THE CHILD—ITS PATHOS
Just as there is no summer without its cool grey days, so among the
sunny crowd of children about our path there is here and there a
child who seems to live beneath a shadow.
[Sidenote: Quiet Children.]
Just, too, as the tender colouring of the grey landscape has a
special charm which only needs the seeking, so these quiet little
ones amply repay the observation of those who do not let them steal
away and escape notice as they always wish to do.
No one who cares for children can have failed to have come in contact
with some who are silent when their comrades shout, grave when the
rest are laughing, and look wistfully on when games are in progress.
They are, possibly, well enough liked by the rest, but somehow they
are _different_, and because of this difference go their own way to
which the others have become accustomed.
[Sidenote: Reasons for the Difference.]
[Sidenote: Lonely Children.]
There are, of course, sometimes obvious reasons. In the greater
number of cases the child’s health—or want of health—accounts for the
separateness of its life and pursuits. Sometimes, it may be feared
that harsh surroundings in its home have crushed the spirit out of
it and made it timid and suspicious. But sometimes it is a mere
question of temperament. The child has, perhaps, inherited some queer
strain of sentimental self-consciousness, or some nervous dread of
publicity, which causes it to be like the famous parrot which said
little but thought a lot—a condition of things exactly the reverse
of what may usually be found in a thoroughly healthy-minded child.
But, whatever the cause, it is for the most part true that it is
well worth while to lay siege to the affections of such a child, and
try to establish confidential relations. The result of a habit of
thoughtfulness and of a life a little lonelier than that of others
will generally tend to the laying up a store of quaint fancies and
imaginings about the objects of everyday life, as well as often
developing a sympathy which the lonely child has no wish and few
chances to exhibit. These things are well worth bringing to the light
by anyone who is sufficiently persevering to win the affection and
confidence of the little one.
Such children are not averse to _all_ companionship, but are terribly
afraid of anyone who does not understand. They have often enough been
laughed at, and they keep their thoughts and interests carefully
hidden from all who cannot be absolutely trusted, and it is so very
few indeed whom they discover to belong to this category. Once,
however, they are perfectly sure of anyone, they will lead them to
their secret haunts in field or garden, will confide to them their
dread of certain places and people, and finally will allow their most
cherished wishes to escape them. In almost all cases the great desire
of such children is for something to love, or for somebody in whose
affections they may be first.
[Sidenote: Early Natural Bents.]
[Sidenote: Not a Mother Yet!]
In this connection it is curious to notice how early the natural
bent of a child will show itself. This is especially the case with
girls whose mothering propensity comes out at a very tender age. A
wistful little maiden who always seemed to want something more than
satisfied her more boisterous companions had slid her hand into that
of a grown-up friend in whom she had learnt to confide, and who was
trying to amuse her by telling her about a litter of puppies which
had been born to a retriever called Topsy. Looking down, the lady saw
that the child’s face had grown serious even to sadness, which was
accounted for by the conversation that followed. “How old is Topsy?”
said the little girl. “I think she is four,” was the answer. At once
the child’s eyes filled with tears as she sighed, “And I am six and
I’m not a mother yet!”
[Sidenote: A Boy’s Secrets.]
[Sidenote: The Toad.]
With boys it will generally be found that, if they have taken
to solitary ways, and belong to the class of children who are
pathetically different to the rest, they have some bent, some special
interest, which they keep carefully to themselves until a really
sympathetic friend wins their secret from them. Not infrequently it
is a hiding-place inside a bush or in some corner of the garden where
rubbish has been thrown and where the small boy has made himself a
“house” with pieces of an old packing case and any other oddments
that have come to hand. Sometimes it is an animal of which he has
found the home and with which he spends most of his spare time. A
toad in a hole in a wall was for a long time the secret joy of a very
small boy until his little sister confided to him that she had got a
toad in a hole close by, which on examination proved to be the same
animal which had two outlets to its abode! The boy’s secret being
thus discovered all his pleasure was gone, and he at once deserted
his pet.
[Sidenote: The Very Dead Frogs!]
The present writer happened once to pay a visit to some friends who
had a little son of about three or four years old. This little fellow
used often to disappear in the garden, and was evidently in enjoyment
of some secret which he was too shy to impart to anyone. After a few
days his confidence was gained, and he led off his new friend to a
spot where there was a muddy little pool about two feet in diameter.
On the edge of this were two frogs which he had found dead, and had
brought here hoping that they would revive. They had been dead for
some time and were anything but sweet, but he stroked them and looked
up in the most wistful way to see whether his pets were properly
appreciated. It was really pathetic to see his eyes fill with tears
when he was told that they were quite, _quite_ dead, and must be
buried without further delay.
