I saw a blue-eyed child, with sunny curls, toddling on the lawn before
the door of a happy home. He toddled under the trees, prattling to the
birds and playing with the ripening apples that fell upon the ground.
He toddled among the roses and plucked their leaves as he would have
plucked an angel's wing, strewing their glory upon the green grass at
his feet. He chased the butterflies from flower to flower, and shouted
with glee as they eluded his grasp and sailed away on the summer air.
Here I thought his childish fancy had built a paradise and peopled it
with dainty seraphim and made himself its Adam. He saw the sunshine
of Eden glint on every leaf and beam in every petal. The flitting
honey-bee, the wheeling June-bug, the fluttering breeze, the silvery
pulse-beat of the dashing brook sounded in his ear notes of its swelling
music. The iris-winged humming-bird, darting like a sunbeam, to kiss the
pouting lips of the upturned flowers was, to him, the impersonation of
its beauty. And I said: Truly, this is the nearest approach in this
world, to the paradise of long ago. Then I saw him skulking like a
cupid, in the shrubbery, his skirts bedraggled and soiled, his face
downcast with guilt. He had stirred up the Mediterranean Sea in the slop
bucket, and waded the Atlantic Ocean in a mud puddle. He had capsized
the goslings, and shipwrecked the young ducks, and drowned the kitten
which he imagined a whale, and I said: _There_ is the original Adam
coming to the surface.
[Illustration: THE PARADISE OF CHILDHOOD.]
"Lo'd bless my soul! Jist look at dat chile!" shouted his dusky old
nurse, as she lifted him, dripping, from the reeking pond. "What's you
bin doin' in dat mud puddle? Look at dat face, an' dem hands an' close,
all kivvered wid mud an' mulberry juice! You bettah not let yo' mammy
see you while you's in dat fix. You's gwine to ketch it sho'. You's jist
zackly like yo' fader--allers git'n into some scrape or nuddah, allers
breakin' into some kind uv devilment--gwine to break into congrus some
uv dese days sho'. Come along wid me dis instinct to de baff tub. I's
a-gwine to dispurgate dem close an' 'lucidate some uv dat dirt off'n
dat face uv yone, you triflin' rascal you!" And so saying, she carried
him away, kicking and screaming like a young savage in open rebellion,
and I said: _There_ is some more of the original Adam. Then I saw him
come forth again, washed and combed, and dressed in spotless white, like
a young butterfly fresh from its chrysalis. And when he got a chance,
I saw him slip on his tip-toes, into the pantry;
I heard the clink of glassware,
As if a mouse were playing there,
among the jam pots and preserves. There two little dimpled hands made
trip after trip to a rose-colored mouth, bearing burdens of mingling
sweets that dripped from cheek, and chin, and waist, and skirt, and
shoes, subduing the snowy white with the amber of the peach, and the
purple of the raspberry, as he ate the forbidden fruit. Then I watched
him glide into the drawing room. There was a crash and a thud in there,
which quickly brought his frightened mother to the scene, only to find
the young rascal standing there catching his breath, while streams of
cold ink trickled down his drenched bosom. And as he wiped his inky
face, which grew blacker with every wipe, the remainder of the ink was
pouring from the bottle down on the carpet, and making a map of darkest
Africa. Then the rear of a small skirt went up over a curly head and the
avenging slipper, in lightning strokes, kept time to the music in the
air. And I said: _There_ is "_Paradise Lost_." The sympathizing, half
angry old nurse bore her weeping, sobbing charge to the nursery and
there bound up his broken heart and soothed him to sleep with her old
time lullaby:
[Illustration: PARADISE LOST.]
"Oh, don't you cry little baby, Oh, don't you cry no mo',
For it hurts ol' mammy's feelin's fo' to heah you weepin' so.
Why don't da keep temptation frum de little han's an' feet?
What makes 'em 'buse de baby kaze de jam an' zarves am sweet?
Oh, de sorrow, tribulations, dat de joys of mortals break,
Oh, it's heb'n when we slumber, it's trouble when we wake.
Oh, go to sleep my darlin', now close dem little eyes,
An' dream uv de shinin' angels, an' de blessed paradise;
Oh, dream uv de blood-red roses, an' de birds on snowy wing;
Oh, dream uv de fallin' watahs an' de never endin' spring.
Oh, de roses, Oh, de rainbows, Oh, de music's gentle swell,
In de dreamland uv little childun, whar de blessed sperrits dwell."
"Dar now, dar now, he's gone. Bless its little heart, da treats it like
a dog." And then she tucked him away in the paradise of his childish
slumber.
[Illustration: OLD BLACK "MAMMY."]
The day will come when the South will build a monument to the good old
black mammy of the past for the lullabies she has sung.
I sometimes wish that childhood might last forever. That sweet fairy
land on the frontier of life, whose skies are first lighted with the
sunrise of the soul, and in whose bright-tinted jungles the lions, and
leopards, and tigers of passion still peacefully sleep. The world is
disarmed by its innocence, the drawn bow is relaxed, and the arrow is
returned to its quiver; the Ægis of Heaven is above it, the outstretched
wings of mercy, pity, and measureless love!