Philosophers, in their slow and doddering way, may question the exact part played by heredity in the formation of human character. Not so the mother. She has reduced the problem to a formula. All that is bad, hateful, and spiteful in the child is the direct contribution of his father or his father's house. All that is appealing, lovable, interesting, and most especially all that is "cute," is directly inherited from the female side. The only exception to this rule is the half-orphan. In his case one or two good qualities may be inherited from the deceased parent.
Once I taught a Gwendolin. She was a peculiarly abominable individual, as, poets to the contrary notwithstanding, a child may sometimes be. The class was large, the school was a public one, and the curriculum prescribed from on high. There was no time for private instructions, and Gwendolin lagged far in the rear. She was late by habit; lazy by nature; and tearful by policy and experience. I spent hours which should have been devoted to the common good in setting down Gwendolin's tardiness, listening to her excuses, and drying her tears. Finally I sent for the mother, and a large, blonde, lackadaisical person responded to my call. She came, contrary to regulations, during class hours, and Gwendolin promptly began to howl at sight of her. It is, by the way, noted by most teachers and explained by few parents, that the sight of a face from home will generally produce hysterics.
Well, I allowed Mrs. Marks to undo the effect of her appearance, and with Gwendolin almost buried in the exuberances of the maternal costume and figure, she proceeded to explain that dear Gwendolin was always deliberate. It was her nature. We all, she hoped, were entitled to our natures. Gwendolin's dear father was always late for breakfast, and they never did, by any chance, see the first act of a play. She thought she would step around and explain this to me, knowing that I would make allowances for the sweet child. "For I always tell her," she beamed on me, "that her dear teacher would rather have her late every day in the year than ruin her stomach by eating too quickly." And as to her crying, well, Mrs. Marks opined, it was a very strong commentary on the manners and natures of the other children in the class. Of course Gwendolin cried. Her mother cried. On the slightest provocation. Never could help it. Never hoped to be able to help it. Why, it was only that morning that Mr. Marks had remarked that any one who cried over the newspaper should wait until after breakfast to read it.