FANCY--SEED OF WONDER
The country house, so ancient that it seemed part of the landscape,
settled down secretively into the wintry darkness and watched the night
with eyes of yellow flame. The thick December gloom hid it securely
from attack. Nothing could find it out. Though crumbling in places, the
mass of it was solid as a fortress, for the old oak beams had resisted
Time so long that the tired years had resigned themselves to siege
instead of assault, and the protective hills and woods rendered it
impregnable against the centuries. The beleaguered inhabitants felt
safe. It was a delightful, cosy feeling, yet excitement and surprise
were in it too. Anything _might_ happen, and at any moment.
This, at any rate, was how Judy and Tim felt the personality of the old
Mill House, calling it Daddy's Castle. Maria expressed no opinion. She
felt and knew too much to say a word. She was habitually non-committal.
She shared the being of the ancient building, as the building shared
the landscape out of which it grew so naturally. Having been born last,
her inheritance of coming Time exceeded that of Tim and Judy, and she
lived as though thoroughly aware of her prerogative. In quiet silence
she claimed everything as her very own.
The Mill House, like Maria, never moved; it existed comfortably; it
seemed independent of busy, hurrying Time. So thickly covered was it
with ivy and various creepers that the trees on the lawn wondered why
it did not grow bigger like themselves. They remembered the time when
they looked up to it, whereas now they looked over it easily, and even
their lower branches stroked the stone tiles on the roof, patched with
moss and lichen like their own great trunks. They had come to regard it
as an elderly animal asleep, for its chimneys looked like horns, it
possessed a capacious mouth that both swallowed and disgorged, and its
eyes were as numerous as those of the forest to which they themselves
properly belonged. And so they accepted the old Mill House as a thing
of drowsy but persistent life; they protected and caressed it; they
liked it exactly where it was; and if it moved they would have known an
undeniable shock.
They watched it now, this dark December evening, as one by one its
gleaming eyes shone bright and yellow through the mist, then one by one
let down their dark green lids. "It's going to sleep," they thought.
"It's going to dream. Its life, like ours, is all inside. It sleeps the
winter through as we do. All is well. Good-night, old house of grey!
We'll also go to sleep."
Unable to see into the brain of the sleepy monster, the trees resigned
themselves to dream again, tucking the earth closely against their
roots and withdrawing into the cloak of misty darkness. Like most other
things in winter they also stayed indoors, leading an interior life of
dim magnificence behind their warm, thick bark. Presently, when they
were ready, something would happen, something they were preparing at
their leisure, something so exquisite that all who saw it would dance
and sing for gladness. They also believed in a Wonderful Stranger who
was coming into their slow, steady lives. They fell to dreaming of the
surprising pageant they would blazon forth upon the world a little
later. And while they dreamed, the wind of night passed moaning through
their leafless branches, and Time flew noiselessly above the turning
Earth.
Meanwhile, inside the old Mill House, the servants lit the lamps and
drew the blinds and curtains. Behind the closing eyelids, however, like
dream-chambers within a busy skull, there were rooms of various shapes
and kinds, and in one of these on the ground-floor, called Daddy's
Study, the three children stood, expectant and a little shy, waiting
for something desirable to happen. In common with all other living
things, they shared this enticing feeling--that Something Wonderful was
going to happen. To be without this feeling, of course, is to be not
alive; but, once alive, it cannot be escaped. At death it asserts
itself most strongly of all--Something Too Wonderful is going to
happen. For to die is quite different from being not alive. This
feeling is the proof of eternal life--once alive, alive for ever. To
live is to feel this yearning, huge expectancy.
Daddy had taught them this, though, of course, they knew it
instinctively already. And any moment now the door would open and his
figure, familiar, yet each time more wonderful, would cross the
threshold, close the door behind him, and ... something desirable would
happen.
"I wish he'd hurry," said Tim impatiently. "There won't be any time
left." And he glanced at the cruel clock that stopped all their
pleasure but never stopped itself. "The motor got here hours ago. He
can't STILL be having tea." Judy, her brown hair in disorder, her belt
sagging where it was of little actual use, sighed deeply. But there was
patience and understanding in her big, dark eyes. "He's in with Mother
doing finances," she said with resignation. "It's Saturday. Let's sit
down and wait." Then, seeing that Maria already occupied the big
armchair, and sat staring comfortably into the fire, she did not move.
Maria was making a purring, grunting sound of great contentment; she
felt no anxiety of any kind apparently.
But Tim was less particular.
