Listen， son： I am saying this as you lie asleep， one little pawcrumpled under your cheek and the blond curls stickily wet on your damp forehead. I have stolen into your room alone. Just afew minutes ago， as I sat reading my paper in the library， a stiflingwave of remorse swept over me. Guiltily I came to your bedside.
There are the things I was thinking， son： I had been cross toyou. I scolded you as you were dressing for school because yougave your face merely a dab with a towel. I took you to task fornot cleaning your shoes. I called out angrily when you threw someof your things on the floor.
At breakfast I found fault， too. You spilled things. You gulpeddown your food. You put your elbows on the table. You spreadbutter too thick on your bread. And as you started off to play andI made for my train， you turned and waved a hand and called，“Goodbye， Daddy！” and I frowned， and said in reply， “Hold yourshoulders back！”
Then it began all over again in the late afternoon. As I cameup the road I spied you， down on your knees， playing marbles.
There were holes in your stockings. I humiliated you before yourboyfriends by marching you ahead of me to the house. Stockingswere expensive—and if you had to buy them you would be morecareful！ Imagine that， son， from a father！
Do you remember， later， when I was reading in the library，how you came in timidly， with a sort of hurt look in your eyes？
When I glanced up over my paper， impatient at the interruption，you hesitated at the door. “What is it you want？” I snapped.
You said nothing， but ran across in one tempestuous plunge，and threw your arms around my neck and kissed me， and yoursmall arms tightened with an affection that God had set bloomingin your heart and which even neglect could not wither. And thenyou were gone， pattering up the stairs.
Well， son， it was shortly afterwards that my paper slippedfrom my hands and a terrible sickening fear came over me.
What has habit been doing to me？ The habit of finding fault， ofreprimanding—this was my reward to you for being a boy. It wasnot that I did not love you； it was that I expected too much ofyouth. I was measuring you by the yardstick of my own years.
And there was so much that was good and fine and true inyour character. The little heart of you was as big as the dawn itselfover the wide hills. This was shown by your spontaneous impulseto rush in and kiss me good night. Nothing else matters tonight，son. I have come to your bed-side in the darkness， and I haveknelt there， ashamed！
It is a feeble atonement； I know you would not understandthese things if I told them to you during your waking hours. Buttomorrow I will be a real daddy！ I will chum with you， and sufferwhen you suffer， and laugh when you laugh. I will bite my tonguewhen impatient words come. I will keep saying as if it were aritual：“He is nothing but a boy—a little boy！”
I am afraid I have visualized you as a man. Yet as I see younow， son， crumpled and weary in your cot， I see that you are stilla baby. Yesterday you were in your mother’s arms， your head onher shoulder. I have asked too much， too much.
Instead of condemning people， let’s try to understand them.
Let’s try to figure out why they do what they do. That’s a lot moreprofitable and intriguing than criticism； and it breeds sympathy，tolerance and kindness. “To know all is to forgive all.”
As Dr. Johnson said：“God himself， sir， does not propose to judgeman until the end of his days.”
Why should you and I？
PRINCIPLE 1：
Don’t criticize， condemn or complain.
