CHAPTER VII
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.
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 aredifferent, and because of this difference go their own way to which the others have become accustomed.
Reasons for the Difference.
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 toallcompanionship, 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 fewindeed 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.
Early Natural Bents.
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 tellingher 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!”
A Boy’s Secrets.
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 boyhas 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.
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 wastoo 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,quitedead, 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.
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 wasthe 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,Ican!” And so on for some minutes until almost every part of the picture had been properlyidentified. 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.
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 verytidy. His collar, too, was spotlessly white, and hishair 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.
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 thesobs 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.
Jacob was Blind.
So the other children found them when they came back from school. Now the picture was more easily understoodand 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.
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 inthe 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.
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, andwere bound by the best of all ties in which each needs something that the other has to give.
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 hadundergone 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 onlyoneblouse 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’sexpression. 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.
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 ofpassers-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.
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-mentionedpedestrian 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.
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 wascontinually 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.
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. Beforehe 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.
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 uponwhom 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 partyIn my vi’let velveteen:The others went last year, you know,But I hadn’t never been.I was only four; and mother saidIt was reallymuchtoo late!But now I’m five—though all a yearWas a’mendoustime to wait!I knew the Bissop very well,For didn’t I sit on his kneeWhen he came for Confummation,And stopped at our house for tea?He’s a dear old man—our Bissop—And he’ll hardly ever missStroking the hair of a little girlAnd giving her a kiss.So Ididlook forward to going,(And I whispered it all to my doll)—Though Tom said he didn’t see the goodOf 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 ’citementAll the whole way in the fly!We got there at last: there was numbersOf 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 prettyThan me; but I thought perhapsTheir turn would be over bye and byeAnd he’ld takemeup on his laps!So I went quite close, till SusieTold me I mustn’t stare—But I don’t b’lieve it mattered,Hedidn’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 thoughthe’ld pass and see me,And once he did really standQuite close to me—myBissop!—And I touched his coat with my hand.But oh! he never noticed;He didn’t seem to see:And when he was kissing anyoneThey was other children than me.I fink Imustbe ugly.It wasn’t the velveteen,’Cause when she had it on last yearSusie looked like a queen!Yes; I had some toys and a bootiful tea,And my cracker had got a ring!And IfinkI 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,Itwiedto tell her about it—But she was asleep—and Icwied.
I went to the Bissop’s partyIn my vi’let velveteen:The others went last year, you know,But I hadn’t never been.I was only four; and mother saidIt was reallymuchtoo late!But now I’m five—though all a yearWas a’mendoustime to wait!I knew the Bissop very well,For didn’t I sit on his kneeWhen he came for Confummation,And stopped at our house for tea?He’s a dear old man—our Bissop—And he’ll hardly ever missStroking the hair of a little girlAnd giving her a kiss.So Ididlook forward to going,(And I whispered it all to my doll)—Though Tom said he didn’t see the goodOf 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 ’citementAll the whole way in the fly!We got there at last: there was numbersOf 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 prettyThan me; but I thought perhapsTheir turn would be over bye and byeAnd he’ld takemeup on his laps!So I went quite close, till SusieTold me I mustn’t stare—But I don’t b’lieve it mattered,Hedidn’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 thoughthe’ld pass and see me,And once he did really standQuite close to me—myBissop!—And I touched his coat with my hand.But oh! he never noticed;He didn’t seem to see:And when he was kissing anyoneThey was other children than me.I fink Imustbe ugly.It wasn’t the velveteen,’Cause when she had it on last yearSusie looked like a queen!Yes; I had some toys and a bootiful tea,And my cracker had got a ring!And IfinkI 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,Itwiedto tell her about it—But she was asleep—and Icwied.
I went to the Bissop’s partyIn my vi’let velveteen:The others went last year, you know,But I hadn’t never been.
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 saidIt was reallymuchtoo late!But now I’m five—though all a yearWas a’mendoustime to wait!
I was only four; and mother said
It was reallymuchtoo late!
But now I’m five—though all a year
Was a’mendoustime to wait!
I knew the Bissop very well,For didn’t I sit on his kneeWhen he came for Confummation,And stopped at our house for tea?
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 missStroking the hair of a little girlAnd giving her a kiss.
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 Ididlook forward to going,(And I whispered it all to my doll)—Though Tom said he didn’t see the goodOf taking a mealy-faced Moll.
So Ididlook 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 ’citementAll the whole way in the fly!
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 numbersOf boys and girls at their teas,And oh!—in the corner—the Bissop!—With two little girls on his knees.
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 prettyThan me; but I thought perhapsTheir turn would be over bye and byeAnd he’ld takemeup on his laps!
I knew they was much more pretty
Than me; but I thought perhaps
Their turn would be over bye and bye
And he’ld takemeup on his laps!
So I went quite close, till SusieTold me I mustn’t stare—But I don’t b’lieve it mattered,Hedidn’t know I was there!
So I went quite close, till Susie
Told me I mustn’t stare—
But I don’t b’lieve it mattered,
Hedidn’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.
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 thoughthe’ld pass and see me,And once he did really standQuite close to me—myBissop!—And I touched his coat with my hand.
For I thoughthe’ld pass and see me,
And once he did really stand
Quite close to me—myBissop!—
And I touched his coat with my hand.
But oh! he never noticed;He didn’t seem to see:And when he was kissing anyoneThey was other children than me.
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 Imustbe ugly.It wasn’t the velveteen,’Cause when she had it on last yearSusie looked like a queen!
I fink Imustbe 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 IfinkI enjoyed the party’Cept p’raps for only one fing!
Yes; I had some toys and a bootiful tea,
And my cracker had got a ring!
And IfinkI 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,Itwiedto tell her about it—But she was asleep—and Icwied.
And when I got home to dolly,
And she was in bed by my side,
Itwiedto tell her about it—
But she was asleep—and Icwied.