Billy Sanders Discusses Fathers and Sons
MR. SANDERS WAS beaming when he walked into the editorial rooms. To use his own comparison, his face was as full of smiles as a keg of fresh beer, and he was especially polite to the young lady stenographers. His countenance resembled that of a baby who is watching the antics of a playful kitten. He held a letter in his hand and waved it over his head with a triumphant air. Holding it some distance from his eyes, he read the address—“Mr. Billy Sanders, of Shady Dale.” His smile broadened. “Now, what do you think of that? Don’t a man’s name look purty when it’s writ out by a smart ’oman that knows precisely how for to take her pen in hand? It looks that-a-way to me. Now here’s the letter. She takes a text, same as a preacher. Read it an’ take it to yourself, same as I did.” He handed the letter to the poet, who read as follows: ‘“Thar never was a boy ruined in the world that his mammy an’ daddy didn’t have a han’ in the ruinin’.” This was what Mr. Sanders called the text. The letter went on:
Dear Mr. Sanders: In all your philosophizing you never said a truer thing. Can’t you say more of it in your inimitable way? There is nothing more needed in this country than a stronger, firmer home life. After fourteen years of teaching boys and girls, good and bad, many of the latter, I have found the words of your text absolutely true. I want to thank you for them; and I want to thank you for all your Shady Dale philosophy.
Sincerely yours,
A.C.
“The 'oman that writ this letter has got hoss-sense,” remarked Mr. Sanders, “an’ ef you'll teach a passel of boys fourteen years old, you'll have some on it, too. I kin go into any school-house or college in this broad land, an’ pick out the boys that has had home trainin’. They’ll show it at study, at play, on the street an’ at church. You'll see the signs wharsomever you turn your eyes.
“Natchally, whar a boy aint got no daddy or mammy, he’s bound for to run wild ef the State don’t take him in hand, or ef he aint holp by some of our numerous orphan asylums. Thar never was a boy born into the world that don’t have to have the hickory put to him more than once, an’ the oftener the better. You may think my talk is harsh, but the more I love a boy, the more I wanter see him come under some strong an’ heavy hand, bekaze I know it's his only salvation. You may look back on all the youngsters you've know’d, an’ you'll find that we ain’t got any more wisdom than Solomon, ef as much. He tore the bottom out of the basket in a mighty few words. ‘Spar’ the rod an’ spile the child.’ Ef he’d ’a’ never said nothin’ else, them seven words would ’a’ made him the wisest man the world ever seed. No newspaper paragrapher has ever beat it yit. Ef brevity’s the sole of whitleather, your Uncle Solomon has got it down mighty fine; ef he aint, you may call me Mabel, an’ print in the paper that I've done gone an’ eloped wi’ a college fiddler named Clarence Raymond. When you hear man or ‘oman say they can’t control the'r boys, you can put it down for a fact that thar’s somethin’ in that home that calls for the sanitary inspector, the preacher an’ the doctor, though I don’t know how uther one on ’em can give the mammy an’ daddy moral fibre. You can patch a pa’r of jeans britches but you can’t patch a weak mind; the thing’s been tried too much an’ too long. It looks like the whole country has been took down wi’ the same epidemic, an’ now the State is called on for to pertect the youngsters that could better pertect themselves ef they had ’a’ been raised right. But I want to tell you one thing, the wanderin’ boy tonight will wander tomorrow night an’ the night arter, onless his mammy or daddy gives him a dose of cow-rope an’ barrel-stave. It’s the natur’ on 'em; the more you indulge ’em the more they want to be indulged, an’ bimeby, they take the bit in the’r teeth, an’ right then my wanderin’ boy tonight gits good an’ ripe.
