| "The children think they'll climb a tree." |
It was a very happy little Ted that trotted upstairs to the nursery with the "bootly boo boots" and the more modest little black shoes for tiny Narcissa.
"See what Ted has brought thoo," he said, kissing his baby sister with the pretty tenderness he always showed her, "and see what muzzer has gave me," he went on, turning to nurse with another parcel. In his excitement he didn't know which to unfasten first, and baby had got hold of one of the black shoes, fortunately not the blue ones, and was sucking it vigorously before Ted and nurse saw what she was doing.
"Isn't she pleased?" said Ted, delightedly. Baby must be very pleased with her new possessions, to try to eat them, he thought. And then he had time to examine and admire his own present. It was a delightful one—a book, a nice old-fashioned fat book of all the old nursery rhymes, and filled with pictures too. And Ted's pride was great when here and there he could make out a word or two. Thanks to the pictures, to his own good memory, and the patience of all the big people about him, it was not long before he could say nearly all of them. And so a new pleasure was added to these happy summer days, and to many a winter evening to come.
That night when Ted was going to bed he said his prayers as usual at his mother's knee.
"Make me a good little boy," he said, and then when he had ended he jumped up for his good-night kiss, with a beaming face.
"I sink God has made me good, muzzer?" he said.
"Do you, dear? I hope He is making you so," she answered. "But what makes you say so?"
"'Cos I feel so happy and so good," said Ted, "and thoo said I was good to-day when thoo kissed me. And oh, may I take my sprendid hymn-book to bed wif me?"
And with the ancient legends of Jack and Jill and Little Boy Blue, and Margery Daw, safely under his pillow, happy Ted fell asleep. I wonder if he dreamt of them! What a pity that so much of the pretty fancies and visions of little childhood are lost to us! What quaint pictures they would make. What a heavy burden should lie on the consciences of those who, by careless words or unconsidered tone, destroy the lovely tenderness of little children's dreams and conceits, rub off the bloom of baby poetry!