Our Children: Scenes from the Country and the Town

The women made purchases of guimpes and lace by the yard, and the peddler rolled the black oilcloth back again over the riches in his wagon, and putting himself in the traces once more started on his further way; and now the wagon and the waggoner have disappeared below the horizon.

ROGER’S STABLE

It’s a great care to keep up a stable. The horse is a delicate animal and requires a thousand attentions. If you don’t believe me ask Roger.

Just now he is grooming his beautiful chestnut, who would be the pearl of wooden horses, the flower of the Black Forest steeds, if he had not lost half his tail in battle. It’s a matter of some moment with Roger to know if wooden horses’ tails grow in again.

Again having made believe groom his horses, Roger gives them some imaginary oats, for it is an understood thing that the little wooden animals on which small boys ride through the land of dreams are always fed in this way.

Behold Roger starting out for his ride. He has mounted his horse. Even though the poor beast has no more ears, and all his mane looks like an old broken comb, Roger loves him. Why?

JUST NOW HE IS GROOMING HIS BEAUTIFUL CHESTNUT, WHO WOULD BE THE PEARL OF WOODEN HORSES, THE FLOWER OF THE BLACK FOREST STUD, IF HE HAD NOT LOST HALF HIS TAIL IN BATTLE.

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It would be hard to say. This red horse was a present from a poor man, and maybe there is some secret grace in the gifts of the poor. Remember our Lord who blessed the widow’s mite.

Roger is gone. He is quite far away. The flowers on the carpet already seem to him like flowers in tropical, distant countries. A pleasant journey, little Roger! May your hobby horse conduct you safely through the world. May you never have a hobby more dangerous. Little or great we all ride. Who has not his hobby?

Men’s hobbies ride like mad through all the ways of life; one makes a bid for glory, another for pleasure; many of them jump from high places and break their rider’s necks. I hope when you are grown up, little Roger, you will bestride two hobby horses that will keep you always in the right path: one lively, the other quiet; both beautiful – courage and kindness.

COURAGE

Louisa and Frederick have gone to school along the village street. The sun is shining and the two children sing. They sing like the nightingale because their hearts are gay. They sing an old song that their grandmothers sang when they were little girls and which one day their children’s children will sing, for songs are frail immortals which fly from lip to lip throughout the ages. The lips that sing them lose their color and are silent one after the other, but the songs are always on the wing. There are songs that come down to us from a time when all the men were shepherds and all the women shepherdesses – which tell us of nothing but sheep and wolves.

Louisa and Frederick sing, their mouths round as flowers, and their song rises shrill and clear on the morning air. But suddenly the sound catches in Frederick’s wind pipe.

What power invisible has strangled the song in this schoolboy throat? It is fear. Each day inevitably, at the end of the village street, he meets the dog that belongs to the big butcher, and each day his heart shrivels and his legs grow weak at the sight. It is not the pig man’s dog ever attacks or menaces him. He just sits peaceably on the threshold of his master’s shop. But he is black, and his eyes are fixed and bloodshot, and sharp, white teeth show beneath his baboon jaws. He is terrifying. And then he sits there in the midst of all sorts of meat cut up for pies and hashes, and seems the more terrible on that account. Of course no one supposes he has been the cause of all this carnage, but he presides over it. He’s a fierce dog, the pig man’s. And so, as far away as Frederick can see him in the doorway, he picks up a big stone, following the example of men he has seen arm themselves in this way against surly dogs, and goes hugging the wall of the house across the street from the pig butcher’s closely.

THEY SING LIKE THE NIGHTINGALE BECAUSE THEIR HEARTS ARE GAY. THEY SING AN OLD SONG THAT THEIR GRANDMOTHERS SANG WHEN THEY WERE LITTLE GIRLS AND WHICH ONE DAY THEIR CHILDREN’S CHILDREN WILL SING, FOR SONGS ARE FRAIL IMMORTALS WHICH FLY FROM LIP TO LIP THROUGHOUT THE AGES.

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This time he has followed this practice, but Louisa mocks at him.

She has taken none of these violent precautions, against which people always arm themselves more violently still. No, she doesn’t even speak to him, but keeps on singing, only changing her tone in such a mocking way that Frederick grows red to his ears. Then there is great travail in his little head. He understands that he must fear fear as much as danger. And he is afraid to be afraid.

And so, when school is out, and he sees the pig man’s dog again, he stalks by that astonished animal proudly.

History adds that he looked at Louisa out of the corner of his eye to see if she were looking. It must be admitted that with no ladies or young maidens in the world men might be less brave.

