956 
 MS75 
 
 UC-NRLF 
 
 B 3 331 THT 
 
sj9jnpD/nuDy\i 
 
 •DNi 'soaa 
 
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Cbc Chad's ed«n 
 
 By E. U M, 
 
 ^ « « 
 
 NEW HAVEN 
 
 1901 
 

 THIS SKETCH IS REPUBLISHED THROUGH THE 
 COURTESY OE THE NEW YORK EVENING POST, IN 
 WHOSE COLUMNS IT FIRST APPEARED UNDER THE 
 TITLE, A CHILD'S WORLD. 
 
Co 
 
 m. p. 
 
 M2G45il 
 
THE CHILD'S EDEN. 
 
 The Child was in its seventh year, and the 
 Garden, twelve times as old, was on the island. 
 The House also was on the same island, and 
 was the place where the Child ate and slept and 
 obeyed. But its life was in the Garden. 
 
 The House faced a pond, and two bridges 
 bound it and the Garden to the World. By 
 the lower bridge stood the old mill ; and when 
 its gate was raised a flood of water boiled and 
 twisted down to a smooth gravel bed below, and 
 then floated quietly to the Garden's foot. Over 
 against the upper bridge, a mighty dam held the 
 island from destruction. When the pond back 
 of it was full, the water poured in a smooth, 
 green stream over it, and was dashed into spray 
 and foam and torn to shreds on the jagged rocks 
 below. 
 
 In summer-time when there had been but little 
 
6 THK CHIIvD'S KDKN. 
 
 rain-fall the great timber of the dam was bare, 
 and the Child, when no one was looking, could 
 walk fearfully across, between the line of water 
 shelving to the right and the black mass of sheer 
 rock at the left. Then it was that the Child 
 could climb over the low stone wall that kept 
 the Garden in, and go down among the jewel- 
 weed and stramonium, and clawing blackberry 
 vines that took toll of gown and apron, and 
 explore the pools and bottomless pits in the 
 river-bed. The water always stood in these, 
 dark and still, however severe the drought ; and 
 no stick ever sounded the depth of the largest 
 of them. 
 
 So it must have been bottomless, like some of 
 the fearful things one heard read on Sundays in 
 Scripture. And though the Child, with the 
 hair of its flesh standing up, dropped in stones, 
 and even reached down an arm's length, and 
 brought longer sticks, and tried them again and 
 again, the deep pool was a kind of sacred mystery 
 for ever. If the Child had not been alone, if it 
 had had a brother, one fascination of its seventh 
 year must have been lost. 
 
THE CHIIvD'S kden. 7 
 
 There were holes without number in the bed 
 of this stream, and sharp-pointed rocks ; so that 
 when the pond above was full it was a grand 
 torrent that foamed roaring to the harbor, where 
 it found the quiet mill-stream curling round the 
 Garden's foot. A steep bank at the right shut 
 the river from the world, and so made it the 
 Child's own for ever. 
 
 On the pond, made classic as Windermere by 
 song, geese floated double in the long summer 
 days, and lent enchantment, and birds nested in 
 the elms that dipped their branches in the water, 
 and bees hummed in the clover. Then the 
 expanse narrowed, and a simple river met it, 
 creeping along by the highway, floating between 
 two guardian churches with tall steeples, under 
 a long bridge, and so through the town to the 
 mill and dam. 
 
 The Child's thought went backward with it, 
 always starting at the foot of the Garden. The 
 stream bore an Indian name, and might have 
 had its source in the midst of campfires and wig- 
 wams, and birch-bark canoes, and frightful war- 
 whoops and tomahawks, perhaps a mile, possibly 
 
8 THK CHII^D'S EDEN. 
 
 two miles away. Miles were vague measures, 
 like time. 
 
