Above all, remember this: That the kind of corporal punishment which I employ is effective, first because it is the only kind the child knows, and in no other way does he feel the weight of a corrective hand; and second, because _it never fails to follow the deed_. To waver is unfair to the child. Yesterday he was punished. To-day he commits the same infraction and is not punished. Here is inconsistency and the boy is confused. If it were not deserved to-day, he reasons, it was undeserved yesterday; therefore, he is aggrieved. Every time you miss the atonement you lose a link, and the chain of your discipline is broken. This is the chief error of parent disciplinarians. We fail to grasp the all-important truth that the unfailing application of corporal punishment is the very thing that can render punishment of any kind unnecessary. Many a boy is punished a hundred times where but a few would have sufficed had the penalty been exacted consistently and unfailingly. The right kind of discipline neither spoils the child nor spoils the rod. It spares both. It is like good dentistry. Every moment of hurt saves years of suffering in later life. And good painless discipline is as rare as good painless dentistry. Further than this I have but little to say about discipline, for, once you have achieved infallible obedience, you are bound to achieve perfect discipline. The two words are synonyms in effect. No mother can hope for the best results if she seeks to train her boy as she would arrange her hair--to please her vanity--or as she would plan a shopping tour--to suit her convenience. Self must be submerged and the child’s future kept uppermost. For discipline is a mother’s duty to her boy. If she falters in it the boy will suffer. And every penalty that the unwatched boy escapes through a parent’s frailty, he will have to pay, many fold, in the future years. III AS THE TWIG IS BENT You hear the sound of sobbing in the distance, and as it draws nearer and grows more distinct you recognise the voice. A moment later the door flies open and there stands your boy, crying as though his heart would break. Little rivulets of tears are trickling down his dust-covered cheeks, and on the side of his face is the mark of a cruel blow. Between sobs he tells you that the boy across the street did it. Why? He doesn’t know why; he wasn’t doing anything at all, “jes’ playin’ around.”