The Sensitive Child

Front matter

The Sensitive Child

As Revealed in Some Talks with a Little Boy

by Kate Whiting Patch

Introduction

The Sensitive Child introduction

In this day and generation we are all familiar with the sensitive child.

By the term sensitive I am not using a polite synonym for the homely phrase “touchy.” The sensitive child may indeed be easily hurt by slights, real or imagined, but he is quite as likely to be unconscious of them. The phrase, as I would apply it, describes a little being almost abnormally alive to the world about him.

He is sensitive to light and air; to atmospheric changes; to music or noises. He is particularly sensitive to people; he is quite likely to be timid, to have “notions,” to be easily thrown into “tantrums” or “temper fits,” and quite as easily brought out of them. He responds readily to genuine affection and sympathy, but shrinks from harshness. He may meet physical suffering with surprising courage, yet be unable to face a wound of the inner nature unflinchingly, His eyes will perhaps close before a reproachful glance, his hands cover his ears to shut out words of reproof or some dreaded bit of news.

Through injudicious harshness he is easily made deceitful, though far more ready to meet us openly, and he is often painfully eager to do the right thing. Indeed, a misunderstanding of his motives will often cause some hasty or disagreeable demonstration on his part, which is really but a mask for the sudden pain of hurt feelings. The excess of emotion must find an outlet, and rather than reveal the real hurt he “flies off at a tangent,” scarce knowing himself what he is about. In short, he is a difficult little creature to understand and to live with, and from lack of careful handling may grow into an imperative “nervous” grown-up full of whims, or, worse still, a morbid, moody soul, with no eyes for the joy and sunshine.

No doubt sensitive children have existed in all ages but I am inclined to believe that this hurrying world of today is very full of them. Although the children of this generation and those of the age to which we ourselves belonged are naturally the only ones with whom we have become intimately acquainted, there is no need for ignorance as to conditions in the past. Where is the mother of young children who has not received much information as to the superiority of offspring in the good old times!

When our gray-haired advisers metaphorically shake their heads and politely but significantly talk over the days when obedience was a virtue; when children were seen but not heard; when Sammy’s whims were ignored and Johnny thanked his father for severe chastisements received,―do we not sometimes have to close our lips hard to refrain from asking why then are not all the grown-up people of advanced age models of character and politeness? If they, as children, were so perfectly governed, how account for the disagreeable men and women that one does occasionally encounter?

But, results aside, the modern mother, if she be a thoughtful one, cannot but feel that she is facing a far different proposition from the one which confronted her grandmother when that dear lady set about the rearing of her “good old-fashioned family.” The world knew then parents with steady nerves and histories of simple, unhurried lives; quiet, country homes; unexciting pleasures; busy days but long nights; few diversions and much outward peace, at least. What wonder that little Patty thrived and knew not nerves or tantrums nor even bad manners!

Patty’s daughter may be just as eager to do her duty toward her children, but to what a different age she belongs! Strive as she may to live the simple life, there is the big, busy, hurrying world just without her gates and she cannot fail to feel the breath of its hastening multitudes. She is a woman quivering with nervous force to her finger tips; she must be always on guard lest this energy run away with her; her husband is also charged with the electricity of the age; can their children fail to feel their own little nerves thrilling within?

They may indeed live in the country as did little grandmother Patty, but where are the calm, slow-moving days? The baby, taken for his outing, is constantly diverted by passing wonders. Electric cars and "choo choos" and automobiles whiz by with uncanny noises, to his amazement and pleasure, no doubt, but of questionable advantage to his small nervous system. The older children clamor for bicycles and autos of their own; there are long school hours, dancing classes, occasional parties, and even theater going—and the wisest mothers cannot possibly avoid ali these things.

We may have learned something as to the proper physical care of our children; we may insist upon an early bed hour, and attempt to instill systematic habits of life; but how to meet all the childish excitements of the day—how much to accept and how much to reject—surely we have problems that our grandmothers knew not; for one cannot belong to an age and fail to partake in a measure of its characteristics. Therefore the modern child will suffer from the faults of the age. He is almost sure to be highly endowed with nerves and an excitable temperament, and certainly very often he will be that difficult thing—a sensitive child.

That the sensitive child has always existed, many a pathetic bit of autobi- ography makes known to us; and how the heart aches at these stories of lonely little creatures who felt life so vividly but, too frequently, had no sympathetic soul to whom they could turn with their loves and terrors—living as they did in the age when children were supposed to have no thoughts to express. How many such children have grown up with warped and blighted natures there are no records to show.