 There were two lesser things in the Child's 
 life : the Mill and the Dame School. The first 
 belonged to an old, old man, like those persons 
 who lived before the flood ; whose hat and hair 
 and coat and eyebrows were always white, yes, 
 and his boots, and whatever else he wore. 
 There was a soft, rumbling kind of silence 
 always within the mill, where the hoppers made 
 little whirlpools of dusty grain, going down and 
 down and down ; and the Child leaned over with 
 a thrill tingling its whole body, and knew that 
 itself could be drawn down and down and down 
 into the wide, floury bags below, choked and 
 lost for ever. The soft dust filled the air and 
 softened the sunlight and whitened the cobwebs 
 among the rafters, and it was all something 
 apart from the World and the Garden. 
 
 The second thing was the Dame School, where 
 a very old lady, years older than the miller, 
 kept ten prisoners on an upper floor of her own 
 house, from*nine till twelve, and from one till 
 four, every day but Saturday. The Child did 
 
THK chii^d's kdkn. 9 
 
 not then know that liberty was only sweet when 
 bought with a great price. 
 
 Every morning as the clock paused on the 
 stroke of nine, the Dame folded her hands and 
 prayed, sitting upright like Buddha, while her 
 Captives knelt, each in its place. At the right 
 hand of the Image stood the best girl of the 
 school, nine years old, perfect in word and deed 
 and called Monitor, who walked around on tip- 
 toe and rapped on the head with the ferrule any 
 culprit who peeped out. It was a diabolic plot, 
 not fully appreciated at the time by the prisoners; 
 for who could hear the stealthy approach of 
 Calamity and blindly wait, not knowing which 
 way to dodge ? So heaven alone had the benefit 
 of the morning prayer. 
 
 All day long, winter and summer, summer and 
 winter, like Eternity, the Child thought, little 
 hands knitted and sewed, with book always in 
 lap. The daily "stent" was marked by the 
 Fate in cap and spectacles, sitting in a high 
 arm-chair, and no child left the room till its task 
 was perfectly finished. 
 
 The spelling-class of six stood with toes on a 
 
lO THE CHII.DS KDKN. 
 
 crack of the wide floor-board nearest the teacher, 
 where her long arm, like Justice's, could reach 
 any offender, and where nothing could be hidden 
 from her all-seeing eye. The first child in the 
 row named "Baker " and spelled it ; the second 
 named "Shady" and spelled it; the third 
 named " I^ady " and spelled it; the fourth 
 named " Tidy " and spelled it. But if Number 
 Two, twisting nervous fingers in her apron, 
 named "Lady" instead of "Shady," her fin- 
 gers were rapped for moving, and she was dis- 
 graced and sent to the foot. For order stood on 
 a level with accuracy at this tribunal. There 
 was no Figure Five on a half-inch square of 
 paper for Number Two that day to hoard in her 
 pasteboard match-box ; no drink from the tin 
 dipper, however parched the little lips might be. 
 For these precious Figure Fives had to be parted 
 with, one for every drink of brackish water that 
 stood in a wooden pail in the entry. Five Fives 
 were exchangeable at long periods for one Ten ; 
 ten Tens for a two-inch Reward of Merit. The 
 Child alone was not dazzled at sight of even the 
 final Reward gained 'at such loss and pain, but 
 
the: chii^d s kdkn. II 
 
 drank its fill daily and wondered at tlie others. 
 Sometimes it wondered also if the warm, tinny 
 taste of the water drawn from a well too near 
 the sea had any connection with the Reward. 
 
 The miller's daughter, Abigail, a thin, lint- 
 haired child, with pale blue eyes, knitted long 
 stockings for her tall brother, who was a man. 
 The Child thought of him as Saul, he stood so 
 much higher than his brethren. One day when 
 the long stocking had grown by painful half 
 inches nearly to the toe, the sharp eyes of Dame 
 Fate discovered a dropped stitch in the begin- 
 ning of the leg, and ravelled it all out from 
 bottom to top. Tears for little Abigail, and no 
 Figure Five ! 
 
 The heart of the Child was hot within its 
 bosom as it saw fall one after one the pink and 
 blue and yellow and red yarn-marks like mile- 
 stones all along the way — marks knitted in by 
 the teacher's bony fingers and tied in hard knots 
 on the wrong side ; marks never to be removed 
 save by the mistress-hand when the task was 
 done. It seemed like a waste of life. But 
 Abigail took up her weary * * bouts ' ' again, with 
 the patience of despair. 
 