Sometimes, of course, the pathos in a child is accounted for by some
physical infirmity which separates him or her from the rest. Here is
an instance.
[Sidenote: Children and the Painter Man.]
A painter had one day set up his umbrella and easel close to a little
hamlet, and when school was over there was the usual rush of the
children to look at “the man” and see what he was doing. Hating
solitude and delighting in children, he faced quickly round upon his
stool and gave them a nod of welcome. “Come to see what sort of a
picture I’m making, eh?” was his greeting. “Yezzur,” was the reply in
the broad dialect of the district. “Well, now, what do you think of
it?” he asked, as he held it up for them to see. At first there is
only much drawing in of breath and many an “Oh!” as they look at what
seems to them at first sight a meaningless kaleidoscope of colours.
At last one makes out one thing and one another in the unfinished
drawing. “There’s the tree, look!” “See the blue sky!” “I can see
William Timms’s house, _I_ can!” And so on for some minutes until
almost every part of the picture had been properly identified. Just
then a shout from one or two women proclaimed the fact that those who
wanted any dinner had better make haste and get it while they had a
chance. This gave “the man” a few quiet minutes during which he ate
his own sandwiches, but before he had swallowed the last mouthful the
troop of children was back again to see all that might be seen before
the school bell rang.
[Sidenote: Jacob.]
It was during these last few minutes that the painter noticed a
boy whom he had not seen among the others before. He was a little
chap—not more than six or seven years old—with soft fair hair and a
pink and white complexion. Two things attracted his attention to the
boy. One was the extreme neatness and cleanness of his dress. His
clothes were not of better material than those of the other boys,
but they were so very _tidy_. His collar, too, was spotlessly white,
and his hair glossy and unruffled. The other thing about him which
seemed peculiar was the amount of deference and consideration that
was shown him by the rest. He was given a good place close behind
“the man’s” elbow, and once or twice, when there was some pushing,
one of the children called out, “Now, then, keep quiet, can’t you?
Don’t you see you’re shovin’ against Jacob Joyce?”
Now and then, too, there would be a curious sort of appeal to the
little fellow: someone would say, “Isn’t it lovely, Jacob? There’s
red and blue and all manner of colours?” And Jacob would solemnly
answer “I likes yed!” Then a whisper would go round, “Hearken to him;
he likes red, Jacob does.”
And all the while to the painter as he worked away there seemed
something odd about the boy, and something unusual if not uncanny in
the way in which the others treated him.
At last the school bell rang, and all but three of the children
rushed off helter skelter to their lessons. The three who stayed
behind were a big girl of twelve who was looking after a baby sister,
and Jacob Joyce.
The picture was nearing completion. That most absorbing half-hour
had arrived when just a little deepening of a shadow here, and the
wiping out of a curl of smoke there, made all the difference, and the
painter was wrapped up in his work, and scarcely noticed the three
children.
[Sidenote: Jacob Sings.]
The elder girl was busy plaiting grasses, and the baby had crawled
nearer and nearer to the easel until a paint brush suddenly shaken
out sprinkled her little face and she set up a dismal cry. In vain
the sister hushed and rocked her. Nothing seemed of any use until the
girl said, “Shall Jacob sing to baby?” Then the sobs were instantly
quieted, and from close behind him the painter heard a strangely
sweet voice begin clear and true “Once in ’oyal David’s City.” Right
through the dear old children’s hymn the singer went, and long before
the end each of the three listeners were enthralled by the melody.
Leaning a little backwards the big grown man, whose thoughts had gone
back to the days when he, too, sang carols, stretched out a hand to
caress the little singer who edged himself along the grass till he
was able to rest his head against the painter’s knee. So they stayed
quietly for a time, a detail being now and then added to the picture,
while a little hand crept up every few minutes to touch the coat or
stroke the knee of the boy’s new-found friend.
[Sidenote: Jacob was Blind.]
So the other children found them when they came back from school. Now
the picture was more easily understood and far more to their liking,
but in all their anxiety to see, no one pushed in front of little
Jacob. “Bootiful picture,” he said, and all of them echoed his words.
“I can’t do a picture,” he added, and the other children said not a
word. “No,” said the painter, “but Jacob can make beautiful music,”
and stooping down he lifted the little fellow on to his knee. Then
for the first time he understood. Jacob Joyce was blind.
[Sidenote: A Child’s Perception of Sorrow.]
Although children frequently fail to realise the great shadows which
from time to time darken the lives of their elders, yet sometimes
a perception of a great sorrow will force its way to the mind of
a child, and nothing more pathetic can be witnessed than the dumb
perplexity with which a child faces such trouble. There is something
in it that reminds one of the wistful expression in the face of a
favourite dog when it is restlessly wandering about a house watching
the preparations for its master’s departure, or has incurred a
measure of chastisement for an offence that it does not understand.