But our modern sensitive plants? How are we to tend them that the right strength may be given without a crushing of fragile, beautiful tendrils that may hold more of promise than we know? We who ourselves were sensitive children must have great sympathy for the tender feelings of such little ones.

Fortunate it is when the sensitive child is not an only child but one of a fairly large family; more fortunate still if the home atmosphere be one of sympathy and affection. Under such conditions normal human nature is pretty sure to assert itself and the little timidities and queernesses disappear with the years.

But we must not forget that the joys and sorrows of a child are as large as our own,—to the child,—no matter how trivial they appear to us, and his capacity for suffering is great.

The sensitive child is quite likely to be afraid of the dark. He may not know just what troubles him, but it is a genuine trouble. He almost invariably suffers from hearing his own acts or words alluded to, snd eonfidence is often hindered by the fear of ridicule. He is very conscious of his mistakes and cannot bear to be laughed at.

No doubt a little wholesome snubbing is good for him, but rest assured he will receive it without stint from his playfellows, who are merciless little critics and give no quarter. There is no need for the elders to deal out medicine of this nature. The sympathetic reproof will bring a desire for improvement when words of stinging sarcasm are conducive only to hurt resentment or, far worse, a drawing into the shell of self-repression. Anything which tends to shatter the loving confidence which should exist between child and guardian is a painful thing.

And for my part I am thoroughly convinced that the spiritual side of the question is by far the most important. The sensitive child is not necessarily a physical weakling; he will need the intelligent care that ali growing children require, and it is perhaps especially to be desired that a strong body house his quivering soul, but the physical care will prove of little avail if the nurture of the spirit is neglected.

We must never forget that each new life experience comes to such a child as a decided shock.

We who have grown familiar with life and its ways often take too much for granted with our little people, forgetting that they are as yet spelling out existence in one-syllable words. Though free enough with superficial questions children often refrain from asking about really important matters. They fear our ridicule perhaps, or more often hesitate because the subject is of such breathless moment they know not how to express it in their own stumbling speech.

The first knowledge of death; the coming of a new baby; the reception of some long desired object; the meeting with a dear friend; the furnishing of one’s first little room; the making of a little song, all one’s own,—these are only a few of the great events, the wonder-moments in the life of such a child; and at such moments he needs the sympathetic, understanding soul to whom he may turn without reserve and with a comfortable sense of security.

The mother of a nervous, sensitive boy on consulting her physician in regard to the child’s well-being received this reply: “Your ‘problem’ just now is, largely, to protect him from people and allow his sensitive, nervous organization an opportunity for growth and peace.”

This is surely the keynote. As for the rest, our sensitive child will need long hours of sleep; plenty of fresh air, night and day; nutritious and not over-stimulating food; some regular occupation; wholesome play, and much time spent alone or with a quiet and congenial companion. At times of nervous excitement or temper he will usually gain self-mastery the more rapidly for being sent away by himself. He will need firm and kind assistance in gaining self-control; much encouragement in the overcoming of petty fears and fancies; a consciousness of greater strength behind him in the facing of larger terrors; and, above all, not sentimental indulgence but tenderly sympathetic understanding in the great moments when his little soul stands naked before a flash from the Eternal Light that burns behind the veil of life.

The following Talks with a Little Boy seek to reveal how one sensitive child and his mother met some of these wonder-moments together.

Chapter 1: The Angel of Death

I the angel of death

“Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath The Reaper came that day; “T’was an Angel visited the green earth And took the flowers away.”

There had been a storm in the night and tragedy had visited the bird house in the apple tree. The Little Boy, exploring the garden now glad with the sunshine of a new day, paused in pitiful wonder, the light fading from his eyes. Three little still birds on the ground, their poor, half-feathered bodies stiff and cold!

The child turned hurriedly, in search of the Wise Woman of his little world, and soon they came back together.

The mother stooped and lifted the small birds tenderly. “We will bury them here in the garden,” she said. “The birdies will not need these little bodies any more,” and the Littl Boy looked on sorrowfully.

“I am glad we don’t have to die,” he exclaimed with a little shiver.

“Oh, but we all must leave our bodies here some time,” said the mother quietly, “for we will not need them when we go to live with Heavenly Father.”

The Little Boy did not understand and only half heard the low words. The birdies’ burial over, a new thought claimed him, and the mystery of death was forgotten.

But one day the Angel of Death passed that way again and this time his hand touched a dear old friend of the Little Boy.

“Mr. Greatheart is dead.”

The child hearing the words forgot the toy in his hand, Suddenly his little soul stood face to face with something large and terrible. His thought flashed back to the wee cold birds in the garden. Did this thing come to human creatures, too? Might it come to him? To those he loved?