"Alright," he said, squashing himself down beside Maria, whose podgy
form accommodated itself to the intrusion like a cat, "as long as Aunt
Emily doesn't catch him on the way and begin explaining."
"She's in bed with a headache," mentioned Judy. "She's safe enough."
For it was an established grievance against their mother's sister that
she was always explaining things. She was a terrible explainer. She
couldn't move without explaining. She explained everything in the
world. She was a good soul, they knew, but she had to explain that she
was a good soul. They rather dreaded her. Explanations took time for
one thing, and for another they took away all wonder. In bed with a
headache, she was safely accounted for, explained.
"She thinks we miss her," reflected Tim. He did not say it; it just
flashed through his mind, with a satisfaction that added vaguely to his
pleasurable anticipation of what was coming. And this satisfaction
increased his energy. "Shove over a bit," he added aloud to Maria, and
though Maria did not move of her own volition, she was nevertheless
shoved over. The pair of them settled down into the depths of the
chair, but while Maria remained quite satisfied with her new position,
her brother fussed and fidgeted with impatience born of repressed
excitement. "Run out and knock at the door," he proposed to Judy.
"He'll never get away from Mother unless we let him KNOW we're waiting."
Judy, kneeling on a chair and trying to make it sea-saw, pulled up her
belt, sprang down, then hesitated. "They'll only think it's Thompson
and say come in," she decided. "That's no good."
Tim jumped up, using Maria as a support to raise himself. "I know
what!" he cried. "Go and bang the gong. He'll think it's
dressing-time." The idea was magnificent. "I'll go if you funk it," he
added, and had already slithered half way over the back of the chair
when Judy forestalled him and had her hand upon the door-knob. He
encouraged her with various instructions about the proper way to beat
the gong, and was just beginning a scuffle with the inanimate Maria,
who now managed to occupy the entire chair, when he was aware of a new
phenomenon that made him stop abruptly. He saw Judy's face hanging in
mid-air, six feet above the level of the floor. Her face was flushed
and smiling; her hair hung over her eyes; and from somewhere behind or
underneath her a gruff voice said sternly:
"What are you doing in my Study at this time of night? Who asked you
in?"
The expected figure had entered, catching Judy in the act of opening
the door. He was carrying her in his arms. She landed with a flop upon
the carpet. The desired and desirable thing was about to happen. "Get
out, you lump, it's Daddy." But Maria, accustomed to her brother's
exaggerated language, and knowing it was only right and manly, merely
raised her eyes and waited for him to help her out. Tim did help her
out; half dragging and half lifting, he deposited her in a solid heap
upon the floor, then ran to the figure that now dominated the dim,
fire-lit room, and hugged it with all his force, making sounds in his
throat like an excited animal: "Ugh! ugh! ugh!...!"
The hug was returned with equal vigour, but without the curious sounds;
Maria was hugged as well and set upon her feet; while Judy, having
already been sufficiently hugged, pushed the arm-chair closer up to the
fire and waited patiently for the proper business of the evening to
begin.
The figure, meanwhile, disentangled itself. It was tall and thin, with
a mild, resigned expression upon a kindly face that years and care had
lined before its time: old-fashioned rather, with soft, grey whiskers
belonging to an earlier day. A black tail-coat adorned it, and the
neck-tie was crooked in the turned-down collar. The watch-chain went
from the waist-coat button to one pocket only, instead of right across,
and one finger wore a heavy signet-ring that bore the family crest. It
was obviously the figure of an overworked official in the Civil Service
who had returned from its daily routine in London to the evening
routine of its family in the country, the atmosphere of Government and
the Underground still hanging round it. For sundry whiffs of the
mysterious city reached the children's nostrils, bringing thrills of
some strange, remote reality they had never known at first-hand. They
busied themselves at once. While Tim unbuttoned the severe black coat
and pulled it off, Judy brought a jacket of dingy tweed from behind a
curtain in the corner, and stood on a chair to help the figure put it
on. All knew their duties; the performance went like clockwork. And
Maria sat and watched in helpful silence. There was a certain air about
her as though she did it all.
"How they do spoil me, to be sure," the figure murmured to itself; "yet
Mother's always saying that _I_ spoil them. I wonder...!"
"Now you look decent at last," said Judy. "You smell like a nice
rabbit."
"It's my shooting-coat." The figure cleared its throat, apparently on
the defensive a little.
Tim and Judy sniffed it. "Rabbits and squirrels and earth and things,"
thought Tim.
