How to Bring up a Child

When Children Cry for Things

 

Q: Sweet Mother, why do some children have the habit of always asking for things? Material things, like sweets, everything they see...

Oh, because they are full of desires. They were probably formed with vibrations of desires, and as they have no control over themselves it is expressed freely. Older people are also full of desires, but usually they have a kind of... how do we call it?... They are a little shy of showing their desires or they feel a bit ashamed or perhaps are afraid they will be laughed at; so they don’t show them. Well, they too are full of desires. Only children are more simple. When they want something they say so. They don’t tell themselves that perhaps it would be wiser not to show this, because they don’t yet have this kind of reasoning. But I think, generally speaking, with very few exceptions, that people live in perpetual desires. Only, they don’t express them, and sometimes they are ashamed also to acknowledge it to themselves. But it is there, this need of having something... you know, one sees something pretty, it is immediately translated into a desire for possession; and this is one of the things... it is absolutely childish. It is childish and indeed it is ridiculous, because at least ninety times out of a hundred, when the one who had a desire for something possesses it, he doesn’t even look at it any longer. It is very rarely that this thing continues to interest him once he has it, whatever the nature of the object.

(Ibid. Vol. 6,pp.411-15)

*

Q: Sweet Mother, how can we help a child to come out of this

habit of always asking?

There are many ways. But first of all you must know whether you will not just stop him from freely expressing what he thinks and feels. Because this is what people usually do. They scold, even sometimes punish him; and so the child forms the habit of concealing his desires. But he is not cured of them. And you see, if he is always told, “No, you won’t have that”, then, simply, this state of mind gets settled in him: “Ah, when you are small, people don’t give you anything! You must wait till you are big. When I am big I shall have all that I want. “ That’s how it is. But this does not cure them. It is very difficult to bring up a child. There is a way which consists in giving him all he wants; and naturally, the next minute he will want something else, because that’s the law, the law of desire: never to be satisfied. And so, if he is intelligent, one can tell him, “But you see, you insisted so much on having this and now you longer care for it. You want something else. “ Yet if he was very clever he would answer, “Well, the best way of curing me is to give me what I ask for.

 

Q: Sweet Mother, how can we help a child to come alit of this habit of always asking?

 

There are many ways. But first of all you must know whether you will not just stop him from freely expressing what he thinks and feels. Because this is what people usually do. They scold, even sometimes punish him; and so the child forms the habit of concealing his desires. But he is not cured of them. And you see, if he is always told, "No, you won't have that", then., simply, this state of mind gets settled in him: "Ah, when you are small, people don't give you anything! You must wait till you are big. When I am big I shall have all that I want." That's how it is. But this does not cure them. It is very difficult to bring up a child. There is a way which consists in giving him all he wants; and naturally, the next minute he will want something else, because that's the law, the law of desire: never to be satisfied. And so, if he is intelligent, one can tell him, "But you see, you insisted so much on having this and now you no longer care for it. You want something else." Yet if he was very clever he would answer, "Well, the best way of curing me is to give me what

 

“Some people cherish this idea all their life. When they are told that they should overcome their desires, they say, “The easiest way is to satisfy them.” This kind of logic seems impeccable. But the fact is that it is not the object desired that has to be changed, it is the impulse of desire, the movement of desire. And for this a great deal of knowledge is needed, and this is difficult for a very young child.

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It is difficult. Indeed, they don’t have the capacity for reasoning; one can’t explain things to them, because they don’t understand the reasons. So you see, when it is like that the parents usually tell the child, “Keep quiet, you area nuisance!” In this way they get out of the difficulty. But this is no solution. It is very difficult. It asks for a sustained effort and an unshakable patience. Some people are like that all their life; they are like babies throughout their existence and it is impossible to make them see reason. As soon as one tells them that they are not reasonable and that one can’t all the time be giving them things to satisfy their desires, they simply think, “These people are unpleasant.

This person is not nice.” That’s all.

*

 

In fact, perhaps one should begin by shifting the movement to things which it is better to have from the true point of view, and which it is more difficult to obtain. If one could turn this impulsion of desire towards a... For example, when a child is full of desires, if one could give him a desire of a higher kind - instead of its being a desire for purely material objects, you understand, an altogether transitory satisfaction - if one could awaken in him the desire to know, the desire to learn, the desire to become a remark- able person... in this way, begin with that. As these things are difficult to do, so, gradually, he will develop his will for these things. Or even, from the material point of view, the desire to do something difficult, as for example, construct a toy which it is difficult to make - or give him a game of patience which requires a great deal of perseverance.