Again in this new trouble he sought out his mother. “Is it true?” he asked, his large eyes holding hers, “Is it true that Mr. Greatheart is dead?”

The mother knew that a moment of spiritual significance lay before them and in her heart she prayed for wisdom and the night word.

“Yes,” she said quietly, “you know that Mr. Greatheart was a very old man: he has been sick and suffering all summer, and now Heavenly Father has taken him away to a new home where he can be young and strong again.”

Tears filled the child’s eyes. There had been strong friendship between the two. The child that dwelt in the spirit of the old man had met this other child, and now his friend was gone.

“Of course we shall miss him,” the mother went on, “bot we must try and be happy that he is well again.”

But the Little Boy covered his eyes with his hand in a quaint, grown-up fashion he had of hiding the griefs that came to him, and the pain in his voice forbade further reasoning. “Oh, don’t talk to me like that,” he said, “don’t talk like that!”

And the mother refrained from more than the comforting caress, although her heart ached for her sensitive child in this new and unnatural suffering.

Later the Little Boy again met her as she returned from a call at the house so recently visited by the Death Angel.

“Did you see Miss Alice?” he asked solemnly.

“Yes,” said the mother.

“Oh,”—and the eyes filled with tears again. “How did Miss Alice look—how did Miss Alice feel?”

The mother drew the child to her.

“Of course she feels sad now, Little Boy; of course she is sorry to have her father go away from her; but she is very glad, very thankful, dear, that he need not suffer any more—that he is happy and well again.”

They had wandered out under the trees as they talked, and now the Little Boy sat down at the foot of a great pine and his mother sank on the soft pine needles near him. His eyes were on the ground.

“I would not like to be down under the earth,’ he exclaimed. The mother was surprised. How should he know of the body’s burial? Then she, too, remembered the little dead birds in the garden.

“ would not be put in the earth,” she said quickly, “only your would be put away. Why, Little Boy, our bodies are like houses. We just live in them while we are here in this world. Our eyes are the windows through which we look. When we have finished with living here we will not want these house bodies any more, and they will. be put away in the earth, but we will go to our Heavenly Father.”

“But I don’t want to go where I can’t see our woods and our house!”

“I think you will see them,” the mother went on, “I believe that Mr. Greatheart knows what we are doing just as though we could see him here with us.”

“How does he look now? ”

“His body looks as though it were asleep; very still and peaceful, but we cannot see how he looks now.”

“How did he get out of his body? Did some one cut him out?”

“No, no, dear.”

“But how?”

“I do not know; only Ged knows. We cannot understand some things now.”

“Will be mind going under the earth?”

“He will not mind having his body laid away in the earth.”

“Mother, is that why we have Is that why the soldiers come on Decoration Day to bring flowers?”

“Yes, dear. We like to keep the graves beautiful, because the bodies of our friends are lying there. We loved the bodies that they lived in here; and when we lay them away we like to cover them with flowers.”

But the shadow still lay deep in the child’s eyes, and the mother was troubled. So sure she felt of the homelikeness of the Father’s House of many Mansions— so secure in the belief that on awakening there the reborn soul would know no greater strangeness than her child had felt in his first consciousness of her warm breast and protecting arms—that in her eagerness to dispel the cloud, to make him feel the joyousness of Death she seized upon the old, old symbol of the butterfly.

“Little Boy,” she said, “don’t you remember the fuzzy caterpillar we watched? How he went to sleep and hung there in his chrysalis on the dry twig so very long that there seemed no life in him? And then you remember the wonderful day that you and sister found him stirring—how we watched him break away from his little brown prison and slowly unfurl his beautiful, wonderful new wings, and at last, fly away? It was the same caterpillar, only he had grown and changed and left his old body behind him. He did not have to crawl on the earth any more; he could fly!”

Yes, the Little Boy remembered.

“Well,” went on the mother eagerly, “don’t you think it is a beautiful thing that we human beings can grow into angels as the caterpillar grows into the butterfly?”

She waited hopefully, but the child again covered his eyes. “ Yes,” he murmured, and the sorrow of the world trembled in his child voice. “Yes,

A sense of awe fell upon the mother, Her Little Boy, her four-year-old babe, had voiced the cry of sorrowing humanity. Death, lies thy sting. We “want the caterpillar, too.” We may believe in the spiritual life of our beloved, feel them with us in moments of exaltation, yet our human eyes and touch long for the visible, familiar presence.

The mother gathered the Little Boy in her arms and let him cry out his grief upon her shoulder, giving him the human comfort he needed and could understand, and they talked no more that day of the mystery.

The body of the dear old friend was laid away, and close by the loved face lay a bunch of purple pansies which a little boy had gathered from his garden.

