silently bore the poet a grudge for having been the accessory of Providence in the mandate that she should wear the loathed corduroy.  The unpractised ear played another little girl a like turn.  She had a phrase for snubbing any anecdote that sounded improbable.  “That,” she said more or less after Sterne, “is a cotton-wool story.”

The learning of words is, needless to say, continued long after the years of mere learning to speak.  The young child now takes a current word into use, a little at random, and now makes a new one, so as to save the interruption of a pause for search.  I have certainly detected, in children old enough to show their motives, a conviction that a word of their own making is as good a communication as another, and as intelligible.  There is even a general implicit conviction among them that the grown-up people, too, make words by the wayside as occasion befalls.  How otherwise should words be so numerous that every day brings forward some hitherto unheard?  The child would be surprised to know how irritably poets are refused the faculty and authority which he thinks to belong to the common world.

There is something very cheerful and courageous in the setting-out of a child on a journey of speech with so small baggage and with so much confidence in the chances of the hedge.  He goes free, a simple adventurer.  Nor does he make any officious effort to invent anything strange or particularly expressive or descriptive.  The child trusts genially to his hearer.  A very young boy, excited by his first sight of sunflowers, was eager to describe them, and called them, without allowing himself to be checked for the trifle of a name, “summersets.”  This was simple and unexpected; so was the comment of a sister a very little older.  “Why does he call those flowers summersets?” their mother said; and the girl, with a darkly brilliant look of humour and penetration, answered, “because they are so big.”  There seemed to be no further question possible after an explanation that was presented thus charged with meaning.

To a later phase of life, when a little girl’s vocabulary was, somewhat at random, growing larger, belong a few brave phrases hazarded to express a meaning well realized—a personal matter.  Questioned as to the eating of an uncertain number of buns just before lunch, the child averred, “I took them just to appetize my hunger.”  As she betrayed a familiar knowledge of the tariff of an attractive confectioner, she was asked whether she and her sisters had been frequenting those little tables on their way from school.  “I sometimes go in there, mother,” she confessed; “but I generally speculate outside.”

Children sometimes attempt to cap something perfectly funny with something so flat that you are obliged to turn the conversation.  Dryden does the same thing, not with jokes, but with his sublimer passages.  But sometimes a child’s deliberate banter is quite intelligible to elders.  Take the letter written by a little girl to a mother who had, it seems, allowed her family to see that she was inclined to be satisfied with something of her own writing.  The child has a full and gay sense of the sweetest kinds of irony.  There was no need for her to write, she and her mother being both at home, but the words must have seemed to her worthy of a pen:—“My dear mother, I really wonder how you can be proud of that article, if it is worthy to be called a article, which I doubt.  Such a unletterary article.  I cannot call it letterature.  I hope you will not write any more such unconventionan trash.”

This is the saying of a little boy who admired his much younger sister, and thought her forward for her age: “I wish people knew just how old she is, mother, then they would know she is onward.  They can see she is pretty, but they can’t know she is such a onward baby.”

Thus speak the naturally unreluctant; but there are other children who in time betray a little consciousness and a slight méfiance as to where the adult sense of humour may be lurking in wait for them, obscure.  These children may not be shy enough to suffer any self-checking in their talk, but they are now and then to be heard slurring a word of which they do not feel too sure.  A little girl whose sensitiveness was barely enough to cause her to stop to choose between two words, was wont to bring a cup of tea to the writing-table of her mother, who had often feigned indignation at the weakness of what her Irish maid always called “the infusion.”  “I’m afraid it’s bosh again, mother,” said the child; and then, in a half-whisper, “Is bosh right, or wash, mother?”  She was not told, and decided for herself, with doubts, for bosh.  The afternoon cup left the kitchen an infusion, and reached the library “bosh” thenceforward.

CHILDREN IN MIDWINTER

Children are so flowerlike that it is always a little fresh surprise to see them blooming in winter.  Their tenderness, their down, their colour, their fulness—which is like that of a thick rose or of a tight grape—look out of season.  Children in the withering wind are like the soft golden-pink roses that fill the barrows in Oxford Street, breathing a southern calm on the north wind.  The child has something better than warmth in the cold, something more subtly out of place and more delicately contrary; and that is coolness.  To be cool in the cold is the sign of a vitality quite exquisitely alien from the common conditions of the world.  It is to have a naturally, and not an artificially, different and separate climate.

We can all be more or less warm—with fur, with skating, with tea, with fire, and with sleep—in the winter.  But the child is fresh in the wind, and wakes cool from his dreams, dewy when there is hoar-frost everywhere else; he is “more lovely and more temperate” than the summer day and than the winter day alike.  He overcomes both heat and cold by another climate, which is the climate of life; but that victory of life is more delicate and more surprising in the tyranny of January.  By the sight and the touch of children, we are, as it were, indulged with something finer than a fruit or a flower in untimely bloom.  The childish bloom is always untimely.  The fruit and flower will be common later on; the strawberries will be a matter of course anon, and the asparagus dull in its day.  But a child is a perpetual primeur.

Or rather he is not in truth always untimely.  Some few days in the year are his own season—unnoticed days of March or April, soft, fresh and equal, when the child sleeps and rises with the sun.  Then he looks as though he had his brief season, and ceases for a while to seem strange.

It is no wonder that we should try to attribute the times of the year to children; their likeness is so rife among annuals.  For man and woman we are naturally accustomed to a longer rhythm; their metre is so obviously their own, and of but a single stanza, without repetition, without renewel, without refrain.  But it is by an intelligible illusion that we look for a quick waxing and waning in the lives of young children—for a waxing that shall come again another time, and for a waning that shall not be final, shall not be fatal.  But every winter shows us how human they are, and how they are little pilgrims and visitants among the things that look like their kin.  For every winter shows them free from the east wind; more perfectly than their elders, they enclose the climate of life.  And, moreover, with them the climate of life is the climate of the spring of life; the climate of a human March that is sure to make a constant progress, and of a human April that never hesitates.  The child “breathes April and May”—an inner April and his own May.

The winter child looks so much the more beautiful for the season as his most brilliant uncles and aunts look less well.  He is tender and gay in the east wind.  Now more than ever must the lover beware of making a