*

 

If one can orient them - it requires much discernment, much patience, but it can be done - and if one can orient them towards something like this, to succeed in very difficult games or to work out something which requires much care and attention, and can push them in some line like this so that it exercises a persevering will in them, then this can have results: turn their attention away from certain things and towards others. This needs constant care and it seems to be a way that’s most - I can’t say the easiest, for it is certainly not easy - but the most effective way. To say “No” does not cure and to say “Yes” does not cure either; and sometimes it becomes extremely difficult also, naturally.

I knew people, for example, whose children wanted to eat everything they saw. They were allowed to do it. So they fell very ill. After that, they felt disgusted. But this is a little risky, isn’t it? There are children who fidget with everything. Now, one day, you see, one child got hold of a box of matches. Then, instead of telling him, “Don’t touch it”, they let him do it: he burnt himself. He never touched them again.

*

But it is a little dangerous, because some children are altogether unconscious and very bold in their desires: for example, those who like to walk on the edge of a wall or the top of a roof or have the desire to plunge into water when they see it or to dive into a river... you see, this becomes sometimes very difficult... or those who have the mania for crossing the street: each time they see a car coming... they try to cross it. So if they are allowed to do so, the experience may one day be fatal...

Probably, one needs to find a middle term between the two, between the two extremes: that of watching over him all the time and that of leaving him absolutely free to do what he likes, without even warning him against the accidents which are likely to occur. An adjustment to make every minute! Difficult.

-The Mother

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When Children Play with Swords and Pistols

 

Q: Because all the tendencies of the children come into play when they are given enough free scope, several difficulties arise, especially in controlling the noise and movements they make. A few days ago, they began to make swords and pistols out of meccano. So, in a general way, when these things come up, when the children are engaged in this kind of activity, should we intervene, or wait until the movement dies down and disappears?

You should... you should question the children and ask them in an off-hand way, “Oh, you have enemies? Who are these enemies?”... That is what you should say.... You should make them talk a little.... It is because they see that... There is a strength and a beauty in the army which children feel strongly. But that should be preserved. Only, armies should be used not to attack and capture but to defend and... protect.

 

 

First you must understand properly: for the moment,

we are in a condition where weapons are still necessary. We have to understand that this is a passing condition, not

final, but that we must move towards that.

 

Peace - peace, harmony - should be the natural result of a change of consciousness.... You see, there is this idea of non-violence about India, which has replaced material violence by moral violence - but that is far worse! You should make them understand this.... You can say this, explain to the children that to replace physical violence, material violence, by moral violence, is no better. Lying down in front of a train to prevent it from passing is a moral violence which can create more disturbances than physical violence. You... can you hear me?

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But it depends on the child, it depends on the case. You must not give any names, say what this or that person has said. We must make them understand ideas and reactions. You should... That is a good example: you should make them understand that lying down in front of a train to prevent it from passing is as great a violence... even greater than attacking it with weapons. You understand, there are many, many things that could be said. It depends on the case.

*

 

I myself encouraged fencing a great deal because it gives a skill, a control of one’s movements and a discipline in violence. At one time I encouraged fencing a great deal, and then too, I learned to shoot. I used to shoot with a pistol, I used to shoot with a rifle because that gives you a steadiness and skill and a sure-sightedness that is excellent, and it obliges you to stay calm in the midst of danger. I don’t see why all these things...One must not be hopelessly non-violent - that makes characters that are... soft! You should have taken the opportunity to tell them, “Oh, you should learn fencing!” And a pistol too?

Q: Yes, Mother.

And tell them... teach them to shoot... make it into an art,  into an art and into a training of calm and self-controlled skill. One should never... never raise hue and cry.... That will not do at all, at all, at all. I am not at all in favour of that. The methods of self-defence should be mastered, and for that they must be practised.

The Mother

(Ibid. Vol. 12,pp.436-39)

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Some Reminiscences

 

Here are a few anecdotes collected from the reminiscences of those who had the privilege of being close to the Mother and seeing her with children. The anecdotes reveal not only the Mother’s deep love for them but also her unique way of looking at a situation so that nothing remains trivial and all is suffused with a deeper significance.

 

The True Value of a Person

I was helping to look after one of the first boardings which was started by the Mother. One day, during dinner, one of the boys proclaimed very proudly that his father always travelled in style, only ‘first class.’ I told the Mother about this the following day. The Mother asked me what had been my response.I replied that I had simply ignored it. But she said that I ought not to have done that and added that, when the opportunity arose, I should call the children together and explain to them that worldly wealth is of no importance; only the wealth that has been offered to the Divine has a value. You do not become big by living in big houses, travelling by first class and spending money lavishly. You increase irt stature only by being truthful, sincere, obedient, grateful and by serving the Divine.