"And flowers and burning leaves," said Judy. "It's his old garden-coat
as well." She sniffed very audibly. "Oh, I love that smoky smell."
"It's the good old English smell," said the figure contentedly, while
they put his neck-tie straight and arranged the pocket flaps for him.
"It's English country--England."
"Don't other countries smell, then?" inquired Tim. "I mean, could any
one tell you were English by your smell?" He sniffed again, with
satisfaction. "Weeden's the same," he went on, without waiting for an
answer, "only much stronger, and so's the potting shed."
"But yours is sweeter _much_," said Judy quickly. To share odours with
an Authority like the Head Gardener was distinctly a compliment, but
Daddy must come first, whatever happened. "How funny," she added, half
to herself, "that England should have such a jolly smell. I wonder what
it comes from?"
"Where _does_ England come from?" asked Tim, pausing a moment to stare
into the figure's face. "It's an island, of course--England--but--"
"A piece of land surrounded by water," began the figure, but was not
allowed to finish. A chorus of voices interrupted:
"Make a story of it, please. There's just time. There's half an hour.
It's nice and dark. Ugh! Something very awful or very silly, please...."
There followed a general scuffle for seats, with bitter complaints that
he only had two pointed knees. Maria was treated with scant respect.
There was also criticism of life--that he had no lap, "no proper lap,"
that it was too dark to see his face, that everybody in turn had got
"the best place," but, chiefly, that there was "very little time." Time
was a nuisance always: it either was time to go, or time to stop, or
else there was not time enough. But at length quiet was established;
the big arm-chair resembled a clot of bees upon a honeycomb; the fire
burned dully, and the ceiling was thick with monstrous fluttering
shadows, vaguely shaped.
"Now, please. We've been ready for ages."
A deep hush fell upon the room, and only a sound of confused breathing
was audible. The figure heaved a long, deep sigh as though it suffered
pain, paused, cleared its throat, then sighed again more heavily than
before. For the moment of creation was at hand, and creation is not
accomplished without much travail.
But the children loved the pause, the sigh, the effort. Not realising
with what difficulty the stories were ground out, nor that it was an
effort against time--to make a story last till help came from
outside--they believed that something immense and wonderful was on the
way, and held their breath with beating hearts. Daddy's stories were
always marvellous; this one would be no exception.
Marvellous up to a point, that is: something in them failed. "He's
trying," was their opinion of them; and it was the trying that they
watched and listened to so eagerly. The results were unsatisfying, the
effect incomplete; the climax of sensation they expected never came.
Daddy, though they could not put this into words, possessed fancy only;
imagination was not his. Fancy, however, is the seed of imagination, as
imagination is the blossom of wonder. His stories prepared the soil in
them at any rate. They felt him digging all round them.
He began forthwith:
"Once, very long ago--"
"How long?"
"So long ago that the chalk cliffs of England still lay beneath the
sea--"
"Was Aunt Emily alive then?"
"Or Weeden?"
"Oh, much longer ago than that," he comforted them; "so long, in fact,
that neither your Aunt Emily nor Weeden were even thought of--there
lived a man who--"
"Where? What country, please?"
"There lived a man in England--"
"But you said England was beneath the sea with the chalk cliffs."
"There lived a man in a very small, queer little island called Ingland,
spelt 'Ing,' not 'Eng,' who--"
"It wasn't _our_ England, then?"
"On a tiny little island called Ingland, who was very lonely because he
was the only human being on it--"
"Weren't there animals and things too?"
"And the only animals who lived on it with him were a squirrel who
lived in the only tree, a rabbit who lived in the only hole, and a
small grey mouse who made its nest in the pocket of his other coat."
"Were they friendly? Did he love them awfully?"
"At first he was very polite to them only, because he was a civil
servant of his Government; but after a bit they became so friendly that
he loved them even better than himself, and went to tea with the rabbit
in its hole, and climbed the tree to share a nut-breakfast with the
squirrel, and--and--"
"He doesn't know what to do with the mouse," a loud whisper, meant to
be inaudible, broke in upon the fatal hesitation.
"And went out for walks with the mouse when the ground was damp and the
mouse complained of chilly feet. In the pocket of his coat, all snug
and warm, it stood on its hind legs and peered out upon the world with
its pointed nose just above the pocket flap--"
"Then he liked the mouse best?"
"What sort of coat was it? An overcoat or just an ordinary one that
smelt? Was that the only pocket in it?"
