MARCH 251 



ever to have listened at the nursery door, or to have looked 

 through the eyes of childhood into the make-believe world 

 it inhabits.' 



I knew a little boy once who used to go out into 

 Hyde Park when the soldiers were exercising, and on 

 his return give long and detailed accounts of the real 

 battles he had seen. His elder and less imaginative 

 brother would stand by in silent amazement at what 

 seemed to him absolute untruths. The child in a way 

 knew he had not seen what he described, and yet, as he 

 had seen with the eye of imagination, it was real and true 

 to him. 



Here is a little child's song, the words by E. Nesbit, 

 set to music by Liza Lehmann. I think it charming, and 

 so illustrative of the kind of imagination children have, 

 knowing quite well that what they think is not the actual 

 fact, though true to them : 



When my good-nights and pray'rs are said 

 And I am safe tucked up in bed, 

 I know my Guardian Angel stands 

 And holds my soul between his hands. 

 I cannot see his wings of light 

 Because I keep my eyes shut tight, 

 For if I open them I know 

 My pretty Angel has to go. 

 But through the darkness I can hear 

 His white wings rustling very near. 

 I know it is his darling wings, 

 Not mother folding up my things. 



I never refuse to name anything I like when I am 

 told ' Everyone knows that,' for ' everyone ' is a very 

 limited London circle, where bright, pretty things come 

 like beautiful bubbles, are seen by what is called ' every- 

 body,' and are gone in a moment. I think of my kind 

 unknown friends who are far away bearing the white 

 woman's burden, and who have written to me saying they 