[Sidenote: Two Little Boys Blue.]
Two little boys lived at a small farmhouse on the outskirts of a
Cotswold village. One evening the grey homestead with its deep
stone-slatted roof was all aglow in the sunset, the latticed
windows blazing like so many separate suns, while beneath them
chrysanthemums—yellow, red, and white—added their brilliance to the
picture. Close by an immense elm tree shone in the golden glory of
its autumn robe. Beneath it on an old dry wall the two little boys
were perched just where some of the stones had been knocked away. One
was sitting astride, the other faced the road with his two little
brown legs dangling side by side.
The boys seemed much the same age, and to the eyes of a lady who was
passing by very much alike, but this was no doubt owing to the fact
that they were each dressed in a blue blouse and each had a little
blue flannel cap on the top of a cluster of fair curls.
It was not long before the lady had made friends with the little
chaps, and she always kept an eye on the watch for the blue blouses
when she was walking in the fields or lanes near the farm. It was
soon obvious that one was not only decidedly the elder of the two,
but leader, protector, champion, and hero of his little brother.
The devotion of the younger child was touching. If he were asked
a question he mutely referred it to the other. If he were given
anything he never failed to see whether it would be acceptable in the
eyes of the superior being whom he worshipped. The two little boys
blue were inseparable, and were bound by the best of all ties in
which each needs something that the other has to give.
[Sidenote: Where is Willie?]
There came a day when the lady, who had taken the pair of them into
her affections, went away from home. She did not return for several
weeks, and when she did so she determined to walk the mile and a half
from the station to the village to enjoy the freshness of the country
air after that of a stuffy railway carriage. Her shortest way was by
a footpath which led through the fields at the back of the farmhouse.
Near the stack-yard was a bit of grass ground, once an orchard,
where a few old apple trees were still standing. Here the clothes
lines were accustomed to be stretched between two or three sloping
posts. Here she had often noticed the bit of colour against the greys
of the house and the old tree stems when the two blue blouses had
undergone the necessary wash, and were hanging out to dry.... On this
particular afternoon the lady was hurrying home, delighting in every
well-known sight and sound. She heard the geese in the yard, and saw
the smoke curling up against the great elm-tree. Then she reached
the orchard wall and looked across. The patch of blue caught her eye
at once: but there was something wrong: never before had she seen
only _one_ blouse on the line, just as she had never seen one of the
boys alone. What did it mean? In another moment she caught sight of
the younger child. “Why, where is Willie?” was the quick question.
But there was no answer. For a moment the boy looked at her with big
wondering eyes, then turned and was gone in an instant. She lost
sight of him behind the laurel bush near the farmhouse door.
So long as she lived that lady will never forget the dumb pathos of
the child’s expression. Its explanation was one more little grave in
the children’s corner of the churchyard.
* * * * *
These examples that have been given are of cases where the cause of
the pathos discerned in children can be easily traced. It is not
infrequently the case that something unhappy—something appealing—is
noticed in a child, but that nothing can be discovered to account for
it. The observer feels sure that there is something wrong, but all
efforts to bring it to light or to be of any help are baffled.
[Sidenote: The Deserted Cottage.]
It was not so long ago that a man for whom children had a special
interest found himself compelled to pass along the same country lane
for many days in succession. At one point there stood a cottage which
presented a blank end to the road, its windows and door facing a
small garden and being in full view of passers-by for some distance.
It had at first a most melancholy appearance owing to its having been
for a long time unoccupied. The windows looked gloomy and black, the
scrap of garden was overgrown and bedraggled, the old pear tree on
the front had been blown loose and one branch hung in a dissipated
manner over the porch, while on the path lay a couple of broken stone
tiles which had fallen from the roof.
[Sidenote: The Yellow Curtains.]
One day, however, the passer-by noticed a great change. Evident signs
of habitation made their appearance, and signs of a most unusual kind
in a primitive country-place, for in every window in the house there
appeared bright fresh yellow muslin curtains.
Needless to say, conjecture was rife as to the newcomers but no one
seemed to know who they were or whence they came.
At last one day the above-mentioned pedestrian passed a child whom
he had not seen before, and by that time he knew the face of every
child who lived within a mile or two.
She was about nine years old, and better dressed than most of the
cottage children. Her white pinafore was spotlessly clean, and of
fine material, and there was something dainty about the white linen
hat which shaded her from the June sunshine. But the most striking
things about her were her hair and her complexion. The former was of
a particularly beautiful shade of red, and fell thick and curling
beneath the white brim of her hat. The latter was pink and white,
and, though perfectly healthy, a strong contrast to the browns
and reds of the villagers’ bairns. She was pushing a perambulator
containing a thoroughly well-appointed baby, and seemed so absorbed
in the task that she gave no sort of response to the man’s greeting
as he passed by.
