96

A WORD WITH THE WOMEN.

Hold him close and kiss him many times. He's such a little fellow, and the world looks larger this morning than ever it did before! Such an absurdly little fellow! But then, it's the first day of school, and school is a thing that must be, so keep the tears back and kiss him many times and send him off. His eyes are like stars with excitement. He trembles just a little. You must give him courage with big words of comfort. If there is any crying to be done on your part, it must be after he is gone. Aren't his legs comical in the new cheeked trousers, with the tiny buckles at the knees--such baby legs, that it will really be a marvel if they can carry him in the opposite direction from his mother. His curls are gone, and the manly little head under its new cap is not the baby head you have been holding on your arm these by sweet, anxious years. It is the head of some beautiful little boy, like your baby, one firm and tough and mannish--your baby was so tender and so fragile.

No woman of any sense would cry. Of course not. You say so over and over. Boys must go to school. If they are going to be citizens of a republic, men who must make their way without favor, who must face poverty and fight in the competition. They would better start in at the public school at the beginning. You have thought that all out. You want to prepare them for the struggle. You can't do that by coddling them until the last moment, and then throwing him into the arena where men are flying at each other's throats. You must see that he is trained, and the public school is the great training ground. A boy has to find out how to hold his own there. It is the great leveler. Your name counts for nothing there. Your wealth is not even known of. The dirty boy has just as much chance as the clean boy. In the school room the boy who has the best brains, and on the play-ground the boy who has the best muscles, is the one who wins. And that is as it should be, perhaps. You have got back to the old primitive law, that it is the strong who wins, and that, whatever the proverbs may say, the race is very apt to be to the swift.

So he is going out to be educated. And when he comes home to you at night there will be an alien expression in his eyes and you will never again be the central figure of the universe to him. Another woman will represent more of wisdom to him than you do. He will obey her better, perhaps than he does you. He will begin to observe that there are a great many fascinating things in the world. His [con?] gaze will no longer be concentrated on you.

But what would you have? You didn't want him to sit and stare at you all his life, did you? You didn't want him dangling at your apron strings? It was a bewitching little tug he used to give your skirts, wasn't it? And it always made you laugh when he wiped the tears out of his eyes with the skirt of your dress. No, you didn't want him at your apron strings. But still--

Have you not heard it said that after an amputation a man feels his lost leg aching and pricking for many and many a day? The pain you suffer now that your baby is gone is not all mental, if you stop to [?] it. It is part physical--a very large part physical. Maternity has tortures and love that cannot be explained, and for which there are no names

What if they should be cross with him--he was used to being treated with such gentleness! what if someone should strike him! But let them try that if they want to know--How ridiculous again! Of course, if he goes to the public schools he must conform to the discipline. "A boy would better not be, than not be trained." Some old Greek said that. And your boy must be trained. You know it. You said so last night to his father. And his father went out for a walk and came home very silent and thoughtful. And when you kissed the boy's father good night your eyes were not the only ones with tears in them. The two of you stood by the little iron bod moment--the bed where the boy was. Such a bonny boy! Legs tough and strong, round and rosy, neck and face brown and beautiful! A grand head--a wonderful hand. Long lashes on the cheek, lips shut gently--Infallible sign of breeding! Hands brown and scratched up with his funny little experiments. They are very small hands with which to tear the world open. But that is what they have been trying to do. For doesn't a boy want to know how the world looks inside? You both kissed him softly--the future gladiator who was going out on the morrow to be trained.

And now he has gone. You don't care about sewing much today. There isn't a book in the house worth reading. The shopping can go till some other time. There isn't anyone you care to call on. The orphans you were going to visit can wait. You are sorry for them, but they'll have to wait. You and selfish and hurt and you want the world to go away and leave you alone for a little while. You've surely a right to lock your door and weep a little--weep for your lost baby!

A WORD WITH THE WOMEN.

Hold him close and kiss him many times. He's such a little fellow, and the world looks larger this morning than ever it did before! Such an absurdly little fellow! But then, it's the first day of schools, and school is a thing that must be, so keep the tears back and kiss him many times and send him off. His eyes are like stars with excitement. He trembles just a little. You must give him courage with big words of comfort. If there is any crying to be done on your part, it must be after he is gone. Aren't his legs comical in the new cheeked trousers, with the tiny buckles at the knees--such baby legs, that it will really be a marvel if they can carry him in the opposite direction from his mother. His curls are gone, and the manly little head under its new cap is not the baby head you have been holding on your arm these by sweet, anxious years. It is the head of some beautiful little boy, like your baby, one firm and tough and mannish--your baby was so tender and so fragile.

No woman of any sense would cry. Of course not. You say so over and over. Boys must go to school. If they are going to be citizens of a republic, men who must make their way without favor, who must face poverty and fight in the competition. They would better start in at the public school at the beginning. You have thought that all out. You want to prepare them for the struggle. You can't do that by coddling them until the last moment, and then throwing him into the arena where men are flying at each other's throats. You must see that he is trained, and the public school is the great training ground. A boy has to find out how to hold his own there. It is the great leveler. Your name counts for nothing there. Your welath is not even known of. The dirty boy has just as much chance as the clean boy. In the school room they boy who has the best brains, and on the play-ground the boy who has the best muscles, is the one who wins. And that is as it should be, perhaps. You have got back to the old primitive law, that it is the strong wh owins, and that, whatever the proverbs may say, the race is very apt to be to the swift.

So he is going out to be educated. And when he comes home to you at night there will be an alien expression in his eyes and you will never again be the central figure of the universe to him. Another woman will represent more of wisdom to him than you do. He will obey her better, perhaps than he does you. He will begin to observe that there are a great many fascinating things in the world. His [con?] gaze will no longer be concentrated on you.

But what would you have? You didn't want him to sit and stare at you all his life, did you? You didn't want him dangling at your apron strings? It was a bewitching little tug he used to give your skirts, wasn't it? And it always made you laugh when he wiped the tears out of his eyes with the skirt of your dress. No, you didn't want him at your apron strings. But still--

Have you not heard it said that after an amputation a man feels his lost leg aching and pricking for many and many a day? The pain you suffer now that your baby is gone is not all mental, if you stop to [?] it. It is part physical--a very large part physical. Maternity has tortures and love that cannot be explained, and for which there are no names

What if they should be cross with him--he was used to being treated with such gentleness! what if someone should strike him! But let them try that if they want to know--How ridiculous again! Of course, if he goes to the public schools he must conform to the discipline. "A boy would better not be, than not be trained." Some old Greek said that. And your boy must be trained. You know it. You said so last night to his father. And his father went out for a walk and came home very silent and thoughtful. And when you kissed the boy's father good night your eyes were not the only ones with tears in them. The two of you stood by the little iron bod moment--the bed where the boy was. Such a bonny boy! Legs tough and strong, round and rosy, neck and face brown and beautiful! A grand head--a wonderful hand. Long lashes on the cheek, lips shut gently--Intallible sign of breeding! Hands brown and scrutched up with his funny little experiments. They are very small hands with which to tear the world open. But that is what they have been trying to do. For doesn't a boy want to know how the world looks inside? You both kissed him softly--the future gladiator who was going out on the morrow to be trained.

And now he has gone. You don't care about sewing much today. There isn't a book in the house worth reading. The shopping can go till some other time. There isn't anyone you care to call on. The orphans you were going to visit can wait. You are sorry for them, but they'll have to wait. You and selfish and hurt and you want the world to go away and leave you alone for a little while. You've surely a right to lock your door and weep a little--weep for your lost baby!