“An’ then, when ma comes home from her club an’ pa gits in fresh from his’n, or sets behind his paper readin’ the gamblin’ market reports, a great hue an’ cry is set up about our wanderin’ boy tonight, warranted to smoke a package of cigarettes ever’ fifteen minnits. What’s to be done? Why, pa heaves a sigh like a bellowsed hoss’ an’ ma hums a tune betwixt her sniffles. Now, what's to hender pa from gwine out arter the youngster wi’ a rawhide, an’ yankin’ him home, an’ teachin’ him a lesson that he’ll never forgit as long as he lives? Mention it to ’em, an’ you're a cruel monster. What! raise whales on the beautiful an’ tender skin of our darlin’ boy! Why, you’re too old-fashioned for to live. What’s the State for but to be a parient to our darlin’ child? Can’t it pass laws to pertect him from whiskey an’ tobacco? An’ then it’s hooray for ever’thing but the right thing!
“Now, I ain’t got nothin’ in the world ag'in prohibition or the anti-cigarette law; when the State has a law on its books, I’m for it ef it's good, bad or indifferent. But what I say is that sech laws don’t go to the root of the matter; they don’t kill what you might call the family boll-weevil. The trouble, when thar’s any, is to be found right in the home that the wanderin’ boy strays from, an’ I say that thar oughter be a law pertectin’ children from weak-minded parients. Ever’ man an’ ’oman that’s got a boy child should be made to toe the mark an’ raise the’r children right. It may be a hard thing to do, but thar aint no secret about it; it may take up a good deal of the'r time an’ attention, but what are they here for? That’s what I want to know.
“Give a boy a half a chance, an’ he'll be all right. No human bein’ was ever born for to be a vagabond an’ a drunkard, though you’d think so from the way some people raise the'r boys. Some are too hard on ’em, an’ some are too leenient, an’ them two extremes meet an’ shake hands in a bar-room, or in the neighborhood of a blind-tiger. Ef ma understood her business, she’d soon see that nary two boys is precisely alike, Each one is hisself, an’ you can’t make him somebody else, but by treatin’ him right you can make him a good man. An’ pa oughter open his weather eye an’ take notice, an not leave ever'thing to a tender-hearted ’oman. He oughter take a hour off from his business ever’day for to make the acquaintance of his children; he oughter be made to do it.
“I know a man, an’ you fellers know him, too, that tried his best for to raise his boys right; he didn’t tell ’em that healthy fun is sinful, or that whiskey is rank pisen. They had the’r frolics, same as kittens do, an’ they’ve all grow’d up to be good men. When they was growin’ up, they had jest as many liberties as was good for 'em, an’ they had a good time gener'lly. Thar wa'n't no innocent fun they missed, not even the circus; but they know’d right whar the line was—it had been p’inted out to ’em—an’ ef they crossed it they know'd right what the’d git. The beauty about it was that they allers got it when it was due—cow-rope or barrel-stave. Ef they come in at night feelin’ bad, they know’d whar the dram-bottle was, an’ they know’d they could go an’ mix up a toddy, or git the’r mammy to do it for ’em. An’ what’s the result? You could guess it ef you had any sense. Not one of ’em has ever been drunk, an’ the whole bunch is as straight as a yardstick. Now, to begin with, they wa'n’t a whit better than any other boys; they had a high pulse an’ a longin’ for things forbidden, but as fur as they went was to let the’r mouth water a little, bekaze they know’d that dad was waitin’ for em at home wi’ a big stick ef they went wrong. They had somebody for to be afear’d on, an’ they know'd it, an’ so they let the other fellers taste of evil things, while they rolled up the'r britches an’ went polin’ home.
“An’ that word home puts me in mind of another big thing, maybe the biggest of all. The mammy an’ daddy that makes home so nice that a boy’ll ruther stay thar than to sneak out in the alley-ways, will never have much occasion to complain of the'r children. They'll stay at home an’ be happy thar. I've watched this kinder thing for fifty year, an’ I'm not a-doin’ of any guess-work; what I've seed, I've seed, an’ I aint been blind sence I was born. What one man kin do, all men kin do, an’ ef they don't do it, it’s bekaze they want to shirk the duties that Heaven has laid on 'em. I jest give you the example of one man’s way of raisin’ boys, but I know hundreds that have done jest as well. The trouble is that the great majority of folks want the State government for to take the’r places, an’ legislate temptation out'n the way; they want policemen for to go hand in hand wi’ ’em a good part of the’r journey through this vale of tears. But I wouldn’t give you a thrip for a boy that aint never had temptations flung in his way; it's a part of his reel eddication, an’ he’ll never be a man ontell he’s I'arned how to resist ’em.
