For a few days he went about the house, shouting "G! G! G!" at the top of
his voice. He was heard asking playmates if they could "say G," and "who
showed them how." For several years he used often to allude to the affair,
saying, "Do you remember, mamma, that dreadful time when I wouldn't say
G?" He always used the verb "wouldn't" in speaking of it. Once, when he
was sick, he said, "Mamma, do you think I could have said G any sooner
than I did?"

"I have never felt certain about that, Willy," she said. "What do _you_
think?"

"I think I could have said it a few minutes sooner. I was saying it to
_myself_ as long as that!" said Willy.

It was singular that, although up to that time he had never been able to
pronounce the letter with any distinctness, when he first made up his mind
in this instance to say it, he enunciated it with perfect clearness, and
never again went back to the old, imperfect pronunciation.

Few mothers, perhaps, would be able to give up two whole days to such a
battle as this; other children, other duties, would interfere. But the
same principle could be carried out without the mother's remaining
herself by the child's side all the time. Moreover, not one child in a
thousand would hold out as Willy did. In all ordinary cases a few hours
would suffice. And, after all, what would the sacrifice of even two days
be, in comparison with the time saved in years to come? If there were no
stronger motive than one of policy, of desire to take the course easiest
to themselves, mothers might well resolve that their first aim should be
to educate their children's wills and make them strong, instead of to
conquer and "break" them.