“’E’s just wonderful,” she replied; “I thought it couldn’t last at first—but it’s just the same.”
I gazed out of the window—envious, perhaps.
“What does this look on to?” I asked.
“A slaughter-house, sir.”
She said it full of cheerfulness, full of the joy of her own life. I stared and stared out of the window. A slaughter-house! A slaughter-house! and here was a little slip of a woman passing through those trembling hours before the birth of her first child!
Now that is what your realist would call a chance! He would make a fine subject out of that. He would show you the growth of that idea in the woman’s mind. He would picture her drawn to gaze out of that awesome window whenever they dragged the lowing, frightened cattle to their doom. And last of all, with wonderful photographic touches, he would describe for you the birth of a still-born child. Then with a feeling of sickness in the heart of you, you would lay down the story and exclaim, “How real!”
That is what is meant by realism to-day.
Yet somehow or other I prefer my Emily; not because the boy is called after me—but because, whatever he may be called, he is alive, he is well, and he kicks his little legs like wind-mills.