“Now take off them clothes, sir.”

“What for, mother?  I haven’t done any thing!  I didn’t hurt the clothes-pins; Margaret said I might play with them.”

“D’ye hear? take off them clothes, I say!”

“I didn’t do any thing, mother.”

“A word more, and I’ll box your ears until they ring for a month.  Take off them clothes, I say!  I’ll teach you to come when I send for you!  I’ll let you know whether I am to be minded or not!”

Tommy slowly disrobed himself, while his mother, fretted to the point of resolution, eyed him with unrelenting aspect.  The jacket and trousers were removed, and his night-clothes put on in their stead, Tommy all the while protesting tearfully that he had done nothing.

“Will you hush?” was all the satisfaction he received for his protestations.

“Now, Jane, take him up-stairs to bed; he’s got to lie there all the afternoon.”

It was then four, and the sun did not set until near eight o’clock.  Up-stairs the poor child had to go, and then his mother found some quiet.  Her babe slept soundly in the cradle, undisturbed by Tommy’s racket, and she enjoyed a new novel to the extent of almost entirely forgetting her lonely boy shut up in the chamber above.

“Where’s Tommy?” asked a friend, who dropped in about six o’clock.

“In bed,” said the mother, with a sigh.

“What’s the matter?  Is he sick?”

“Oh, no.  I almost wish he were.”

“What a strange wish!  Why do you wish so?”

“Oh, because he is like a little angel when he is sick—­as good as he can be.  I had to send him to bed as a punishment for disobedience.  He is a hard child to manage; I think I never saw one just like him; but, you know, obedience is every thing.  It is our duty to require a strict regard to this in our children.”

“Certainly.  If they do not obey their parents as children, they will not obey the laws as men.”

“That is precisely the view I take; and I make it a point to require implicit obedience in my boy.  This is my duty as a parent; but I find it hard work.”

“It is hard, doubtless.  Still we must persevere, and, in patience, possessing our souls.”

“To be patient with a boy like mine is a hard task.  Sometimes I feel as if I should go wild.” said the mother.

“But, under the influence of such a feeling,” remarked the friend, “what we say makes little or no impression.  A calmly uttered word, in which there is an expression of interest in and sympathy for the child, does more than the sternest commands.  This I have long since discovered.  I never scold my children; scolding does no good, but harm.  My oldest boy is restless, excitable, and impulsive.  If I were not to provide him with the means of employing himself, or in other ways divert him, his hands would be on every thing in the house, and both he and I made unhappy.”

“But how can you interest him?”