Thus, to bring ourselves near to the hearts of children, we must go to them by entering into their world.  They can not come to us by entering ours.  They have no experience of it, and can not understand it.  But we have had experience of theirs, and can enter it if we choose; and in that way we bring ourselves very near to them.

Sympathy must be Sincere.

But the sympathy which we thus express with children, in order to be effectual, must be sincere and genuine, and not pretended.  We must renew our own childish ideas and imaginations, and become for the moment, in feeling, one with them, so that the interest which we express in what they are saying or doing may be real, and not merely assumed.  They seem to have a natural instinct to distinguish between an honest and actual sharing of their thoughts and emotions, and all mere condescension and pretense, however adroitly it may be disguised.

Want of Time.

Some mothers may perhaps say that they have not time thus to enter into the ideas and occupations of their children.  They are engrossed with the serious cares of life, or busy with its various occupations.  But it does not require time.  It is not a question of time, but of manner.  The farmer’s wife, for example, is busy ironing, or sewing, or preparing breakfast for her husband and sons, who are expected every moment to come in hungry from their work.  Her little daughter, ten years old, comes to show her a shawl she has been making from a piece of calico for her doll.  The busy mother thinks she must say, “Yes; but run away now, Mary; I am very busy!”—­because that is the easiest and quickest thing to say; but it is just as easy and just as quick to say, “What a pretty shawl!  Play now that you are going to take Minette out for a walk in it!” The one mode sends the child away repulsed and a little disappointed; the other pleases her and makes her happy, and tends, moreover, to form a new bond of union and sympathy between her mother’s heart and her own.  A merchant, engrossed all day in his business, comes home to his house at dinner-time, and meets his boy of fifteen on the steps returning from his school.  “Well, James,” he says, as they walk together up stairs, “I hope you have been a good boy at school to-day.”  James, not knowing what to say, makes some inaudible or unmeaning reply.  His father then goes on to say that he hopes his boy will be diligent and attentive to his studies, and improve his time well, as his future success in life will depend upon the use which he makes of his advantages while he is young; and then leaves him at the head of the stairs, each to go to his room.