will stream out the windows and doors, and illuminate even the
darkness. It is just as easy that way as any in the world.

I want to tell you tonight that you can not get the robe of hypocrisy
on you so thick that the sharp eye of childhood will not see through
every veil, and if you pretend to your children that you are the best
man that ever lived--the bravest man that ever lived--they will find
you out every time. They will not have the same opinion of father when
they grow up that they used to have. They will have to be in mighty
bad luck if they ever do meaner things than you have done. When your
child confesses to you that it has committed a fault, take that child
in your arms, and let it feel your heart beat against its heart, and
raise your children in the sunlight of love, and they will be sunbeams
to you along the pathway of life. Abolish the club and the whip from
the house, because, if the civilized use a whip, the ignorant and the
brutal will use a club, and they will use it because you use the whip.

Every little while some door is thrown open in some orphan asylum, and
there we see the bleeding back of a child whipped beneath the roof that
was raised by love. It is infamous, and a man that can't raise a child
without the whip ought not to have a child. If there is one of you
here that ever expect to whip your child again, let me ask you
something. Have your photograph taken at the time and let it show your
face red with vulgar anger, and the face of the little one with eyes
swimming in tears, and the little chin dimpled with fear, looking like
a piece of water struck by a sudden cold wind. If that little child
should die, I can not think of a sweeter way to spend an Autumn
afternoon than to take that photograph and go to the cemetery, when the
maples are clad in tender gold, and when little scarlet runners are
coming from the sad heart of the earth, and sit down upon that mound,
and look upon that photograph, and think of the flesh, now dust, that
you beat. Just think of it. I could not bear to die in the arms of a
child that I had whipped. I could not bear to feel upon my lips, when
they were withered beneath the touch of death, the kiss of one that I
had struck. Some Christians act as though they really thought that
when Christ said, "Suffer little children to come unto me," He had a
rawhide under His coat. They act as though they really thought that He
made that remark simply to get the childr