 

The Importance of Work

 

Once some coconuts were being distributed in the Ashram. The mother of a young girl had not come. But when the girl was asked to carry it, she refused saying that she felt shy to carry a coconut on the road. When I informed the Mother of this incident she said that all children should be encouraged to take up some work as part of their education so that they could overcome such reactions and realise the true value of work. I was asked to organise immediately this activity. It evoked an enthusiastic response from the children, specially when they realised how happy the Mother was to see them work,

*

Education cannot be sold

Once the Ashram was in a tight financial situation. Some disciples pointed out that we were giving free education to so many children and spending large sums of money on them. Many of the children were from well-to-do families and no one would mind if we fixed a nominal fee for the education provided. On the other hand, it would help the Ashram considerably. The Mother replied in a serious tone that in India education had never been sold and she would not do it. The question was never raised again.

*

Some Hints for the Parents

 

I was looking after some children in a boarding and the Mother always took interest in all the aspects of the children’s lives. On different occasions she told us the following:

a)     To wake a sleeping child, one should not call him loudly by his name or touch his body. Instead, one should gently and softly call him.

b)    It is very important to teach the children to sleep and eat at a fixed time. While eating, the children should be encouraged to feel what are the needs of the body rather than to be led by taste. If some children like to over-eat they need not be refused but they should be given a smaller helping from the beginning.

c)        Nothing should be imposed on the children. They may be made to do what one will by explaining to them in the proper way, but never by compulsion.

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The Newspaper and the Sweets

During the early days of my association with the Mother, I once took to Her a big basket of sweets from Delhi for my children.

The Mother opened the basket and saw that the sweets were wrapped in newspaper. She, immediately called someone standing close to Her, handed over the basket and asked him to throw it away. She said. “You see, the sweets packed in newspapers cannot be given to children for eating. The inks with which the newspapers are printed are poisonous. And newspapers are always dirty. “ I realised how particular the Mother was with things concerning the children. I also felt that when my children were bathed in the Mother’s love and sweetness where was the need of sweets from Delhi.

*

The Mother- Human and Divine

My child P. had been admitted to the children’s boarding in the Ashram. One morning I was going home from the Ashram and P. was following me on the road. I heard a loud scream. I turned and saw that he had fallen and hurt himself. There was a deep cut on his forehead. His clothes, were bloodstained. I ran to lift him up and take him home but before I could do that he had got up crying and instead of coming towards me started running in the opposite direction. I was surprised. I ran after him, I called him several times, but he would not hear and went back into the Ashram. I kept calling him but he would not hear and ran even faster. I had also to run after him. He went straight up the staircase and reached the Mother. I was astonished that instead of coming to me he ran back that distance to reach the Mother. The Mother held him and asked, “Mon Petit, what happened?” He was hardly three and so he could not converse with the Mother either in English or in French. He just fell down again on the floor before the Mother, gesturing that this is what had happened. Although he was still bleeding he had stopped crying now because he wanted to explain to the Mother exactly what had happened. Mother went in and brought Her First Aid box, washed his forehead with spirit, bandaged it nicely and showered him with love. She also gave him some ‘Sweets’ and sent him home with me. I was amazed to see the beauty of Divine Love becoming human.

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Games of Skill

 

The Mother was very fond of games of skill. She once told me that we should introduce games where fine skill was required. To show us the importance of developing this skill she asked each of us in turn to lift the cover of a crystal i  bowl and replace it without making the slightest sound. We

all tried, but it was Mother who replaced it without the least sound. I told Mother that we had already introduced some games of skill for children, at the Library of Physical Education. She seemed pleased to hear it. Whenever people brought Her games of skill. She would give them to us. We soon had a little corner all to ourselves where we kept all these games. We played

“fiddlestix”, “flying hats”, etc. but most of all we played “Jonches”, a Japanese game which was Mother’s favourite.

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Jonches was played with fine match-like sticks. These were either collected together in the hand, and released all together, or to make the game more difficult, they were arranged one on top of the other. Each player in turn had to pick up as many sticks as he could without moving any other stick. If any stick, other than the one being lifted moved, the player lost his turn. The one with the maximum number of sticks was the winner. Mother was so fond of this game, that She would come and join us whenever She could spare a little time. She would sit down on the carpet and play with us. Later, a little table was provided for us and when Mother came to play, there was a small stool for Her to sit on.