“Now, don’t go an’ fool yourself by thinkin’ that I'm atalkin’ ag’in prohibition, bekaze I aint. The law’ll do good even ef it don’t wipe out whiskey altogether. As the ol’ ’oman said, when she was about to die, ‘I may never git right well, but I certainly hope I'll git a good deal better,’ an’, shore enough, she rallied an’ lived many a long year. Prohibition mayn’t be perfect, but it'll keep some folks sober longer than they think it will, an’ it'll drive some of our big problems into the swamps. For myself, I firmly believe that ever’ man should be his own special an’ private prohibitionist, but, as I've told you before, we've all consented to bury the principles of ginnywine Democracy so deep that they’ll never be dug up ag’in, an’ we've got things in hand that Tom Jefferson never so much as guessed at. An’ they're things that we'll have for to settle wi’out dependin’ on the way our forefathers settled the’r little troubles. This is as much as to say that we've traveled a consider’ble way from the fellers that framed the Constitution, maybe not bekaze we wanted to, but bekaze we had to. Maybe we're on the wrong road, but we'll find it out in due time, an’ then we'll have to come polin’ back, might’ly fretted at the weight of the wallets on our backs. Thar’s one thing about it, ef we do have to take the back track, we kin do it wi’out sheddin’ any tears. I see Tom Watson is for prohibition, an’ ef that’s the case, any Jeftersonian kin foller suit wi’out havin’ too many dry grins.
“Now, you think that I’ve got clean away from the mammy an’ daddy business, but I aint. Some on ’em think that they can have a quiet night’s rest bekaze prohibition is wi’ us, but that’s whar they make a mistake. E’en about the wust white man I ever laid eyes on never tuck a drink of whiskey in his life, an’ never used tobacco in any shape. He had lots wuss habits than them. He was a gambler from the word go, an’ he swindled his way to the grave, all bekaze his mammy and daddy thought he was a piece of perfection. They thought that a boy that didn’t drink, ner chaw, ner smoke, was the next thing to bein’ a angel, but ef I was to tell you the things that model boy done, includin’ one or two murders, you wouldn’t sleep good tonight. I know’d a man, an’ some on you would know him, too, ef I was to blab his name, that had three as likely boys as you'd wish to see. He was tenderhearted an’ affectionate, an’ as sentimental as a romantic ’oman. Well, he started to raisin’ his boys right by the time they could talk. He never had a hickory in the house; his idee was that moral persuasion would do the work. He kept ’em out’n temptation; they couldn’t play wi’ no bad boys, an’ on Sundays they had to stay close in the house, an’ read the right kind of books—books suited to the day an’ hour. Well, they grow’d up to whar they just couldn’t be kep’ in an’ treated like hothouse plants; they had to git out an’ shake theirselves, an’ see what was to be seed. They thought they found out that ever’thing was a leetle diffunt from what they had been told, an’ then the Satan in their bones begun for to grow, an’ he grow’d an’ grow’d ontell he got big enough to take complete possession of ’em.
“The last one on ’em went to the bad. Why? They was the healthiest an’ most promisin’ youngsters you ever laid eyes on, but they was kep’ in an’ coddled too much; they never knocked about wi’ boys of the'r own age, an’ they wa'n’t allowed for to live the lives of boys. So when they did git out, Satan swooped down on ’em like a hawk on a young chicken.
“Thar aint much of a problem in raisin’ boys ef you’ll have a little common-sense about it. Don’t let ’em run wild like pigs in the woods, an’ don’t keep the lines too tight, an’ when things go wrong don’t be afear’d of usin’ a raw-hide. But don’t forgit that the mammies an’ daddies of the land are twice responsible when one of the’r boys goes wrong. Ef the legislatur’ wants to do a good work, an’ make better citizens out’n the risin’ generation, let it put a heavy penalty on the dear parients of the boys that go wrong. Take this as my last call for reform on this subject, an’ le’ me slip you a So-long as I sneak out’ the door.”
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