12 THK CHII,d'S KDKN. 
 
 Every other Saturday morning school kept, 
 that Satan might not have too much verge and 
 opportunity, and the Catechism was ground into 
 the tough fibre of memory in place of other tasks. 
 But the sewing and knitting kept on. At one 
 of these every-others, the Child looked out be- 
 tween the two lengths of window-curtain, and 
 saw a shaggy dog bounding in and out of the 
 water, and laughed softly to itself. But Dame 
 Fate, whose eyes were everywhere beholding 
 the evil, spied the crime, pinned the curtains 
 closer together, set two sharp thumbs in the 
 hollows of the small shoulders, shook the Child 
 dizzy, and turned its back to the school, where 
 it learned, as an extra task, ' ' The I.ord is my 
 shepherd," etc. It was the old-fashioned way 
 of teaching children to love the Bible. 
 
 The Catechism question for the day was, 
 ' ' Wherein consists the sinfulness of that estate 
 whereinto man fell?" And the answer, " The- 
 sinfulness-of-that-estate- wherei nto-man-fell - con- 
 sists-in-the-guilt-of-Adam's-fi rst-sin-the-want-of- 
 original-righteousness-and-the-corruption-of-his- 
 whole-nature- which -is-commonly-called-original- 
 
THK child's KDKN. 13 
 
 sin - together - with - all - actual - transgressions- 
 which-proceed-from-it. ' ' 
 
 But the Child was far away. Even the whim- 
 pering of the A B C babes under the ferrule for 
 rustling about did not bring tears as usual, for 
 its eyes were set on green pastures where little 
 white lambs kicked up their free heels, and 
 mother-sheep took no notice, but nibbled and 
 ba-a-d all day long, as if there were no harm in 
 it. The leading-beside-still-waters made quite 
 another picture, but might it not be done by 
 some older, wiser playmate with a string, to 
 keep the Child safely on shore between river and 
 meeting mill-stream, where chip-vessels would 
 float and dip and veer distractedly, go under, 
 and rise again? The paths of righteousness 
 took thought, but might they not be those that 
 led from porch to garden-gate, where one never 
 disobeyed, or ran outside of bounds — never but 
 once? 
 
 That was last year, when November winds 
 were bleak, and the Child, at Abigail's beckon- 
 ing, across the mill-stream, strayed out and to 
 the lower bridge in a vagrant way, looking for 
 
14 'The: CHiiyD s Kdkn. 
 
 Something, neither child knew what. So they 
 stopped at the Gentle Lady's door and asked to 
 see the squirrels in the whirling cage that smelt 
 warm and foreigny, and fed them with hickory 
 nuts ; and Time went on. Then they took hold 
 of hands, and ran and ran and ran, swinging 
 down the hill, and the Child fell in the sand at 
 the bottom and knew it would never breathe 
 again. 
 
 Then they strolled across the way to the 
 Queer House with sanded floor, where the Child 
 slipped and fell, and the miller's daughter, who 
 had been there before, snatched up the unusual 
 guest, shook off the sand, and went on to the 
 dark, low room where the Queer Lady, like her 
 of Shallot, weaved all day long and cared for 
 nothing else. She wore a strange woollen gown, 
 coarse of texture — for the Child took a pinch of 
 a stray fold that left bare a bony neck except 
 for a snuffy kerchief twisted about it. The 
 Child saw a blue-check apron, too, and great 
 felt slippers on the treadle, and a few gray hairs ^ 
 screwed into a tight little knot, small as a filbert, 
 beneath a black cap. 
 