*

Helping the Mother in Yoga

In the fifties the Mother took French classes for the children. During one of these Friday evening classes in the Playground one of the children asked the Mother: “What can we do to help you. Mother, in the Yoga?” There was general laughter. But Mother was quite serious, and after some time She said very simply:

“Be happy.”

Again there was laughter and the child said: “But Mother we are always happy.” The Mother continued, “Yes, that is good because when you are happy here it means you are on the right path - but immediately you feel uneasy or not so happy, it means there is something wrong which you have to attend to - something wrong with you which you have to correct.”

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Again there was laughter and the child said: “But Mother we are always happy.” The Mother continued, “Yes, that is good because when you are happy here it means you are on the right path - but immediately you feel uneasy or not so happy, it means there is something wrong which you have to attend to - something wrong with you which you have to correct.”

*

Thou Art That

When Svetaketu was twelve years old, his father Uddalaka said to him, “Svetaketu, you must now go to school and study. None of our family, my child, is ignorant of Brahman.” Thereupon Svetaketu went to a teacher and studied for twelve years. After committing to memory all the Vedas, he returned home full of pride in his learning. His father, noticing the young man’s conceit, said to him: “Svetaketu, have you asked for that knowledge by which we hear the unbearable, by which we perceive the unperceivable, by which we know the unknowable?” “What is that knowledge, sir?” asked Svetaketu. “My child, as by knowing one lump of clay, all things made of clay are known, the difference being only in name and arising from speech, and the truth being that all are clay; as by knowing a nugget of gold, all things made of gold are known, the difference being only in name and arising from speech, and the truth being that all are gold - exactly so is that knowledge, knowing which we know all.” “But surely those venerable teachers of mine are ignorant of this knowledge; for if they had possessed it, they would have taught it to me. Do you therefore, sir, give me that knowledge.”

“Be it so,” said Uddalaka, and continued thus: “In the beginning there was Existence, One only, without a second. Some say that in the beginning there was non-existence only, and that out of that the universe was born. But how could such a thing be? How could existence be born of non-existence? No, my son, in the beginning there was Existence alone - One only, without a second.

*

A Story from the Upanishads :

He, the One thought to himself: Let me be many, let me grow forth. Thus out of himself he projected the universe; and having projected out of himself the universe, he entered into every being. All that is has its self in him alone. Of all things he is the subtle essence. He is the truth. He is the Self. And that, Svetaketu, THAT ART THOU.”

“Please, sir, tell me more about this Self.”

“Be it so, my child:

“As the bees make honey by gathering juices from many flowering plants and trees, and as these juices reduced to one honey do not know from what flowers they severally come, similarly, my son, all creatures, when they are merged in that one Existence, whether in dreamless sleep or in death, know nothing of their past or present state, because of the ignorance enveloping them - know not that they are merged in him and that from him they came.

 

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 “Whatever these creatures are, whether a lion, or a tiger, or a boar, or a worm, or a gnat, or a mosquito, that they remain after they come back from dreamless sleep. “All these have their self in him alone. He is the truth.

He is the subtle essence of all. He is the Self. And that, Svetaketu, THAT ART THOU.”

“Please, sir, tell me more about this Self.”

*

“Be it so, my son:

“The rivers in the east flow eastward, the rivers in the west flow westward, and all enter into the sea. From sea to sea they pass, the clouds lifting them to the sky as vapour and sending them down as rain. And as these rivers, when they are united with the sea, do not know whether they are this or that river, likewise all those creatures that I have named, when they come back from Brahman, know not whence they came.

“All those beings have their self in him alone. He is the truth. He is the subtle essence of all. He is the Self. And that, Svetaketu, THAT ART THOU.”

“Please, sir, tell me more about this Self.”

“Be it so, my child:

“If someone were to strike once at the root of this large tree, it would bleed, but live. If he were to strike at its stem, it would bleed,  but live.  If he were to strike at the top, it would bleed, but live. Pervaded by the living Self, this tree stands firm, and takes its food; but if the Self were to depart from one of its branches, that branch would wither; if it were to depart from a second, that would wither; if it were to depart from a third, that would wither. If it were to depart from the whole tree, the whole tree would wither.

 

“Likewise, my son, know this: The body dies when the Self leaves it - but the Self dies not.

“All that is, has its self in him alone. He is the truth. He is the  subtle essence of all.  He is the Self.  And that. Svetaketu, THAT ART THOU.”

“Please, sir, tell me more about this Self.”

“Be it so. Bring a fruit of that Nyagrodha tree.”

*

“Here it is, sir.”

“Break it.”

“It is broken, sir.”

“What do you see?”

“Some seeds, extremely small, sir.”

“Break one of them.”

“It is broken, sir.”

