“I need hardly say that the toy booth in a village fair tries me very hard.  It tried me in childhood, when I was often short of pence, and when ‘the Feast’ came once a year.  It never tried me more than on one occasion, lately, when I was re-visiting my old home.

“It was deep Midsummer, and the Feast.  I had children with me of course (I find children, somehow, wherever I go), and when we got into the fair, there were children of people whom I had known as children, with just the same love for a monkey going up one side of a yellow stick and coming down the other, and just as strong heads for a giddy-go-round on a hot day and a diet of peppermint lozenges, as their fathers and mothers before them.  There were the very same names—­and here and there it seemed the very same faces—­I knew so long ago.  A few shillings were indeed well expended in brightening those familiar eyes:  and then there were the children with me....  Besides, there really did seem to be an unusually nice assortment of things, and the man was very intelligent (in reference to his wares):....  Well, well!  It was two o’clock P.M. when we went in at one end of that glittering avenue of drums, dolls, trumpets, accordions, workboxes, and what not; but what o’clock it was when I came out at the other end, with a shilling and some coppers in my pocket, and was cheered, I can’t say, though I should like to have been able to be accurate about the time, because of what followed.

“I thought the best thing I could do was to get out of the fair at once, so I went up the village and struck off across some fields into a little wood that lay near. (A favourite walk in old times.) As I turned out of the booth, my foot struck against one of the yellow sticks of the climbing monkeys.  The monkey was gone, and the stick broken.  It set me thinking as I walked along.

“What an untold number of pretty and ingenious things one does (not wear out in honourable wear and tear, but) utterly lose, and wilfully destroy, in one’s young days—­things that would have given pleasure to so many more young eyes, if they had been kept a little longer—­things that one would so value in later years, if some of them had survived the dissipating and destructive days of Nurserydom.  I recalled a young lady I knew, whose room was adorned with knick-knacks of a kind I had often envied.  They were not plaster figures, old china, wax-work flowers under glass, or ordinary ornaments of any kind.  They were her old toys.  Perhaps she had not had many of them, and had been the more careful of those she had.  She had certainly been very fond of them, and had kept more of them than any one I ever knew.  A faded doll slept in its cradle at the foot of her bed.  A wooden elephant stood on the dressing-table, and a poodle that had lost his bark put out a red-flannel tongue with quixotic violence at a windmill on the opposite corner of the mantelpiece.  Everything had a story of its own.  Indeed the whole room must have been redolent with the sweet story of childhood, of which the toys were the illustrations, or like a poem of which the toys were the verses.  She used to have children to play with them sometimes, and this was a high honour.  She is married now, and has children of her own, who on birthdays and holidays will forsake the newest of their own possessions to play with ‘mamma’s toys.’