pipe, and is known in the family of the child as his “official voice.”  One day it became more official than ever, and really more masculine than life; and it alternated with his own tones of three years old.  In these, he asked with humility, “Will you let me go to heaven if I’m naughty?  Will you?”  Then he gave the reply in the tone of affairs, the official voice at its very best: “No, little boy, I won’t!”  It was evident that the infant was not assuming the character of his father’s tallest friend this time, but had taken a rôle more exalted.  His little sister of a year older seemed thoroughly to enjoy the humour of the situation.  “Listen to him, mother.  He’s trying to talk like God.  He often does.”

Bulls are made by a less imaginative child who likes to find some reason for things—a girl.  Out at the work of picking blackberries, she explains, “Those rather good ones were all bad, mother, so I ate them.”  Being afraid of dogs, this little girl of four years old has all kinds of dodges to disguise her fear, which she has evidently resolved to keep to herself.  She will set up a sudden song to distract attention from the fact that she is placing herself out of the dog’s way, and she will pretend to turn to gather a flower, while she watches the creature out of sight.  On the other hand, prudence in regard to carts and bicycles is openly displayed, and the infants are zealous to warn one another.  A rider and his horse are called briefly “a norseback.”

Children, who see more things than they have names for, show a fine courage in taking any words that seem likely to serve them, without wasting time in asking for the word in use.  This enterprise is most active at three and four years, when children have more than they can say.  So a child of those years running to pick up horse-chestnuts, for him a new species, calls after his mother a full description of what he has found, naming the things indifferently “dough-nuts” and “cocoa-nuts.”  And another, having an anecdote to tell concerning the Thames and a little brook that joins it near the house, calls the first the “front-sea” and the second the “back-sea.”  There is no intention of taking liberties with the names of things—only a cheerful resolve to go on in spite of obstacles.  It is such a spirit of liberty as most of us have felt when we have dreamt of improvising a song or improvising a dance.  The child improvises with such means as he has.

This is, of course, at the very early ages.  A little later—at eight or nine—there is a very clear-headed sense of the value of words.  So that a little girl of that age, told that she may buy some fruit, and wishing to know her limits in spending, asks, “What mustn’t it be more than?”  For a child, who has not the word “maximum” at hand, nothing could be more precise and concise.  Still later, there is a sweet brevity that looks almost like conscious expression, as when a boy writes from his first boarding school: “Whenever I can’t stop laughing I have only to think of home.”

Infinitely different as children are, they differ in nothing more than in the degree of generosity.  The most sensitive of children is a little gay girl whose feelings are hurt with the greatest facility, and who seems, indeed, to have the susceptibilty of other ages as well as of her own—for instance, she cannot endure without a flush of pain to hear herself called fat.  But she always brings her little wound to him who has wounded her.  The first confidant she seeks is the offender.  If you have laughed at her she will not hide her tears elsewhere than on your shoulder.  She confesses by her exquisite action at one her poor vanity and her humility.

The worst of children in the country is their inveterate impulse to use death as their toy.  Immediately on their discovery of some pretty insect, one tender child calls to the other “Dead it.”

Children do not look at the sky unless it is suggested to them to do so.  When the sun dips to the narrow horizon of their stature, and comes to the level of their eyes, even then they are not greatly interested.  Enormous clouds, erect, with the sun behind, do not gain their eyes.  What is of annual interest is the dark.  Having fallen asleep all the summer by daylight, and having awakened after sunrise, children find a stimulus of fun and fear in the autumn darkness outside the windows.  There is a frolic with the unknown blackness, with the reflections, and with the country night.

EXPRESSION

Strange to say, the eyes of children, whose minds are so small, express intelligence better than do the greater number of adult eyes.  David Garrick’s were evidently unpreoccupied, like theirs.  The look of intelligence is outward—frankly directed upon external things; it is observant, and therefore mobile without inner restlessness.  For restless eyes are the least observant of all—they move by a kind of distraction.  The looks of observant eyes, moving with the living things they keep in sight, have many pauses as well as flights.  This is the action of intelligence, whereas the eyes of intellect are detained or darkened.

Rational perception, with all its phases of humour, are best expressed by a child, who has few second thoughts to divide the image of his momentary feeling.  His simplicity adds much to the manifestation of his intelligence.  The child is the last and lowest of rational creatures, for in him the “rational soul” closes its long downward flight with the bright final revelation.

He has also the chief beauty of the irrational soul of the mind, that is, of the lower animal—which is singleness.  The simplicity, the integrity, the one thing at a time, of a good animal’s eyes is a great beauty, and is apt to cause us to exaggerate our sense of their expressiveness.  An animal’s eyes, at their best, are very slightly expressive; languor or alertness, the quick expectation, even the aloofness of doubt they are able to show, but the showing is mechanical; the human sentiment of the spectator adds the rest.

All this simplicity the child has, at moments, with the divisions and delicacies of the rational soul, also.  His looks express the first, the last, and the clearest humanity.  He is the first by his youth and the last by his lowliness.  He is the beginning and the result of the creation of man.

UNDER THE EARLY STARS

Play is not for every hour of the day, or for any hour taken at random.  There is a tide in the affairs of children.  Civilization is cruel in sending them to bed at the most stimulating time of dusk.  Summer dusk, especially, is the frolic moment for children, baffle them how you may.  They may have been in a pottering mood all day, intent upon all kinds of close industries, breathing hard over choppings and poundings.  But when late twilight comes, there comes also the punctual wildness.  The children will run and pursue, and laugh for the mere movement—it does so jog their spirits.

What remembrances does this imply of the hunt, what of the predatory dark?  The kitten grows alert at the same hour, and hunts for moths and crickets in the grass.  It comes like an imp, leaping on all fours.  The children lie in ambush and fall upon one another in the mimicry of hunting.

The sudden outbreak of action is complained of as a defiance and a rebellion.  Their entertainers are tired, and the children are to go home.  But, with more or less of life and fire, they strike some blow for liberty.  It may be the impotent revolt of the ineffectual child, or the stroke of the conqueror; but something, something is done for freedom under the early stars.

This is not the only time when the energy of children is in conflict with the weariness of men.  But it is less tolerable that the energy of men should be at odds with the weariness of children, which happens at some time of their jaunts together, especially, alas! in the