“What do you see?”

“Nothing, sir.”

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“The subtle essence you do not see, and in that is the whole of the Nyagrodha tree. Believe, my son, that that which is the subtle essence - in that have all things their existence. That is the truth. That is the Self. And that, Svetaketu, THAT ART THOU.”

 

"Please, sir, tell me more about this Self."

"Be it so. Put this salt in water, and come to me tomorrow morning."

Svetaketu did as he was bidden. The next morning his father asked him to bring the salt which he had put in the water. But he could not, for it had dissolved. Then said Uddalaka: "Sip the water, and tell me how it tastes." .4It is salty, sir."

"In the same way," continued UddaIaka, "though you do not see Brahman in this body, he is indeed here. That which is the subtle essence - in that have all things their existence. That is the truth. That is the Self. And that, Svetaketu, THAT ART THOU."

"Please, sir, tell me more about this Self," said the youth again. "Be it so, my child: "

As a man may be blindfolded, and led away, and left in a strange place; and as, having been so dealt with, he turns in every direction and cries out for someone to remove his bandages and show him the way home; and as one thus entreated may loose his bandages and give him comfort; and as thereupon he walks from village to village, asking his way as he goes; and as he arrives home at last - just so does a man who meets with an illumined teacher obta in true knowledge. "That which is the subtle essence - in that have all beings their existence. That is the truth. That is the Self. And that,

O Svetaketu, THAT ART THOU."

 "Please, sir, tell me more about this Self." "Be it so, my child: "

When a man is fatally ill, his re lations gather round him and ask, 'Do you know me? Do you know me?' Now until his speech is merged in his mind, his mind in his breath, his breath in his vital heat, his vital heat in the Supreme Being, he knows them. But when his speech is merged in his mind, his mind in his breath, his breath in his vital heat, his vital heat in the Supreme Being, then he does not know them. "That which is the subtle essence - in that have all beings their existence. That is the truth. That is the Self. And that, o Svetaketu, THAT ART THOU."

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Father Flangan's Toughtest Customer

 

“There’s no such thing as a bad boy!”- and then along came Eddile...

One winter night a long-distance call came to that Nebraska village known all over the world as Boys Town. “Father Flanagan? This is Sheriff Hosey - from Virginia. Got room for another boy - immediately?”

“Where is he now?”

“In jail. He’s a desperate character - robbed a bank, held up three stores with a revolver.”

“How old is he?”

“Eight and a half.”

The gaunt, blue-eyed priest stiffened at the telephone.“He’s what?”

“Don’t let his age fool you. He’s all I said he was, and more. Will you take him off our hands?”

For years the Rev. Edward Joseph Flanagan has been taking unwanted boys off the hands of baffled society: youths of all ages, races, creeds.

*

 

“If I can’t manage an eight-year-old by this time, I ought to quit,” he said. “Bring him on!” Three days later. Sheriff Hosey and his wife set down their prisoner in Father Flanagan’s office - an unnaturally pale boy with a bundle under his arm. He was no higher than the desk; frowzy hair of chocolate brown dangled over the pinched face; sullen brown eyes were half shut beneath long, dark lashes. From one side of his mouth a cigarette

drooped at a theatrical angle. “Don’t mind the smoking,” pleaded the sheriff.

“We had to bribe him with cigarettes.” The sheriffs wife laid a long envelope on the desk. “There’s a complete report,” she snapped. “And that’s not the half of it. This good-for-nothing criminal is not worth helping. It’s my personal opinion he ain’t even human! Good-bye and good luck-you’re going to need it!” Now the heart of Father Flanagan is warmed by his love of God and man, and especially young ones. Looking upon this patched wraith of childhood, the priest thought that never had he seen such a mixture of the comical and the utterly squalid and tragic.

*

 

Waving the newcomer to a chair, Father Flanagan began to read the report. People had forgotten the boy’s last name; he was just Eddie. Born in a slum near the Newport News docks, he had lost mother and father in a flu epidemic before he was four. In water-front flats he was shunted from one family to another, living like a desperate animal. Hardship sharpened his cunning and his will. At the age of eight he became the boss of a gang of boys, some nearly twice his age. Coached by older toughs of the neighborhood, Eddie browbeat them into petty crimes which he planned in detail. About six months before the law caught up with him, his rule had been challenged by a new member of the gang.

“You never do anything yourself. You’re no leader.”

“I’ll show you,” replied Eddie. “I’ll do something you wouldn’t dare. I’m going to rob a bank.”