That night there were more questions. “How did he get out of his body?” was repeated. “We cannot know,” the mother was forced to say, “we cannot see all God’s ways.”

“Oh, but I would not want it to hap- pen to me. I would not want to go to sleep that way!”

“But you are a Little Boy,” was the reassuring rejoinder. “Mr. Greatheart was an old, old man. All old things change and die. Don’t you remember how the leaves turned and fell from the trees as the year grew old and how the flowers faded and died? But this spring there were more flowers and leaves.”

“But I don’t want to die.”

“No, of course not, for you are only a little boy and have a long, useful life to live.”

The mother saw that she must prevent grief from becoming fear. She must protect this sensitive spirit, banish the abnormal morbid thought—the too-mature brooding. Death had no part in youth; youth should not even feel its shadow.

“A simple child that lightly draws its breath, and feels its life in every limb, what should it know of death!”

“Don’t children die?” he asked.

“Not often,” she said quickly.“ It is not natural for young things to die. Sometimes it is necessary, but you must not think of that. Why, you are only four years old—a strong, well little boy with lots and lots of things to do in the world here. It is not time for you to think of dying.”

“But I wouldn’t want it to happen to you and papa, and E£ be left here all alone with Sister.”

“Oh, but we are young, too!”

“Are you young?”

“Yes, indeed. Now think of happy things and go to sleep. Good-night and sweet dreams!”

For some days the Little Boy found it necessary to ask now and then, “Are you young, mother? Is papa young? Is Sister young?” and the mother would reply cheerfully, “Yes, we are all young together now, but some day it will be beautiful to be old!”

The weeks slipped by and the Little Boy was busy with the concerns of his little world, but one evening, after he had been put to bed, the mother heard sobs and hurried to the darkened room. Two warm arms drew her close and a sobbing voice whispered, “Oh, mother, I don’t want to be put in the ground when I die.”

The mother looked about and within for help. After all—despite that one moment of sage-like wisdom—he was just a frightened little child in need of the everyday helps and symbols. The mother’s glance fell upon a small chair near the bed upon which was neatly laid the Russian suit which the little boy had worn that day.

“Little Boy,” she said, “do you see that suit of clothes?”

Yes, he saw.

“Well, if you and I should go out in the garden and dig a hole and bury the suit, do you think it would care? Do you think the little trousers and blouse would mind?”

“Why, no,” he agreed, almost laughing.

“Of course they would not,” said the mother, “and it would be the same with you. When Heavenly Father gives you a new body you won’t be in this one, and your old body will not mind being laid in the earth any more than the clothes would mind. It will be just like an old suit that you have laid aside because you do not need it any more.”

At last the Little Boy understood and lay back on his pillow with a happy sigh. But the mother turned to the other nursery bed. “Little Sister,” she asked, “do you ever have such unhappy thoughts?” “No,” came the clear answer, “of course not.” And the mother rejoiced in the fearless, glad nature of her first-born as she paused again beside her little sensitive plant and prayed God to strengthen him for the life before him.

But the morbid cloud had lifted. The Angel of Death was a mystery, yet there was light upon his wings; and for the Little Boy the coming and going of all life gradually took its place in the universe. Familiar people went away out of his sight, but he did not question their going any more. Once a young playmate was taken, and the mother, seeing the old grief in the child’s eyes, reminded him quickly that the little friend’s father and mother had both gone before him. “What a beautiful thing it is,” she said, “how happy he must have been to wake up in Heaven and find his father and mother with him again! I think that is why God let him go; he knew that the little boy needed his father and mother.”

And at once the child’s tears were gone. There was no lament left in his heart. Heaven was no longer an uncertain realm to which his dear ones might be hurried away; it was gradually unrolling itself to his child vision as a place of beautiful reunion, a home to be together in by and by. The Angel of Death was unconsciously becoming the Angel of Another Life.

These things the mother read with her heart, and to her lips came the glad words of a poet soul,

“T never talked with God Nor visited in Heaven, Yet certain am I of the spot As though a chart were given.”

Chapter 2: The Angel of Birth

II

the angel of birth

“And they do say that the good angels attend the birth of every little child that cometh into this world.”

A beautiful thing had happened. A little new baby had come to live in Billy Boy’s house. Billy Boy was the Little Boy’s cousin,—he had been the only cousin and now there were two!

“Oh,” exclaimed the Little Boy, “I wonder how he got here. I think a man must have brought him. Oh, I wish a baby would come to our house, and then I’d find out how they get here!”

“P’raps the angels bring them,” suggested Little Sister.

