It was during this walk from St. Nicholas, in the shadow of the majestic Alps, that we came across some little children amusing themselves in what seemed, at first, a most odd and original way—­but it wasn’t; it was in simply a natural and characteristic way.  They were roped together with a string, they had mimic alpenstocks and ice-axes, and were climbing a meek and lowly manure-pile with a most blood-curdling amount of care and caution.  The “guide” at the head of the line cut imaginary steps, in a laborious and painstaking way, and not a monkey budged till the step above was vacated.  If we had waited we should have witnessed an imaginary accident, no doubt; and we should have heard the intrepid band hurrah when they made the summit and looked around upon the “magnificent view,” and seen them throw themselves down in exhausted attitudes for a rest in that commanding situation.

In Nevada I used to see the children play at silver-mining.  Of course, the great thing was an accident in a mine, and there were two “star” parts; that of the man who fell down the mimic shaft, and that of the daring hero who was lowered into the depths to bring him up.  I knew one small chap who always insisted on playing both of these parts—­and he carried his point.  He would tumble into the shaft and die, and then come to the surface and go back after his own remains.

It is the smartest boy that gets the hero part everywhere; he is head guide in Switzerland, head miner in Nevada, head bull-fighter in Spain, etc.; but I knew a preacher’s son, seven years old, who once selected a part for himself compared to which those just mentioned are tame and unimpressive.  Jimmy’s father stopped him from driving imaginary horse-cars one Sunday—­stopped him from playing captain of an imaginary steamboat next Sunday—­stopped him from leading an imaginary army to battle the following Sunday—­and so on.  Finally the little fellow said: 

“I’ve tried everything, and they won’t any of them do.  What can I play?”

“I hardly know, Jimmy; but you must play only things that are suitable to the Sabbath-day.”

Next Sunday the preacher stepped softly to a back-room door to see if the children were rightly employed.  He peeped in.  A chair occupied the middle of the room, and on the back of it hung Jimmy’s cap; one of his little sisters took the cap down, nibbled at it, then passed it to another small sister and said, “Eat of this fruit, for it is good.”  The Reverend took in the situation—­alas, they were playing the Expulsion from Eden!  Yet he found one little crumb of comfort.  He said to himself, “For once Jimmy has yielded the chief role—­I have been wronging him, I did not believe there was so much modesty in him; I should have expected him to be either Adam or Eve.”  This crumb of comfort lasted but a very little while; he glanced around and discovered Jimmy standing in an imposing attitude in a corner, with a dark and deadly frown on his face.  What that meant was very plain—­he was impersonating the deity!  Think of the guileless sublimity of that idea.