"It was made of the best leaves from the squirrel's tree, and from the
rabbit's last year's fur, and the mouse had fastened the edges together
neatly with the sharpest of its own discarded whiskers. And so they
walked about the tiny island and enjoyed the view together--"
"The mouse couldn't have seen much!"
"Until, one day, the mouse declared the ground was ALWAYS wet and was
getting wetter and wetter. And the man got frightened."
"Ugh! It's going to get awful in a minute!" And the children nestled
closer. The voice sank lower. It became mysterious.
"And the wetter it got the more the man got frightened; for the island
was dreadfully tiny and--"
"Why, please, did it get wetter and wetter?"
"THAT," continued the man who earned his living in His Majesty's
Stationery Office by day, and by night justified his existence offering
the raw material of epics unto little children, "that was the
extraordinary part of it. For no one could discover. The man stroked
his beard and looked about him, the squirrel shook its bushy tail, the
rabbit lifted its upper lip and thrust its teeth out, and the mouse
jerked its head from side to side until its whiskers grew longer and
sharper than ever--but none of them could discover why the island got
wetter and wetter and wetter--"
"Perhaps it just rained like here."
"For the sky was always blue, it never rained, and there was so little
dew at night that no one even mentioned it. Yet the tiny island got
wetter every day, till it finally got so wet that the very floor of the
man's hut turned spongy and splashed every time the man went to look
out of the window at the view. And at last he got so frightened that he
stayed indoors altogether, put on both his coats at once, and told
stories to the mouse and squirrel about a country that was always dry--"
"Didn't the rabbit know anything?"
"For all this time the rabbit was too terrified to come out of its hole
at all. The increasing size of its front teeth added to its uneasiness,
for they thrust out so far that they hid the view and made the island
seem even smaller than it was--"
"I like rabbits, though."
"Till one fine day--"
"They were all fine, you said."
"One finer day than usual the rabbit made a horrible discovery. The way
it made the discovery was curious--may seem curious to us, at
least--but the fact is, it suddenly noticed that the size of its front
teeth had grown out of all proportion to the size of the island.
Looking over its shoulder this fine day, it realised how absurdly small
the island was in comparison with its teeth--and grasped the horrid
truth. In a flash it understood what was happening. The island was
getting wetter because it was also getting--_smaller_!"
"Ugh! How beastly!"
"Did it tell the others?"
"It retired half-way down its hole and shouted out the news to the
others in the hut."
"Did they hear it?"
"It warned them solemnly. But its teeth obstructed the sound, and the
windings of its hole made it difficult to hear. The man, besides, was
busy telling a story to the mouse, and the mouse, anyhow, was sound
asleep at the bottom of his pocket, with the result that the only one
who caught the words of warning was--the squirrel. For a squirrel's
ears are so sharp that it can even hear the grub whistling to itself
inside a rotten nut; and it instantly took action."
"Ah! IT saved them, then?"
"The squirrel flew from the man's shoulder where it was perched,
balanced for a second on the top of his head, then clung to the ceiling
and darted out of the window without a moment's delay. It crossed the
island in a single leap, scuttled to the top of the tree, peered about
over the diminishing landscape, and--"
"Didn't it see the rabbit?"
"And returned as quickly as it went. It bustled back into the hut,
hopping nervously, and jerking its head with excitement. In a moment it
was perched again on the man's shoulder. It carefully kept its bushy
tail out of the way of his nose and eyes. And then it whispered what it
had seen into his left ear."
"Why into his left ear?"
"Because it was the right one, and the other had cotton wool in it."
"Like Aunt Emily!"
"What did it whisper?"
"The squirrel had made a discovery, too," continued the teller,
solemnly.
"Goodness! That's two discoveries!"
"But what _did_ it whisper?"
In the hush that followed, a coal was heard falling softly into the
grate; the night-wind moaned against the outside walls; Judy scraped
her stockinged foot slowly along the iron fender, making a faint
twanging sound. Breathing was distinctly audible. For several moments
the room was still as death. The figure, smothered beneath the clotted
mass of children, heaved a sigh. But no one broke the pause. It was too
precious and wonderful to break at once. All waited breathlessly, like
birds poised in mid-air before they strike ... until a new sound stole
faintly upon the listening silence, a faint and very distant sound,
barely audible as yet, but of unmistakable character. It was far away
in the upper reaches of the building, overhead, remote, a little
stealthy. Like the ominous murmur of a muffled drum, it had approach in
it. It was coming nearer and nearer. It was significant and threatening.
For the first time that evening the ticking of the clock was also
audible. But the new sound, though somewhat in league with the ticking,
and equally remorseless, did not come from the clock. It was a human
sound, the most awful known to childhood. It was footsteps on the
stairs!
