experience, the fullness and sweetness of that simple line--“_As one whom his mother comforteth_.” Never let your child have his cry out alone. If he is old enough to observe that yours is studied neglect, he has also sense sufficient to enable him to put his own construction upon what is, to him, your cruel indifference to his suffering; and just in proportion as he recognizes and resents this, your influence over him is weakened; his faith in your love shaken. If he is too young to guess why you disregard his outcry, terror and pain lay hold of his spirit, as is evinced by the changed tone of his lamentation. Shall I tell you a little story, just here, one which is unfortunately drawn from life? A mother--a good woman, but a trifle too strong of will, and wedded to a pet theory of family government, according to which, children were but machines, to be subject in every particular to the authority of the chief engineer--one evening laid her babe, about ten months old, in his crib, for the night. The child manifested great unwillingness to lie still, and presently began to cry. The mother seated herself quietly to work upon the other side of the room, and took no outward notice of his screams. An elderly gentleman, a relative, was present, and remonstrated with her upon her silence. “He will certainly injure himself, if you do not stop his crying!” “That is the old-fashioned doctrine,” replied the parent, with a smile of conscious superiority. “I always expect one grand struggle for supremacy with each of my children. He is in revolt now, and must be treated as a rebel. If I yield, and take him up, the lesson is lost.” “I don’t ask you to take him up! Only speak to him. He is well-nigh heart-broken. He will rupture a blood-vessel.” “No danger! It strengthens his lungs to cry in that uproarious manner. I have known babies to scream for two or three hours, without sustaining the least injury.” “You will excuse me, at any rate, from staying here to see the battle out!” and the uncle left the room. Returning, at the end of an hour, he found the child still screaming--now, in an anguished shriek that rent the man’s heart. The woman and mother sat still and sewed steadily--it seemed calmly. “I can not and will not bear this!” ejaculated the old gentleman. “If you don’t take pity on that poor little thing, I will!” “Uncle!” the niece lifted her stern eyes. “I permit no one--not even my husband--to interfere in my management of my child. His passion is at its height. It will soon subside.” The cries were, indeed, growing less vehement. Too anxious to retire again until the scene was over, the uncle walked the room, hearkening, with tortured nerves, to the feebler and still feebler wail; sinking, by and by, into fitful sobbings; then, into pants like those of a tired, hunted-down animal. These came at longer and longer intervals--and all was still. The uncle approached the crib, and bent over it.