[Sidenote: The Mysterious Child.]
After this they met on most days, and more than once he saw her
entering or leaving the house with the yellow curtains. She never
seemed to speak to anybody, and never had anything to do with other
children who were playing in the lane.
Do what he would the man could never get so much as an answering
smile from the child’s full and sensitive-looking lips. There was
a curious air of mystery about her, and a reserve and habitual
melancholy of expression that went to his heart. Added to this there
was an appearance of loneliness about her life, for no other member
of the family ever seemed to come to the door when she went or came,
and for all that could be seen she and the baby might have been
living all alone.
To a child-lover this daily vision of an unnaturally solitary and
probably unhappy life was insupportable. He was continually on the
look out for a chance of breaking through the girl’s reserve, and
trying to brighten her life.
At last one day it seemed as if the opportunity had come.
[Sidenote: On the Low Stone Bridge.]
A mile or so beyond the cottage the lane crossed a stream by a low
stone bridge. It was a cheerless spot in the dusk of evening, for
the water ran dark and stealthily between old grey willow-trees, but
here it was that he found her, by herself and leaning over the low
stone parapet. He went straight up to her and said “Good evening,”
before he noticed that she was crying quietly, as those people do
whose tears are frequent. Putting his hand over hers as it lay on
the wall he asked her what was amiss. For one second she looked up
in his face, and he made sure that he would learn her secret. The
next instant a look of terror passed over her, and she snatched her
hand away. Before he could say a word or recover from his surprise
she was gone. He saw the white flutter of her pinafore as she ran
homewards down the murky lane, and he never saw her again. By the
next evening the house was unoccupied once more, and he had nothing
but the memory of a child’s pathos which could never be explained.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: A Slighted Child.]
There is just one other bit of pathos which crops up now and again in
children’s lives. It happens sometimes that their devotion to someone
who has shown them kindness or taken notice of them is accidentally
overlooked, and the consequent feeling of desertion is most pathetic.
Girls are more liable to this experience than boys, and when it is
borne in upon a small child for the first time that she is less
attractive than her fellows and must in consequence expect to receive
less notice even from those upon whom she has poured out her chief
store of affection, the suffering entailed is frequently acute.
In selecting a teacher or companion for children it would be no bad
plan to observe those who on an occasion when many little ones are
gathered together take notice of the ugly children. They are the true
child-lovers.
An example of the kind of pathos referred to came to the notice of
the writer some years ago at a children’s party, and he set down the
sensations of the little girl in question in some lines which she is
supposed to speak.
“MY BISSOP.”
I went to the Bissop’s party
In my vi’let velveteen:
The others went last year, you know,
But I hadn’t never been.
I was only four; and mother said
It was really _much_ too late!
But now I’m five—though all a year
Was a _’mendous_ time to wait!
I knew the Bissop very well,
For didn’t I sit on his knee
When he came for Confummation,
And stopped at our house for tea?
He’s a dear old man—our Bissop—
And he’ll hardly ever miss
Stroking the hair of a little girl
And giving her a kiss.
So I _did_ look forward to going,
(And I whispered it all to my doll)—
Though Tom said he didn’t see the good
Of taking a mealy-faced Moll.
But I didn’t know I was ugly,
And nothing about being shy,
So I couldn’t sit still with ’citement
All the whole way in the fly!
We got there at last: there was numbers
Of boys and girls at their teas,
And oh!—in the corner—the Bissop!—
With two little girls on his knees.
I knew they was much more pretty
Than me; but I thought perhaps
Their turn would be over bye and bye
And he’ld take _me_ up on his laps!
So I went quite close, till Susie
Told me I mustn’t stare—
But I don’t b’lieve it mattered,
_He_ didn’t know I was there!
Then the rest of the children got dancing,
And I was knocked down on the floor,
So I w’iggled my way to a corner,
And sat just close to the door.
For I thought _he_’ld pass and see me,
And once he did really stand
Quite close to me—_my_ Bissop!—
And I touched his coat with my hand.
But oh! he never noticed;
He didn’t seem to see:
And when he was kissing anyone
They was other children than me.
I fink I _must_ be ugly.
It wasn’t the velveteen,
’Cause when she had it on last year
Susie looked like a queen!
Yes; I had some toys and a bootiful tea,
And my cracker had got a ring!
And I _fink_ I enjoyed the party
’Cept p’raps for only one fing!
And when I got home to dolly,
And she was in bed by my side,
I _twied_ to tell her about it—
But she was asleep—and I _cwied_.