CATHERINE’S DAY

Five o’clock, and Miss Catherine is receiving her dolls. It is her day at home. The dolls don’t talk: the little genius that gave them smiles refused them speech. It must have been done for the good of the world, for if dolls could talk people would listen to no one else. However, the circle to-day is very animated. Miss Catherine talks for her visitors as well as for herself. She makes the questions and gives the answers.

“How are you, madame? – Very well, madame. I broke my arm yesterday morning going to buy some gloves, but it’s cured now. – Oh, that’s good. And how is your little girl? – She has the whooping cough. – Oh, what a pity! Does she cough much? – No, it’s a whooping cough that has no cough. You know, madame, I had two children last week? – Really? That makes four. – Four or five, I don’t know which. When you have so many you get confused. – You have a very pretty dress on. – Oh, I have still nicer ones at home – Do you go to the theatre? – Every evening. – I went yesterday to the opera, but Punch did not act, because a wolf ate him up. – I, my dear, go to a dance every day. – That’s very amusing. – Yes, I wear a blue dress and I dance with all the young people, the very nicest, generals, princes, confectioners. – You are as pretty as heart could wish to-day, little one. – It’s the springtime. – Yes, but too bad it snows. – I like the snow, because it’s so white. – Oh, but this is black snow. – Yes, isn’t it a horrid kind?”

THE LITTLE GENIUS THAT GAVE THEM SMILES REFUSED THEM SPEECH. IT MUST HAVE BEEN DONE FOR THE GOOD OF THE WORLD. FOR IF DOLLS COULD TALK PEOPLE WOULD LISTEN TO NO ONE ELSE. HOWEVER, THE CIRCLE TO-DAY IS VERY ANIMATED. MISS CATHERINE TALKS FOR HER VISITORS AS WELL AS FOR HER SELF.

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This fine conversation Miss Catherine maintains with much skill. I have only one fault to find with it: she talks always to the same caller, who is pretty and has a pretty dress. That is wrong. A good hostess is equally polite to all her guests. She treats them all with consideration, and if she shows any preference it is for those who are most modest and least fortunate. One must flatter the unfortunate: it is the only flattery that is permissible. But Catherine has found this out herself. She has found the true politeness – which comes from the heart. She serves tea to her guests, and remembers every one. Indeed, she insists especially with those dollies that are poor or unhappy or shy that they take some invisible cakes or sandwiches made of dominos.

Catherine will one day be a hostess in whose drawing room no doubt politeness of the real old-fashioned kind will flourish.

THE LITTLE SEA DOGS

They are little sailors, real little sea dogs, every one. Look how they pull their caps down low on their necks so that the sea wind, misty and whistling, shall not split their ears with its terrible groanings. They wear suits of heavy wool, for protection against the cold and damp. Their made-over pea jackets and breeches were their elder brothers’ before them. Their garments in turn were made out of their fathers’ old suits. Their hearts too are of the same stuff as their father’s – simple, patient and full of courage. Since they came into the world they have been simple and big of heart. Who has made them so? After God and their fathers and mothers it is the ocean. The ocean teaches sailors courage through danger – a rude benefactor.

THEY LOOK FOR THE BOATS THAT SAILED FOR THE FISHING GROUNDS, AND THAT MUST NOW SOON APPEAR ON THE HORIZON LOADED TO THE GUNWALES, AND BRINGING BACK UNCLES AND OLDER BROTHERS AND FATHERS.

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That is why the little sailors, in their childish hearts, bear such brave thoughts. Stooping over the parapet of the stockade they look off over the sea. They see more than the thin blue line of boundary between the sky and sea. The ocean does not interest them for its fine changing colors, nor the sky for the huge grotesque shapes of its clouds. What they see off there in space is something more real to them than the tint of waters and the face of the clouds: something that they love. They look for the boats that sailed for the fishing grounds, and that must now soon appear on the horizon bringing back besides their full cargoes of shrimps, uncles and older brothers and fathers. The little fleet will soon show its white or weather-stained sails down there, between the ocean and God’s good sky. To-day the sky is clear, the ocean still: the tide brings the fishers gently to the shore. But the ocean is a changeable old veteran, who takes many forms and sings in many tones. To-day he smiles: to-morrow he will scold beneath his foamy beard. He will capsize the ablest ships, ships that have been blest by the priest with songs and Te Deums: he will drown his sturdiest patrons. It is his fault that one sees, outside the doors where the chaluts dry in the baskets, so many women wearing the black caps of widows.