“Perhaps—perhaps we won't use it,” said Miss Jean. “Except as—as a sort of symbol,” added her sister. “We would never have dreamed of it if the children nowadays were not so different from what they used to be.”
“I guess folks been saying that quite awhile,” said the American. “Children never were like what they used to be. I reckons old Mother Nature spits on her hands and makes a fresh start with each baby, and never turns out two alike. That's why it's fun to sit and watch 'em bloom. Pretty delicate blooms, too! Don't bear much pawing; just give them a bit of shelter when the weather's cold, a prop to lean against if they're leggy and the wind's high, and see that the fertilizer is the proper brand. Whether they're going to turn out like the picture on the packet or just only weeds depends on the seedsman.”
“Oh, you don't understand how rebellious they can be!” cried Miss Amelia, with feeling. “And they haven't the old deference to their elders that they used to have; they're growing bold and independent.”
“Depends on the elders, I suppose. Over here I think you folks think children come into the world just to please grown-ups, and do what they're told without any thinking. In America it's looked at the other way about: the children are considerably more important than their elders, and the notion don't do any harm to either, far as I can see. As for your rebels, ma'am, I'd cherish 'em; rebellion's like a rash, it's better out than in.”
Ta-ran-ta-ra! The bugle broke upon their conversation; the coach emerged from the wood and dashed downhill, and, wheeling through the arches, drew up at the inn.
The American helped the ladies to alight, took off his hat, bade them good-day, and turned to speak to his friend the driver, when a hand was placed on his sleeve and a child with a dog at her feet looked up in his face.
“Jim! Why, Jim Molyneux!” cried Bud.