__________

"Reprinted with permission from February 1947 Reader'sDigest e 1947 The Reader's Digest"

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The bank was housed in an old-fashioned building. When most of the clerks were at lunch, Eddie entered unseen and crossed to an unattended slot of the cashier cage. So small that he had to chin himself up, he thrust in one grimy paw, seized a packet of bills and hid them in his jacket. Then he walked out to divide $ 200 among his comrades. But the exploit was a flop; the bank concealed the theft and there were no headlines. “You’re only cracking your jaw,” the gang jeered.

“You found that dough somewhere.” Eddie’s answer was to disappear for several days. Someone had sold him a revolver, and he was out in the fields beyond town, practising marksmanship.

This time the local front pages were full of him. Slouching into a restaurant at a quiet hour, he aimed his gun at the terrified counterman and was handed the day’s take from the cash register. Next he dragged a roll of bills from the pocket of a quaking tailor. His third call was on an old lady who kept a candy store. “Put that thing down,” this grandmother cried, “before you hurt yourself!” She smacked the gun out of his hand and grabbed him by the hair. Savagely he struggled; he might have killed her, but her screams brought policemen. Now Eddie had wound up in Boys Town.

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Putting aside the report. Father Flanagan looked at the villain of the piece. In the dimmish light Eddie sat unmoving, head lowered, so that it was hard to see much of that sullen face. As the man watched, the child produced a cigarette paper and a sack of tobacco. One hand. cowboy fashion, he delibrately rolled a cigarette and lit it, thumbnail to match; he blew a plume of smoke across the desk. The long eyelashes lifted for a flash, to see how the priest was taking it. “Eddie,” began Flanagan, “you are welcome here. The whole place is run by the fellows, you know. Boy mayor. Boy city council. Boy chief of police.”

“Where’s the jail?” grunted Eddie.

*

 

“We haven’t a jail. You are going to take a bath and then get supper. Tomorrow you start in a school. You and I can become real friends - it’s strictly up to you. Some day I hope I can take you to my heart. I know you’re a good boy!”

The reply came in one shocking syllable. About ten o’clock next morning Father Flanagan’s office door opened and the new pupil swaggered in. His hair had been cut and neatly combed and he was clean. With an air of great unconcern he tossed on the desk a note from one of the teachers: “Dear Father Flanagan: We have heard you say a thousand times that there is no such thing as a bad boy. Would you mind telling me what you call this one?” Back in the classroom Father Flanagan found the atmosphere tense. The teacher described how Eddie had sat quietly in his seat for about an hour; suddenly he began parading up and down the aisle, swearing like a longshore- man and throwing movable objects on the floor, finally pitching an inkwell which landed accurately on a plaster bust of Cicero. Replacing Eddie in his seat. Father Flanagan apologized:

*

 

“It was my fault. I never told him he mustn’t throw inkwells. The laws of Boys Town will, of course, be enforced withhim, as with all the rest of us. But he has to learn them first. We must never forget that Eddie is a good boy.” “Like hell I am!” screamed Eddie. The child made no friends among boys or teachers. And for Father Flanagan he reserved his supreme insult - “a damned praying Christian.” Spare time he spent roaming about stealthily, looking for a chance to run away. He stood aloof in the gymnasium and on baseball and football fields: “Kid stuff!” he muttered. Neither choir nor band could stir him; the farm bored him. And in all that first six months not once a laugh or a tear. Soon the question in Boys Town was whether Father Flanagan had met his match at last. “Does the little fellow learn anything?” he asked the sisters.

“Somehow he is getting his A B C’s,” they reported.

*

 

“In fact he’s learning more than he lets on. But he’s just eaten up with hate.” This was not the first tough case Father Flanagan had dealt with. One youngster had shot his father, a wife- beater, through the heart. A murderer - but only because the lad loved his mother. When the priest had understood, he had been able to work things out. There must be something in Eddie, too, that could be worked out. “I’ll have to throw away the book of rules,” grumbled Flanagan. “I’m going to try spoiling the little devil - with love!”

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Boys and teachers watched the new strategy as if it were a sporting contest, and the home team was Father Flanagan. Upon those weeks and months of planned treats the priest looks back with a reminiscent shudder: the scores of second-rate movies they sat through; the hot dogs and hamburgers, candy bars, ice cream and soft drinks that Eddie stuffed inside his puny body. Yet never once did Eddie give a sign that anything was fun. In summer dawns that smelled of pines and wild clover, he would trudge stolidly down to the lake, but no grunt of excitement came when he landed a trout. An apathy settled upon him; he became more silent than ever. Only once toward the end of that unhappy experiment did man and boy come closer together. At a street crossing in Omaha Eddie was looking in the wrong direction when a truck bore down on him; Father Flanagan yanked him out of harm’s way. For one instant a light of gratitude flickered in the startled brown eyes, then the dark lashes fell again; he said nothing.

