Children’s Parties.

“From six till half-past eleven.”

“German at seven, precisely.”

These were the terms of an invitation which we saw last week.  It was sent to forty children, between the ages of ten and sixteen.

“Will you allow your children to stay at this party until half-past eleven?” we said to a mother whose children were invited.  “What can I do?” she replied.  “If I send the carriage for them at half-past ten, the chances are that they will not be allowed to come away.  It is impossible to break up a set.  And as for that matter, half-past ten is two hours and a half past their bed-time; they might as well stay an hour longer.  I wish nobody would ever ask my children to a party.  I cannot keep them at home, if they are asked.  Of course, I might; but I have not the moral courage to see them so unhappy.  All the other children go; and what can I do?”

This is a tender, loving mother, whose sweet, gentle, natural methods with her children have made them sweet, gentle, natural little girls, whom it is a delight to know.  But “what can she do?” The question is by no means one which can be readily answered.  It is very easy for off-hand severity, sweeping condemnation, to say, “Do!  Why, nothing is plainer.  Keep her children away from such places.  Never let them go to any parties which will last later than nine o’clock.”  This is the same thing as saying, “Never let them go to parties at all.”  There are no parties which break up at nine o’clock; that is, there are not in our cities.  We hope there are such parties still in country towns and villages,—­such parties as we remember to this day with a vividness which no social enjoyments since then have dimmed; Saturday-afternoon parties,—­matinees they would have been called if the village people had known enough; parties which began at three in the afternoon and ended in the early dusk, while little ones could see their way home; parties at which there was no “German,” only the simplest of dancing, if any, and much more of blind-man’s-buff; parties at which “mottoes” in sugar horns were the luxurious novelty, caraway cookies the staple, and lemonade the only drink besides pure water.  Fancy offering to the creature called child in cities to-day, lemonade and a caraway cooky and a few pink sugar horns and some walnuts and raisins to carry home in its pocket!  One blushes at thought of the scornful contempt with which such simples would be received,—­we mean rejected!

From the party whose invitation we have quoted above the little girls came home at midnight, radiant, flushed, joyous, looking in their floating white muslin dresses like fairies, their hands loaded with bouquets of hot-house flowers and dainty little “favors” from the German.  At eleven they had had for supper champagne and chicken salad, and all the other unwholesome abominations which are set out and eaten in American evening entertainments.