2S6 MORE POT-POURRI 



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 enjoyed the little breath of home my last book 

 brought them. They may not have seen or heard what 

 I have, and even here in Surrey I find that often the 

 thing that 'everyone knows' does not even reach the next 

 parish. 



March 3rd. — This is the first year I have forced 

 SpircBu confusa, and it makes a lovely pot-plan^. We 

 left it out in the cold till the middle of January. In 