*

 

Even to the man of faith it began to seem that here was an inherent vileness beyond his reach. Hope had fallen to the lowest possible point when one soft spring morning Eddie appeared in the office, boldly announcing that he wanted to have it out with Father Flanagan. This time the brown eyes were glowing with indignation. “You been trying to get around me,” he began, “but now I’m wise to you. If you was on the level, I might have been a sucker, at that. I almost fell for your line. But last night I got to thinking it over and I see the joker in the whole thing -“ There was something terribly earnest and manful in Eddie now; this was not insolence but despair. With a stab of hope the priest noticed for the first time a quiver on the twisted lips.

“Father Flanagan, you’re a phony!”

“You better prove that, Eddie - or shut up!”

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“Okay! I just kicked a sister in the shins. Now what do you say?”

“I still say you are a good boy.”

*

 

“What did I tell you? You keep on saying that lie and you know it’s a lie. It can’t be true. Don’t that prove you’re a phony?”

Dear Heavenly Father, this is his honest logic! How can I answer it? How defend my faith in him _ and in You? Because it’s now or never with Eddie _ God give me the grace to say the right thing.

Father Flanagan cleared his throat. “Eddie, you’re smart enough to know when a thing is really proved. What is a good boy? A good boy is an obedient boy. Right?”

“Yeah!”

“Always does what teachers tell him to do?”

“Yeah!”

“Well, that’s all you’ve ever done, Eddie. The only trouble is that you had the wrong teachers - wharf toughs and corner bums. But you certainly obeyed them. You’ve done every wrong and rotten thing they taught you to do. If you would only obey the good teachers here in the same way, you’d be just fine!”

*

 

Those simple words of unarguable truth were like an exorcism, driving out devils from the room and cleansing the air. At first the tiny human enigma looked dumfound- ed. Then came a glisten of sheer, downright relief in the brown eyes, and he edged around the side of the sunlit desk. And with the very same relief Father Flanagan’s soul was crying; he held out his arms and the child climbed into them and laid a tearful face against his heart. That was a long time ago. For ten years Eddie remained in Boys Town. Then, well near the top of his class, he left to join the United States Marines. On blood-smeared beaches he won three promotions.

“His chest,” boasts Father Flanagan, “is covered with decorations. Nothing strange about that, for he has plenty of courage. But God be praised for something else: he had the love of the men in his outfit - brother to the whole bunch. He is an upstanding Christian character. And still the toughest kid I ever knew!”

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The Gift of Understanding

By Paul Villiard

 

The confidence of childhood is a fragile thing. It can be preserved or destroyed in an instant...

I must have been about four years old when I first entered Mr. Wigden’s sweet shop, but the smell of that wonderful world of penny treasures still comes back to me clearly more than half a century later. Whenever he heard the tiny tinkle of the bell attached to the front door, Mr. Wigden quietly appeared to take his stand behind the counter, he was very old, and his head was topped with a cloud of fine, snow-white hair. Never was such an array of delicious temptations spread before a child. It was almost painful to make a choice. Each kind had first to be savoured in the imagination before passing on to the next. There was always a short pang of regret as the selection was dropped into a little white paper bag. Perhaps another kind would taste better? Or last longer? Mr. Wigden had a trick of scooping your selection into the bag, then pausing. Not a word was spoken, but every child understood that Mr. Wigden’s raised eyebrows constituted a last-minute opportunity to make an exchange. Only after payment was laid upon the counter was the bag irrevocably twisted shut and the moment of indecision ended. Our house was two streets away from the tram-line, and you had to pass the shop going to and from the trams. Mother had taken me into town on some forgotten errand, and as we walked home from the tram she turned into Mr. Wigden’s.

*

 

“Let’s see if we can find something good,” she said, leading me up to the long glass case as the old man approached from behind a curtained aperture. My mother stood talking to him for a few minutes as I gazed rapturously at the display before my eyes. Then Mother chose something for me and paid Mr. Wigden. Mother went into town once or twice a week, and, since in those days baby-sitters were almost unheard-of, I usually accompanied her. It became a regular routine for her to take me into the sweet shop for some special treat, and after that first visit I was always allowed to make my own choice.