That was a pleasant thought, and the Little Boy pondered upon

A few days later he was helping mother wipe dishes,—the little dishes that he and Sister used for breakfast at their own small table,—and again he exclaimed, coming out of his eager dream, “I wish a baby would come to our house, mother.”

“So do I,” agreed the mother. “Perhaps one will some day.”

But the Little Boy shook his head.

“No, I don’t believe one would unless I died,” he observed cheerfully.

“Why, Little Boy,” cried the mother, startled at this strange suggestion. “What makes you think that?”

“Oh,” he replied as he dried a spoon with great care, “I think I would have to go to tell that we wanted one.”

“But Billy Boy didn’t have to go to get his little brother,” replied the mother.

“P’raps he went and brought him back with him,” was the quick reply.

The mother’s foolish heart trembled at this curious fancy. What did the child mean? Did he feel vaguely that the baby who came out of the Unknown must be sought for there?

“You would not have to go away to ask,” she suggested at last. “If you want a little baby you can ask Heavenly Father about it when you say your prayers, and if He thinks it best He will send us one.”

And so that night when the Little Boy whispered his “Now I lay me,” he drew his mother’s face close, and at the prayer’s close, said softly, “Wait a moment, I want to say something else.” And then he added slowly, “God, please send us a baby.” And the mother repeated the little petition with him, “Dear Father, please send us a little baby if it is best.”

Every night after that the words were whispered after the little prayer, “Please send us a baby, God, if you fink best.”

After a while he asked why the baby did not come.

“It takes a long time for a little baby to grow,” said the mother: “I think He is preparing one for us.”

For the Angel of Birth was brooding over the little home.

Little Sister knew the happy secret and the mother wanted the little brother also to share in the joy of anticipation, so one day when the Little Boy came in from his play she called him to her. “Little Boy,” she said, “wash your hands very clean and then come here for I have something very beautiful to show you.”

The eager scrubbing over, he returned with shining face expectant of surprises.

Mother was sitting beside a large box—a box all covered with pretty cloth, and as he came in she lifted the lid. “Oh, oh!” said the Little Boy, for the inside of the box was all a lovely rose pink, with a spider-web covering of muslin and flower-like knots of pink ribbon, and from it floated a fragrance that made him think of the garden.

“Isn't it a pretty box?” agreed the mother, while Sister exclaimed proudly, “I’ve seen her doing it. Mamma made it all herself.”

“What do you think we are going to put in it?” asked the mother; but the Little Boy could not guess at all.

“Well,” said the mother at last, “you have been asking God to send us a little baby and I hope that He may. Anyway I think it would be nice to put in this pretty box all the little clothes that you and Sister used to wear when you were babies; then we will be all ready if the baby comes. Would you like to help me?”

Would he? The Little Boy jumped up and down clapping his hands, his face radiant with joy and wonder. “Oh, I’m so glad you telled me that!” he cried. “Oh, I’m so glad!” Then he flew over to hug and kiss mother and sister, and just then the door opened and father came in.

“What are you all so happy about?” he asked, and the Little Boy began to dance again. “Oh, papa,” he said, “I’ve been asking God for a baby, and pro’bly He’s going to send one; anyway we're going to get ready!”

With that he rushed over to the chest where he knew the little clothes had been kept, and he and Sister opened each package and unfolded each wee sweet garment and looked it over with much comment and wise remark before it could be laid in the new box to wait for the new baby.

That night at prayer time there was so much to whisper the dear All-Father: “Please, God, send us a baby if you fink best; please get one ready for me. We have got all the clothes ready in a box,—all the little things Sister and I used to wear. They are all ready in the box. Sister is now nine and I am five,” he added. A few nights later, he whispered, “Please, God, send us a baby as soon as you can get one ready. Everything is ready in the box.”

But for the most part the little people were patient in their waiting. The summer world held so many wonders; there were new flowers each day to discover, and new chickens to feed, and new birdies in the trees, and even new little kitties in a box in the cellar.

Sometimes it was hard for the Little Boy to keep his wonderful secret. “What do you fink, I telled aunty about our baby,” he confessed to mother, “and I nearly telled grandma, but I didn’t.” But mother told him she did not mind. He was very happy when some new and lovely small things came to go in the wonder-box, and the mother often found him on his knees with the lid lifted gazing happily into the rosy depths. Once when a friend was there he looked up from such an inspection to ask, “Mary, have you tooken a peek in this box!” And, later, upon returning from a little visit, after greeting his mother he knelt down and tried to embrace the precious box also. “Oh, this dear box!” he exclaimed. It was then that he found something else to admire, too—a pretty muslin trimmed “basket bed,” with the soft little pillows waiting for a downy head.