And he was ashamed to
ask for them. The carpenter's wife read English.
'Pity,' he said to himself. 'I don't believe Minks could have done it
better!'
The energy that went to the making of those 'notes' would have run
down different channels a few years ago. It would have gone into some
ingenious patent. The patent, however, might equally have gone into
the dustbin. There is an enormous quantity of misdirected energy
pouring loose about the world!
The notes had run something like this--
O children, open your arms to me,
Let your hair fall over my eyes;
Let me sleep a moment--and then awake
In your Gardens of sweet Surprise!
For the grown-up folk
Are a wearisome folk,
And they laugh my fancies to scorn,
My fun and my fancies to scorn.
O children, open your hearts to me,
And tell me your wonder-thoughts;
Who lives in the palace inside your brain?
Who plays in its outer courts?
Who hides in the hours To-morrow holds?
Who sleeps in your yesterdays?
Who tiptoes along past the curtained folds
Of the shadow that twilight lays?
O children, open your eyes to me,
And tell me your visions too;
Who squeezes the sponge when the salt tears flow
To dim their magical blue?
Who draws up their blinds when the sun peeps in?
Who fastens them down at night?
Who brushes the fringe of their lace-veined lids?
Who trims their innocent light?
Then, children, I beg you, sing low to me,
And cover my eyes with your hands;
O kiss me again till I sleep and dream
That I'm lost in your fairylands;
For the grown-up folk
Are a troublesome folk,
And the book of their childhood is torn,
Is blotted, and crumpled, and torn!
Supper at the Pension dissipated effectively the odd sense of
enchantment to which he had fallen a victim, but it revived again with
a sudden rush when Jimbo and his sister came up at half-past eight to
say good-night.
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