire ease and unconsciousness she
filled the cups, and made the usual inquiries as to "one lump, or two?"
and "cream or lemon?"
"Isn't she rather young to pour the tea?" I suggested, when we were
alone.
"I don't see why," my friend said. "There isn't any 'age limit' about
pouring tea. She does it for her dolls in the nursery; she might just as
well do it for us here. Of course it is hot; but she can be careful."
There are few things in regard to the doing or the saying or the thinking
of which American parents apprehend any "age limit." Their children
are not "tender juveniles." They do not have a detached life of their
own which the parents "share," nor do the parents have a detached life
of their own which the children "share." There is the common life of
the home, to which all, parents and children, and often grandparents too,
contribute, and in which they all "share."

This is the secret of that genuine satisfaction that so many of us
grown-ups in America find in the society of children, whether they are
members of our own families or are the children of our friends and
neighbors.
A short time ago I had occasion to invite to Sunday dinner a little boy
friend of mine who is nine years old. Lest he might feel his youth in a
household which no longer contains any nine-year-olds, I invited to
"meet him" two other boys, playmates of his, of about the same age.
There chanced also to be present a friend, a professor in a woman's
college, into whose daily life very seldom strays a boy, especially one
nine years old.
"What interesting things have you been doing lately?" she observed to
the boy beside her in the pause which followed our settling