Rogers had brought it
with him from that old Kentish garden somehow. His journey there had
opened doors into a region of imagination and belief whence fairyland
poured back upon his inner world, transfiguring common things. And
this transfiguration he unwittingly put into others too. Through this
very ordinary man swept powers that usually are left behind with
childhood. The childhood aspect of the world invaded all who came in
contact with him, enormous, radiant, sparkling, charged with questions
of wonder and enchantment. And every one felt it according to their
ability of reconstruction. Yet he himself had not the least idea that
he did it all. It was a reformation, very tender, soft, and true.
For wonder, of course, is the basis of all inquiry. Interpretation
varies, facts remain the same; and to interpret is to recreate. Wonder
leads to worship. It insists upon recreation, prerogative of all young
life. The Starlight Express ran regularly every night, Jimbo having
constructed a perfect time-table that answered all requirements, and
was sufficiently elastic to fit instantly any scale that time and
space demanded. Rogers and the children talked of little else, and
their adventures in the daytime seemed curiously fed by details of
information gleaned elsewhere.
But where? The details welled up in one and all, though whence they
came remained a mystery.
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