And children are the conduits.
They do not think things out. They feel them, eh?' He paused an
instant.
'For you see, along these little channels that the children--my
children, as I think I mentioned--keep sweet and open, there might
troop back into the village--Fairyland. Not merely a foolish fairyland
of make-believe and dragons and princesses imprisoned in animals, but
a fairyland the whole world needs--the sympathy of sweet endeavour,
love, gentleness and sacrifice for others. The stars would bring it--
starlight don't you see? One might weave starlight in and out
everywhere--use it as the symbol of sympathy--and--er--so on---'
Rogers again lost the clue. Another strangely familiar picture, and
then another, flashed gorgeously before his inner vision; his mind
raced after them, yet never caught them up. They were most curiously
familiar. Then, suddenly, he came back and heard his cousin still
talking. It was like a subtle plagiarism. Too subtle altogether,
indeed, it was for him. He could only stare and listen in amazement.
But the recital grew more and more involved. Perhaps, alone in his
work-room, Daddy could unwumble it consistently. He certainly could
not tell it. The thread went lost among a dozen other things. The
interfering sun had melted it all down in dew and spider gossamer and
fairy cotton.
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