I put forward the idea in the hope of comforting the young gentleman from Cambridge.
We injure the health of the Child by enforcing on it silence.

We have a stupid formula that children should be seen and not heard.

We deny it exercise to its lungs.

We discourage its natural and laudable curiosity by telling it not to worry us--not to ask so many questions.
Won't somebody lend the young gentleman from Cambridge a small and healthy child just for a week or so, and let the bargain be that he lives with it all the time?
The young gentleman from Cambridge thinks, when we call up the stairs to say that if we hear another sound from the nursery during the next two hours we will come up and do things to that Child the mere thought of which should appal it, that is silencing the Child.

It does not occur to him that two minutes later that Child is yelling again at the top of its voice, having forgotten all we ever said.
The Child of Fiction.
I know the sort of Child the weeper over Children's wrongs has in his mind.