THK CHIIvD'S KDKN. 15 
 
 The two watched the shuttle and the web and 
 heard the clang of the loom as long as it was 
 new ; and when' they moved to go the weaver 
 opened her thin lips for the first time and said 
 they might pick up quinces in her garden, for 
 there was going to be a frost by night. So the 
 two Simple Ones picked up cold quinces till the 
 daylight was gone ; and there was no more Time 
 for them than if they had been Angels in the 
 Sun. But that night when the wind shrieked 
 and the Child lay with a swollen, throbbing 
 throat, never knowing before what Night was 
 like, all the sorrows of the transgressor piled 
 their weight on its hot head, and it cried out in 
 awe of the Unknown, like a certain pious little 
 Queen-to-be, " I will be good." 
 
 For had not the mother searched every nook 
 and corner in House and Garden, and sent the 
 miller's son to drag the pond, just as a shivering 
 little figure in blue gingham came loitering in 
 sight, with a burnt ginger-cookie in the purple 
 fist that did not grasp the sunbonnet, and tight 
 little heart-strings that conscience was tugging 
 at ? But these last did not show. 
 
i6 run chiIvD's kden. 
 
 The Dame School in summer time held one 
 only joy. It was the thought of hot July and 
 August days, when the clouds piled up like 
 woolly mountains, and lightnings streaked the 
 sky. Then the Fate of the arm-chair, impelled 
 by something mysterious and invisible, stopped 
 work, stepped down, and gently shepherded her 
 willing flock to a room across the hallway with 
 one green-paper-darkened window and a high 
 feather bed. 
 
 Any child was allowed to share the Bed of 
 Safety with the Dame, whose dignity gave way 
 before the God of Thunder, but there was not 
 even a tradition that in the dark past ages any 
 child had so demeaned itself as to accept the 
 privilege. 
 
 The least ones played softly behind the one 
 high-backed chair, while the elders crawled 
 under the bed and whispered made-up stories, 
 and came out linty and feathery when the storm 
 was over, without a touch of the ferrule even 
 from the Dame, who sat cowed in the middle of 
 the bed, a deposed and sceptreless queen. 
 
 And so all her small flock revelled in storm 
 
THE CHIIvD'S KDKN. 17 
 
 and thunder, and never knew what fear was, 
 except to despise its image when they saw it. 
 
 The days went on and on, but the foolishness 
 called school could not last for ever, and the 
 Garden, like a reliable friend, was always wait- 
 ing. It was the most wonderful Garden ! When 
 Scripture was read in the house on still Sabbath 
 mornings, it stood for that First Garden— then 
 and always afterwards, for fifty years and more. 
 
 The high wall to the right, across the river, 
 covered with tall grass and hardy shrubs and a 
 tree or two, was the place where the Almighty 
 stood and called to disobedient Adam. And the 
 Angel with the Flaming Sword had his own 
 place behind the greening apple tree that was 
 proxy to the Fall and that shaded the chicken- 
 yard. 
 
 And when the Immortal Two went hand in 
 hand barefooted out of Eden, they paced slowly 
 past the rows of corn and potatoes and poles of 
 beans, to the stone wall. There fancy left them 
 to fade into thin air. The Beyond was hidden, 
 even to the Child. 
 
 Not that the Child observed the practical Gar- 
 
l8 THE) CHIIvD'S KDKN. 
 
 den much, only that Adam and Eve must pass 
 in the direction of the Voice, and facts were 
 stubborn but possible things. This portion of 
 the Garden had no interest for the Child, who 
 simply knew that a man came at times, and dug 
 and planted and hoed when his presence was an 
 intrusion. 
 
 It saw, dimly, green things sprouting, grow- 
 ing tall, climbing, blossoming, fading. Flowers, 
 too, had their place : great clumps of peonies, 
 hollyhocks loved of bumblebees, tall lilacs with 
 sweet clusters of purple and white, and grape- 
 vines with blossoms infinitely sweeter that could 
 not be picked — though they seemed to bear no 
 natural relation to the purple fruit that came in 
 the autumn. But law was law. 
 
 And there were beds of sweet alyssum and 
 mignonette and masses of pinks that burst their 
 bonds and fell over the border, a rain of sweet- 
 ness ; just old-fashioned pink pinks. 
 
