USE THE ROD AND SPOIL THE CHILD.

Otago Witness, Issue 4033, 30 June 1931, Page 66

USE THE ROD AND SPOIL THE CHILD.

By

Dr Marton E. Mackenzie.

The other afternoon I was taking a Children’s Clinic for a friend, when a small boy of about two came running and dancing into th’?room. He was simply full of joy. “ He seems very happy.” I said to his mother, who followed him in more soberly. “ Yes, we call him our sunshine,” she said. “He just radiates it, he is always good.” ¥- ¥ ¥ I could not help contrasting him' with the child who had just been-in before him. His mother brought him because he had no appetite. She could never make him eat. She said he was the naughtiest child, she could do nothing with him. He never djel anything he was told. At the time he was careering round my table. He took no notice of his mother’s efforts to stop him. “ Come here and I will smack your face,” she shouted to him angrily. As she had another baby in her arms she could not catch him. So she got more annoyed every minute. “You often smack him? ” I asked. “Of course I do,” she answered. “ I am always smacking him, but he gets no better.” It is a curious thing that the naughtiest children are those who are punished the most. In fact if you find a child who is specially disobedient or naughty, look round for a punishing parent. The sunshine child would have been just as naughty had he been smacked and punished as much as the other poor boy.

Children are born good and have badness thrust upon them, generally by too anxious parents. They imagine by scolding enough and punishing, they will make the children good. Never in this world! It only makes them naughtier than ever. King Solomon was answerable for a lot when he told parents to spare the rod- and spoil the child. No one was silly enough to follow him in thinking it was good to have hundreds of wives. Then why follow his advice (cowardly advice when you think of it) by hitting someone smaller than yourself? The usual result of punishing-parents was noticeable here. The child was a resentful, bad-tempered, hating child. Have you never seen one of these spoil-by-the-rod children stamp their feet and say, “I will kill you”? ¥ ¥ ¥ I ask any fair-minded parent who believes in this way of bringing up her children if she can honestly say that she finds them better tempered and improved by either whacking or scolding. It may satisfy lier to do it, because she wants to hit someone and is bad-tempered herself. It only teaches them resentment and fear, both miserable companions whom no one would choose for her children. I well remember another mother who seemed to think that repeatedly speaking of a child’s faults was the way to cure him. She told me what a bad boy he was, how naughty, how he wore her out, how disobedient he was, etc. The child looked as if he would gladly kill her, though he was so young he could ’barely speak. I advised her to go home and try thinking and speaking well of him. To speak as politely as she would to me always. She came back three months later to say she had tried it and her home was. like heaven. —Glasgow WeeklyHerald.

FORTUNIO CARRACCIOLI. Once I was a . little boy, a kid who dreamed. Coming home late $t night Luigi held my hand or put his arm about my .shoulder. I was not afraid but liked Luigi to take care of me. The bills about Firenze are lambent with lavender in a frosted mist. Fragrantly sweet night comes on.

I think r hear a night bird call and nostalgic joy laments within me. Remembering sweet-sounding names: Benozzo Go’zzoli, I see silver hounds pursue a stag up the bejewelled terrace to the palace, realm of the visionary. , • Gently the soothing moon arises. Far away I hear a singing call. A young goat bleats, and town sounds fall. Graciella, joyous mother sent to sorrow, mother most graciously beautiful, Graciella, what did you to love, and love to you? Muted, the breeze, twangs my nerve heart cords. Soft on evening gentle darkness creeps. Luigi holds my hand. I’m fearsome lonely. There at home I know Emilia weeps. Emilia, why came not love to you? —Robert M'Almon, in Poetry.