Both the children and the story-teller heard it, but with different
results. The latter stirred and looked about him, as though new hope
and strength had come to him. The former, led by Tim and Judy, broke
simultaneously into anxious speech. Maria, having slept profoundly
since the first mention of the mouse in its cosy pocket, gave no sign
at all.
"Oh, quick! quick! What did the squirrel whisper in his good right ear?
What was it? DO hurry, please!"
"It whispered two simple words, each of one syllable," continued the
reanimated figure, his voice lowered and impressive. "It said--_the
sea_!"
The announcement made by the squirrel was so entirely unexpected that
the surprise of it buried all memory of the disagreeable sound. The
children sat up and stared into the figure's face questioningly. Surely
he had made a slight mistake. How could the sea have anything to do
with it? But no word was spoken, no actual question asked. This
overwhelming introduction of the sea left him poised far beyond their
reach. His stories were invariably marvellous. He would somehow justify
himself.
"The Sea!" whispered Tim to Judy, and there was intense admiration in
his voice and eyes.
"From the top of its tree," resumed the figure triumphantly, "the
squirrel had seen what was happening, and made its great discovery. It
realised why the ground was wetter and wetter every day, and also why
the island was small and growing smaller. For it understood the awful
fact that--the sea was rising! A little longer and the entire island
would be under water, and everybody on it would be drowned!" "Couldn't
none of them swim or anything?" asked Judy with keen anxiety.
"Hush!" put in Tim. "It's what did they _do?_ And who thought of it
first?"
The question last but one was chosen for solution.
"The rabbit," announced the figure recklessly. "The rabbit saved them;
and in saving them it saved the Island too. It founded Ingland, this
very Ingland on which we live to-day. In fact, it started the British
Empire by its action. The rabbit did it."
"How? How?"
"It heard the squirrel's whisper half-way down its hole. It forgot
about its front teeth, and the moment it forgot them they, of course,
stopped growing. It recovered all its courage. A grand idea had come to
it. It came bustling out of its hiding-place, stood on its hind legs,
poked its bright eyes over the window-ledge, and told them how to
escape. It said, 'I'll dig my hole deeper and we'll empty the sea into
it as it rises. We'll pour the water down my hole!'"
The figure paused and fixed his eyes upon each listener in turn,
challenging disapproval, yet eager for sympathy at the same time. In
place of criticism, however, he met only silence and breathless
admiration. Also--he heard that distant sound _they_ had forgotten, and
realised it had come much nearer. It had reached the second floor. He
made swift and desperate calculations. He decided that it was _just_
possible ... with ordinary good luck ...
"So they all went out and began to deepen the rabbit's hole. They dug
and dug and dug. The man took off both his coats; the rabbit scraped
with its four paws, using its tail as well--it had a nice long tail in
those days; the mouse crept out of his pocket and made channels with
its little pointed toes; and the squirrel brushed and swept the water
in with its bushy, mop-like tail. The rising sea poured down the
ever-deepening hole. They worked with a will together; there was no
complaining, though the rabbit wore its tail down till it was nothing
but a stump, and the mouse stood ankle-deep in water, and the
squirrel's fluffy tail looked like a stable broom. They worked like
heroes without stopping even to talk, and as the water went pouring
down the hole, the level of the sea, of course, sank lower and lower
and lower, the shores of the tiny island stretched farther and farther
and farther, till there were reaches of golden sand like Margate at low
tide, and as the level sank still lower there rose into view great
white cliffs of chalk where before there had been only water--until, at
last, the squirrel, scampering down from the tree where it had gone to
see what had been accomplished, reported in a voice that chattered with
stammering delight, 'We're saved! The sea's gone down! The land's come
up!'"
The steps were audible in the passage. A gentle knock was heard. But no
one answered, for it seemed that no one was aware of it. The figure
paused a moment to recover breath.
"And then, and then? What happened next? Did they thank the rabbit?"
"They all thanked each other then. The man thanked the rabbit, and the
rabbit thanked the squirrel, and the mouse woke up, and--"
No one noticed the slip, which proved that their attention was already
painfully divided. For another knock, much louder than before, had
interrupted the continuation of the story. The figure turned its head
to listen. "It's nothing," said Tim quickly. "It's only a sound," said
Judy. "What did the mouse do? Please tell us quickly."
"I thought I heard a knock," the figure murmured. "Perhaps I was
mistaken. The mouse--er--the mouse woke up--"
"You told us that."
