"Well—in a way," she replied, dubiously. "It gives me the morning free; but—"
"Doesn't the boy bring home any 'occupations'?" I interposed.
My friend laughed. "Yes," she said; "he certainly does! But he doesn't want to 'occupy' himself alone with them; he wants all of us to do it with him! We have become quite expert at 'weaving,' and 'folding,' and 'sewing'! But, on the other hand," she went on, "he isn't so much trouble as he was. He wants us to play with him more, but he plays more intelligently. We take real pleasure in joining in his games, and— actually—in letting him share ours."
This little boy, now five years old, came to see me the other day.
"What would you like to do?" I asked, when we had partaken of tea. "Shall we put the jig-saw puzzle together; or should you prefer to have me tell you a story?"
"Tell me a story," he said at once; "and then I'll tell you one. And then you tell another—and then I'll tell another—" He broke off, to draw a long breath. "It's a game," he continued, after a moment. "We play it in kindergarten."
"Do you enjoy telling stories more than hearing them told?" I inquired, when we had played this game to the extent of three stories on either side.
"No," my little boy friend replied. "I like hearing stories told more than anything. But that isn't a game; that's just being-told-stories. The game is taking-turns-telling-stories." He enunciated each phrase as though it were a single word.
His mother had spoken truly when she said that her little boy had learned to play intelligently. He had learned, also, to include his elders in his games on equal terms. Small wonder that they took real pleasure in playing with him.
The children cordially welcome us to their games. They ask us to be children with them. As heartily, they would have us bespeak their company in our games; they are willing to try to be grown-up with us.