“Mamma!” said he.

“Well, dear?” said his mother, trembling so that she could hardly speak.

“Mamma,” he repeated, in a loud, sharp tone, “G!  G!  G!  G!” And then he burst into a fit of crying, which she had hard work to stop.  It was over.

Willy is now ten years old.  From that day to this his mother has never had a contest with him; she has always been able to leave all practical questions affecting his behavior to his own decision, merely saying, “Willy, I think this or that will be better.”

His self-control and gentleness are wonderful to see; and the blending in his face of childlike simplicity and purity with manly strength is something which I have only once seen equalled.

For a few days he went about the house, shouting “G!  G!  G!” at the top of his voice.  He was heard asking playmates if they could “say G,” and “who showed them how.”  For several years he used often to allude to the affair, saying, “Do you remember, mamma, that dreadful time when I wouldn’t say G?” He always used the verb “wouldn’t” in speaking of it.  Once, when he was sick, he said, “Mamma, do you think I could have said G any sooner than I did?”

“I have never felt certain about that, Willy,” she said.  “What do you think?”

“I think I could have said it a few minutes sooner.  I was saying it to myself as long as that!” said Willy.

It was singular that, although up to that time he had never been able to pronounce the letter with any distinctness, when he first made up his mind in this instance to say it, he enunciated it with perfect clearness, and never again went back to the old, imperfect pronunciation.

Few mothers, perhaps, would be able to give up two whole days to such a battle as this; other children, other duties, would interfere.  But the same principle could be carried out without the mother’s remaining herself by the child’s side all the time.  Moreover, not one child in a thousand would hold out as Willy did.  In all ordinary cases a few hours would suffice.  And, after all, what would the sacrifice of even two days be, in comparison with the time saved in years to come?  If there were no stronger motive than one of policy, of desire to take the course easiest to themselves, mothers might well resolve that their first aim should be to educate their children’s wills and make them strong, instead of to conquer and “break” them.

The Reign of Archelaus.

Herod’s massacre had, after all, a certain mercy in it:  there were no lingering tortures.  The slayers of children went about with naked and bloody swords, which mothers could see, and might at least make effort to flee from.  Into Rachel’s refusal to be comforted there need enter no bitter agonies of remorse.  But Herod’s death, it seems, did not make Judea a safe place for babies.  When Joseph “heard that Archelaus did reign in the room of his father, Herod, he was afraid to return