The figure continued, speaking with greater rapidity even than before:
"And looked about it, and found the view so lovely that it said it
would never live in a pocket again, but would divide its time in future
between the fields and houses. So it pricked its whiskers up, and the
squirrel curled its tail over its back to avoid any places that still
were damp, and the rabbit polished its big front teeth on the grass and
said it was quite pleased to have a stump instead of a tail as a
memento of a memorable occasion when they had all been nearly drowned
together, and--they all skipped up to the top of the high chalk cliffs
as dry as a bone and as happy as--"
He broke off in the middle of the enormous sentence to say a most
ridiculous and unnecessary thing. "Come in," he said, just as though
there was some one knocking at the door. But no single head was turned.
If there was an entry it was utterly ignored.
"Happy as what?"
"As you," the figure went on faster than ever. "And that's why England
to-day is an island of quite a respectable size, and why everybody
pretends it's dry and comfortable and cosy, and why people never leave
it except to go away for holidays that cannot possibly be avoided."
"I beg your pardon, sir," began an awful voice behind the chair.
"And why to this day," he continued as though he had not heard, "a
squirrel always curls its tail above its back, why a rabbit wears a
stump like a pen wiper, and why a mouse lives sometimes in a house and
sometimes in a field, and--"
_"I beg your pardon, sir,"_ clanged the slow, awful voice in a tone
that was meant to be heard distinctly, "but it's long gone 'arf-past
six, and--"
"Time for bed," added the figure with a sound that was like the falling
of an executioner's axe. And, as if to emphasise the arrival of the
remorseless moment, the clock just then struck loudly on the
mantelpiece--seven times.
But for several minutes no one stirred. Hope, even at such moments, was
stronger than machinery of clocks and nurses. There was a general
belief that somehow or other the moment that they dreaded, the moment
that was always coming to block their happiness, could be evaded and
shoved aside. Nothing mechanical like that was wholly true. Daddy had
often used queer phrases that hinted at it: "Some day--A day is
coming--A day will come"; and so forth. Their belief in a special Day
when no one would say "Time" haunted them already. Yet, evidently this
evening was not the momentous occasion; for when Tim mentioned that the
clock was fast, the figure behind the chair replied that she was half
an hour overdue already, and her tone was like Thompson's when he said,
"Dinner's served." There was no escape this time.
Accordingly the children slowly disentangled themselves; they rose and
stretched like animals; though all still ignored the figure behind the
chair. A ball of stuff unrolled and became Maria. "Thank you, Daddy,"
she said. "It was just lovely," said Judy. "But it's only the
beginning, isn't it?" Tim asked. "It'll go on to-morrow night?" And the
figure, having escaped failure by the skin of its teeth, kissed each in
turn and said, "Another time--yes, I'll go on with it." Whereupon the
children deigned to notice the person behind the chair. "We're coming
up to bed now, Jackman," they mentioned casually, and disappeared
slowly from the room in a disappointed body, robbed, unsatisfied, but
very sleepy. The clock had cheated them of something that properly was
endless. Maria alone made no remark, for she was already asleep in
Jackman's comfortable arms. Maria was always carried.
"Time's up," Tim reflected when he lay in bed; "time's always up. I do
wish we could stop it somehow," and fell asleep somewhat gratified
because he had deliberately not wound up his alarum-clock. He had the
delicious feeling--a touch of spite in it--that this would bother Time
and muddle it.
Yet Time, as a monster, chased him through a hundred dreams and thus
revenged itself. It pursued him to the very edge of the daylight, then
mocked him with a cold bath, lessons, and a windy sleet against the
windows. It was "time to get up" again.
Yet, meanwhile, Time helped and pleased the children by showing them
its pleasanter side as well. It pushed them, gently but swiftly, up the
long hill of months and landed them with growing excitement into the
open country of another year. Since the rabbit, mouse, and squirrel
first woke in their hearts the wonder of common things, they had all
grown slightly bigger. Time tucked away another twelve months behind
their backs: each of them was a year older; and that in itself was full
of a curious and growing wonder.
For the birth of wonder is a marvellous, sweet thing, but the
recognition of it is sweeter and more marvellous still. Its growth,
perhaps, shall measure the growth and increase of the soul to whom it
is as eyes and hands and feet, searching the world for signs of hiding
Reality. But its persistence--through the heavier years that would
obliterate it--this persistence shall offer hints of something coming
that is more than marvellous. The beginning of wisdom is surely--Wonder.