“I know you do,” said Miss Ross, and her face was lovely when she smiled. “I know exactly what you feel like. When you get up in the morning you feel the whole day is not long enough for all you mean to do in it, the whole world is your playground. And when you glow after the cold bath there is nothing you don’t feel ready for, from wittling a stick, to building an empire. And you’re downstairs and out early, and ‘away to the meadows, the meadows again,’ with your rod and your line, and your bait at your belt, and your family see no more of you till dinner-time.”
The children gave a deep breath, for this made them think of water-meadows and minnow-fishing, marsh-marigolds in golden clumps, and deep, clear runlets.
“This is the fun of being young,” said Miss Ross, “prize it.”
“And what is the fun of being old?” asked Bimbo.
“Many people have asked that before you, but all those who see the right aspects of youth may be trusted, I think, to grow old properly. Good taste is the highest degree of sensibility. And nowhere so clearly as in growing old, is good taste more subtly evidenced.
“The great thing is to feel. Let every bit of you be alive, even though you may suffer. The only sin is indifference.”
“Is it people’s fault when they are indifferent, or can’t they help it?” asked Clare.
“Oh, there are folk who will close their eyes and sit in the very market-place of the universe, with their fingers in their ears.”
“Then a bullock runs into them, I suppose,” said Bim; “and they pick themselves up from the dust, saying, ‘What have I done to deserve it?’”
“Yes,” added Clare, “or they will say, ‘See, we were promised music to dance to, and where are the sweet strains?’”