the importance of habit.  Any means, then, that can succeed in separating a little child from the habit of anger does fruitful work for him in the helpless time of his childhood.  The work is not easy, but a little thought should make it easy for the elders to avoid the provocation which they—­who should ward off provocations—­are apt to bring about by sheer carelessness.  It is only in childhood that our race knows such physical abandonment to sorrow and tears, as a child’s despair; and the theatre with us must needs copy childhood if it would catch the note and action of a creature without hope.

THE CHILD OF SUBSIDING TUMULT

There is a certain year that is winged, as it were, against the flight of time; it does so move, and yet withstands time’s movement.  It is full of pauses that are due to the energy of change, has bounds and rebounds, and when it is most active then it is longest.  It is not long with languor.  It has room for remoteness, and leisure for oblivion.  It takes great excursions against time, and travels so as to enlarge its hours.  This certain year is any one of the early years of fully conscious life, and therefore it is of all the dates.  The child of Tumult has been living amply and changefully through such a year—­his eighth.  It is difficult to believe that his is a year of the self-same date as that of the adult, the men who do not breast their days.

For them is the inelastic, or but slightly elastic, movement of things.  Month matched with month shows a fairly equal length.  Men and women never travel far from yesterday; nor is their morrow in a distant light.  There is recognition and familiarity between their seasons.  But the Child of Tumult has infinite prospects in his year.  Forgetfulness and surprise set his east and his west at immeasurable distance.  His Lethe runs in the cheerful sun.  You look on your own little adult year, and in imagination enlarge it, because you know it to be the contemporary of his.  Even she who is quite old, if she have a vital fancy, may face a strange and great extent of a few years of her life still to come—­his years, the years she is to live at his side.

Reason seems to be making good her rule in this little boy’s life, not so much by slow degrees as by sudden and fitful accessions.  His speech is yet so childish that he chooses, for a toy, with blushes of pleasure, “a little duck what can walk”; but with a beautifully clear accent he greets his mother with the colloquial question, “Well, darling, do you know the latest?” “The what?” “The latest:  do you know the latest?” And then he tells his news, generally, it must be owned, with some reference to his own wrongs.  On another occasion the unexpected little phrase was varied; the news of the war then raging distressed him; a thousand of the side he favoured had fallen.  The child then came to his mother’s room with