Inquisitive Jack and his Aunt Piper.
There was once a little boy who had neither father nor mother, but he had an excellent aunt, and she supplied the place of parents. Her name was Piper, and a very good woman she was. The boy’s name was John; but, as he was always asking questions, he at length got the name of Inquisitive Jack.
He was perpetually teasing his aunt to tell him about the sun, or the moon,—to explain to him why the fire burned, or where the rain came from, or something else of the kind. His aunt, being unmarried, and having little else to do, used to sit down for hours together, and answer little Jack’s inquiries.
One winter’s day, they were sitting by a pleasant fire, and Jack had been reading in a book of poetry. After a while, he laid down the book, and asked his aunt why some things were told in poetry and some in prose. To this the good lady replied as follows.
“I must tell you, in the first place, my boy, that prose is the language of common speech, such as I am now talking to you. But there are certain thoughts and feelings that are too fine and beautiful for prose. If these were expressed in a common way, their beauty would be lost. I will try to make you understand this by a story.
“There were once some flowers growing in a garden, but they were mixed with other plants, such as peas, beans, potatoes, beets, and other things. These had, therefore, a common appearance, and no one noticed their beauty.
“At length, the gardener took up these flowers, and set them out in a nice bed of earth, which he had prepared for them. This situation permitted their bright colors and fair forms to be seen, and they therefore attracted the attention of every person who passed by.
“Everybody admired them; and those who overlooked them as common things when planted in a kitchen garden, were ready to acknowledge their beauty, and praise their fragrance, when they were flourishing in a flower-garden.
“Thus you perceive that I compare fine thoughts to flowers; however beautiful they may be, they would strike us less, and please us less, if they were presented in a common way. They want a situation appropriate to them, and then we shall perceive and feel their full beauty.
“Poetry, then, consists of beautiful thoughts in beautiful language, and may be compared to a bed of flowers, with graceful forms, bright colors, and sweet fragrance. Prose consists of common thoughts, expressed in common language, and may be compared to a garden filled with things that are useful rather than beautiful, such as beets, potatoes, and cabbages.”—Second Reader.