the children-第2章
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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 realizeda 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 mefiance 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 fulnesswhich is like that of a thick rose or of a
tight grapelook 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 warmwith fur； with skating； with tea；
with fire； and with sleepin 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 seasonunnoticed 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 childrenfor 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 comparison between the beauty of the admired woman and
the beauty of a child。 He is indeed too wary ever to make it。 So
is the poet。 As comparisons are necessary to him； he will pay a
frankly impossible homage； and compare a woman's face to something
too fine； to something it never could emulate。 The Elizabethan
lyrist is safe among lilies and cherries； roses； pearls； and snow。
He undertakes the beautiful office of flattery； and flatters with
courage。 There is no hidden reproach in the praise。 Pearls and
snow suffer； in a sham fight； a mimic defeat that does them no harm；
and no harm comes to the lady's beauty from a competition so
impossible。 She never wore a lily or a coral in the colours of her
face； and their beauty is not hers。 But here is the secret： she is
compared with a flower because she could not endure to be compared
with a child。 That would touch her too nearly。 There would be the
human texture and t
