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adult sense of humour may be lurking in wait for them； obscure。 These
children may not be shy enough to suffer any self… checking in their talk；
but they are now and then to be heard slurring a word of which they do not
feel too sure。 A little girl whose sensitiveness was barely enough to
cause her to stop to choose between two words； was wont to bring a cup of
tea to the writing… table of her mother； who had often feigned indignation
at the weakness of what her Irish maid always called 〃the infusion。〃 〃I'm
afraid it's bosh again； mother；〃 said the child； and then； in a half…whisper；
〃Is bosh right； or wash； mother？〃 She was not told； and decided for
herself； with doubts； for bosh。 The afternoon cup left the kitchen an
infusion； and reached the library 〃bosh〃 thenceforward。
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THE CHILDREN
CHILDREN IN MIDWINTER
Children are so flowerlike that it is always a little fresh surprise to see
them blooming in winter。 Their tenderness； their down； their colour； their
fulnesswhich is like that of a thick rose or of a tight grapelook out of
season。 Children in the withering wind are like the soft golden…pink
roses that fill the barrows in Oxford Street； breathing a southern calm on
the north wind。 The child has something better than warmth in the cold；
something more subtly out of place and more delicately contrary； and that
is coolness。 To be cool in the cold is the sign of a vitality quite
exquisitely alien from the common conditions of the world。 It is to have
a naturally； and not an artificially； different and separate climate。
We can all be more or less warmwith fur； with skating； with tea； with
fire； and with sleepin the winter。 But the child is fresh in the wind； and
wakes cool from his dreams； dewy when there is hoar… frost everywhere
else； he is 〃more lovely and more temperate〃 than the summer day and
than the winter day alike。 He overcomes both heat and cold by another
climate； which is the climate of life； but that victory of life is more
delicate and more surprising in the tyranny of January。 By the sight and
the touch of children； we are； as it were； indulged with something finer
than a fruit or a flower in untimely bloom。 The childish bloom is always
untimely。 The fruit and flower will be common later on； the strawberries
will be a matter of course anon； and the asparagus dull in its day。 But a
child is a perpetual primeur。
Or rather he is not in truth always untimely。 Some few days in the
year are his own seasonunnoticed days of March or April； soft； fresh and
equal； when the child sleeps and rises with the sun。 Then he looks as
though he had his brief season； and ceases for a while to seem strange。
It is no wonder that we should try to attribute the times of the year to
children； their likeness is so rife among annuals。 For man and woman we
are naturally accustomed to a longer rhythm； their metre is so obviously
their own； and of but a single stanza； without repetition； without renewel；
without refrain。 But it is by an intelligible illusion that we look for a
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THE CHILDREN
quick waxing and waning in the lives of young childrenfor a waxing that
shall come again another time； and for a waning that shall not be final；
shall not be fatal。 But every winter shows us how human they are； and
how they are little pilgrims and visitants among the things that look like
their kin。 For every winter shows them free from the east wind； more
perfectly than their elders； they enclose the climate of life。 And； moreover；
with them the climate of life is the climate of the spring of life； the climate
of a human March that is sure to make a constant progress； and of a human
April that never hesitates。 The child 〃breathes April and May〃an inner
April and his own May。
The winter child looks so much the more beautiful for the season as
his most brilliant uncles and aunts look less well。 He is tender and gay in
the east wind。 Now more than ever must the lover beware of making a
comparison between the beauty of the admired woman and the beauty of a
child。 He is indeed too wary ever to make it。 So is the poet。 As
comparisons are necessary to him； he will pay a frankly impossible
homage； and compare a woman's face to something too fine； to something
it never could emulate。 The Elizabethan lyrist is safe among lilies and
cherries； roses； pearls； and snow。 He undertakes the beautiful office of
flattery； and flatters with courage。 There is no hidden reproach in the
praise。 Pearls and snow suffer； in a sham fight； a mimic defeat that does
them no harm； and no harm comes to the lady's beauty from a competition
so impossible。 She never wore a lily or a coral in the colours of her face；
and their beauty is not hers。 But here is the secret： she is compared
with a flower because she could not endure to be compared with a child。
That would touch her too nearly。 There would be the human texture and
the life like hers； but immeasurably more lovely。 No colour； no surface； no
eyes of woman have ever been comparable with the colour； the surface；
and the eyes of childhood。 And no poet has ever run the risk of such a
defeat。 Why； it is defeat enough for a woman to have her face； however
well…favoured； close to a child's； even if there is no one by who should be
rash enough to approach them still nearer by a comparison。
This； needless to say； is true of no other kind of beauty than that
beauty of light； colour； and surface to which the Elizabethans referred； and
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THE CHILDREN
which suggested their flatteries in disfavour of the lily。 There are； indeed；
other adult beauties； but those are such as make no allusions to the garden。
What is here affirmed is that the beautiful woman who is widely and
wisely likened to the flowers； which are inaccessibly more beautiful； must
not； for her own sake； be likened to the always accessible child。