My last words shall be to parents. Many parents neglect the training of their children until the boys and girls have grown to be almost men and women, and then they expect all at once to develop them into well-rounded characters, as if by magic. Others fix upon a definite time in life—say, ten or twelve years old—before which time they say it is unnecessary to seek to make lasting impressions upon the minds of children, all unconscious of the fact that the character may have been long before that period biased for good or evil.

I say it deliberately—it is a deep and abiding conviction with me, that the time to begin to shape the character of children is as soon as they begin to know their own mothers from other mothers, or as soon as they become awake to the events which are taking place around them. The farmer who has the notion that his child can wait, does not dare to let his corn and cotton wait. He has observed that there are noxious weeds which spring up side by side with the seed he has planted, and, marvelous to say, the weeds outgrow the plants. They must, therefore, be cut down and kept down, or else they will ruin the crop.

Side by side with your tender babe in arms there are growing now, dear mothers, the poisonous tares. They are rooted already in the child’s heart, and, unless they are stricken down pretty soon, they will dominate the child’s life. And, of course, there is only one way to destroy evil—that is, to plant good in its stead. If there is one untenanted chamber in your child’s heart, inhabit it, I pray you, with nobler and purer thoughts which before long shall bring forth fruit unto God. Satan does not wait, I assure you; he never allows a vacancy to remain unoccupied in anybody’s heart, old or young. He rushes into empty hearts and idle lives and sows tares thicker than the strewn leaves of autumn. It is an old and senseless and barbarian custom which has taught us that the child can wait or must wait. If anybody must wait at table to be served, it is usually the little child, who may be the hungriest of all; if some one must remain away from church or Sunday-school, it is often the youngest child, who perhaps needs most to go; if some one must be kept out of the day school, it is the smallest child, of course; and during the year that he remains idle he may receive impressions and learn lessons that will mar his whole future life. Let us have done with this barbaric practice. Make room for the children; give them not only the first place but the best place.

In almost any city in the South any Sunday in the year you will find more children—more boys and girls—outside of the Sunday-schools than you will find inside. There is a loud and crying call sounding from the past and from the future and bidding mothers and fathers to be more diligent in the matter of having their children embrace opportunities of growth and spiritual culture which are almost within a stone’s throw. If mothers and fathers will not hear and obey this clarion call I believe that they will be brought to account for it in the day of judgment. Not only so, but in the years to come they will be compelled to wail out their sorrow over prodigal sons and daughters who might have proven to be ornaments to society and to the church if their parents had devoted half the care upon them that they expended upon colts and calves, kittens and puppies that grew up with them!

In all earnestness I implore those to whom God has given winsome little children to begin early, as early as thy find it possible, to train their young lives for God and heaven. Let their little voices learn early to lisp the precious name of Jesus and be attuned to sing His praise. If you leave them this legacy—than which there is none greater—there will come peace and joy to your old age, and the light of heaven, like the golden glow of a radiant sunset, will rest on your dying bed.

And now, as I close these stories, there comes to me across the intervening space of silence and of tears fond memories of a sweet and patient mother. I cannot remember when she began to talk to me of Jesus nor read to me the word of God. I remember well when she taught me how to read, and the old-fashioned blue back spelling-book is as plainly before me now as in those long past days. But, long before that, I had heard her read the Bible and raise her voice in prayer for all whom she loved. And to-day those memories live when a thousand busy scenes of after life lie dead. And when old age comes on—if God should spare me to be old—the memory of my mother’s words and her reverential prayers will be the brightest of all the joys that shall light up the evening of my life.