I knew nothing of money at that time. I would watch my mother hand something to people, who would then hand her a package or a bag, and slowly the idea of exchange percolated into my mind. Some time about then I reached a decision. I would travel the interminable two streets to Mr. Wigden’s all alone. I remember the tinkle of the bell as I managed, after some considerable effort, to push open the big door. Enthralled, I worked my way slowly down the display counter. Here were spearmint leaves with a fresh minty frag-rance. There, gumdrops - the great big ones, so tender to bite into, all crusty with crystals of sugar. I couldn’t pass by the satin cushions, little hard souares filled with sherbet. In the next tray were coloured jelly-babies. The box behind them held gobstoppers which were enormous, made a most satisfying bulge in your cheek, and lasted at least an hour if you didn’t roll them round in your mouth too much, or take them out too often to see what colour layer was exposed at the moment.

_______________________

"Reprinted with permission from September 1965
Reader's Digest © 1965 The Reader's Digest"

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 The hard, shiny, dark-brown-covered nuts Mr. Wigden dished out with a little wooden scoop - two scoops for a penny. And, of course, there were liquorice all sorts. These lasted a longtime too, if you nibbled them slowly, and let the bites dissolve instead of chewing them up. When I had picked out a promising assortment and several little white paper bags were standing on top of the counter. Mr. Wigden leaned over and asked. “You have the money to pay for all these?”

*

 

“Oh, yes,” I replied, “I have lots of money.” I reached out my fist, and into Mr. Widgen’s open hand I dumped half a dozen cherry-stones carefully wrapped in silver paper. Mr. Widgen stood gazing at the palm of his hand: then he looked searchingly at me for a long moment.

“Isn’t it enough?” I asked him anxiously.

He sighed gently. “I think it is a bit too much,” he answered.

“You’ve got some change to come.” He walked over to his old-fashioned cash register and cranked open the drawer. Returning to the counter, he leaned over and dropped two pennies into my outstretched hand. My mother scolded me about going all that way alone when she found me out. I don’t think it ever occurred to her to ask about the Financial arrangement. I was simply cautioned not to go again unless I asked first. I must have obeyed, and evidently, when permission was granted for me to go again, a penny or two was given to me for my purchases, since I don’t remember using cherry-stones a second time. In fact, the affair, insignificant to me then, was soon forgotten in the busy occupation of growing up.

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When I was six or seven years old my family moved to another town, where I grew up, eventually married and established my own family. My wife and I opened a shop where we bred and sold tropical fish. The acquarium trade was then still in its infancy, and most of the fish were imported from Africa and South America. Few species sold for less then five dollars a pair.

*

 

One sunny afternoon a little girl came in accompanied by her brother. They were perhaps five and six years old. I was busy cleaning the tanks. The two children stood with wide, round eyes, staring at the jewelled beauties swimming in the crystal-clear water. “Gosh,” exclaimed the boy, “can we buy some?”

“Yes,” I replied. “If you can pay for them.”

“Oh, we have lots of money,” the little girl said confidently.

Something in the way she spoke gave me an odd feeling of familiarity. After watching the fish for some time they asked me for pairs of several different kinds, pointing them out as they walked down the row of tanks. I netted their choices into a travelling container and slipped it into an insulated bag for transport, handing it to the boy. “Carry it carefully,” I cautioned. He nodded and turned to his sister. “You pay him,” he said. I held out my hand, and as her clenched fist approached me I suddenly knew exactly what was going to happen, even what the little girl was going to say. Her fist opened, and into my outstretched palm she dumped three small coins.

*

 

In that instant I sensed the full impact of the legacy Mr. Wigden had given me so many years before. Only now did I recognize the challenge I had presented to the old man, and realize how wonderfully he had met it. I seemed to be standing again in the little sweet shop as I looked at the coins in my own hand. I understood the innocence of the two children and the power to preserve or destroy that innocence, as Mr. Wigden had understood those long years ago. I was so filled up with the remembering that my throat ached. The little girl was standing expectantly before me. “Isn’t it enough?” she asked in a small voice. “It’s a little too much,” I managed to say over the lump in my throat. “You’ve got some change to come.” I rummaged round in the cash drawer, dropped two cents into her open hand, then stood in the doorway watching the children walk away, carefully carrying their treasure. When I went back into the shop, my wife was standing on a stool with her arms submerged to the elbows in a tank where she was rearranging the plants. “What was that all about?” she asked. “Do you know how many fish you gave them?”

“About 30 dollars’ worth,” I answered, the lump still in my throat. “But I couldn’t have done anything else.” When I had finished telling her about old Mr. Wigden, her eyes were wet, and she stepped off the stool and gave me a gentle kiss on the cheek. “I still smell the gumdrops,” I sighed, and I’m certain I heard old Mr. Wigden chuckle over my shoulder as I wiped down the last tank.

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