 From the house-porch with two windows and 
 a wide hall-door looking out under heavy eye- 
 brows — two eyes and a long nose, the Child 
 thought — ran a little crooked path to the Gar- 
 
THK CHII^D'S EDKN. 19 
 
 den. It stopped at the well, then bent around 
 over a great flat rock, up and up, then down 
 again, wavering through rough places, but 
 always keeping its end in view, the Garden 
 gate. 
 
 One long summer's day, a Saturday when 
 school did not keep, the Child, who was heartily 
 tired of shoes and stockings, begged to go bare- 
 footed to the Garden, and stoutly waived all 
 elderly objections. So a tardy consent was 
 gained, and the pink-and-white feet started 
 bravely from the shelter of the porch, hesitated 
 a fraction of a second by the well, and went 
 slowly on. Some one who always knew best 
 said the stones would hurt. They didn't — 
 much. That they would cut ; perhaps make 
 the blood come. The Child screwed up its 
 mouth, held tight by its sunbonnet strings, and 
 walked on its heels and the outer edges of its 
 feet. Then it stood on one foot, and curled up 
 the other against the ankle of the standing one. 
 But what if some ' ' force of nature ' ' should be 
 looking from the porch-window. 
 
 The . tiny seed Deceit dropped into barren 
 
20 THB CHII^d'S EDKN. 
 
 ground. For just ahead bloomed a royal bunch 
 of catnip, a most luxuriant growth with the dew 
 of the morning scarcely off its gray velvet leaves. 
 The little feet were hot and sore, but the pursed- 
 up mouth was resolute as ever. Once on the 
 stone wall with a certainty of dipping both feet, 
 of splashing in the water on the still side, of 
 pressing it down and having it push back again 
 — what joy ! One foot brushed the tender tops 
 of the catnip bunch, then both settled firmly 
 down. But in its treacherous deeps a bumble- 
 bee was quietly breakfasting, and his sudden 
 resentment was cruel. If he could have known ! 
 But the Universe is arranged on such an awk- 
 ward plan. There was one sharp, frightened- 
 to-death scream, and the Child was picked up 
 with the bee still clinging to the toe. It meant 
 hours of pain, with a dizzy foot on a cushion, 
 and the sad lesson learned, like most, alas ! with 
 too great suffering, that elders always know 
 best. 
 
 So that day was lost. And everything in 
 nature went on just the same. 
 
 Church days came often, when the mornings 
 
THK CHIIvD'S KDKN. 21 
 
 were so still and long, and ' Pilgrim's Progress ' 
 was often read aloud before the walk to the 
 House of God. The tabby-cat purred softly 
 and stretched lazy claws on the grass at the 
 sunny side of the porch. The air vibrated 
 gently to the shock of falling water. Remote 
 wheels, sounding near at hand, rolled leisurely 
 up the hill, and here and there large and small 
 figures by twos and threes followed the leadings 
 of the bells. There was no hop, skip, and jump 
 on the holy day. The Child was led softly by 
 the hand with a bonnet tied beneath its chin and 
 best shoes on its prim feet ; shoes that pinched a 
 little, for there was time to grow between the 
 Ivord's Days. But this was never mentioned, as 
 they were pretty shoes, set apart and dedicated 
 to the occasion, belonging to the sacredness of 
 the day. And pain in some unknown way 
 belonged to good things. 
 
 The river all along the road ran softly as that 
 of the Prothalamion ; but the birds just shouted 
 and were not ashamed. All things else held 
 themselves in reverently. 
 
 The pews of the white church had high seats 
 
22 THE CHILD S EDKN. 
 
 and straight backs : the prayers and hymns were 
 long, and the preaching a sleepy mystery. If 
 the deacon's wife had not now and then passed 
 over the back of the pew a plump head of spread- 
 ing carroway or arrowy dill, if a real church 
 mouse had not peeped from under the footstool 
 and kept expectation on the stretch, the hours 
 must have been long indeed. Sometimes a joy- 
 ful thunder-storm bursting with old-fashioned 
 fury, broke up the services, and people gathered 
 in awe-struck knots to whisper stories of light- 
 ning strokes not meant for little ears but quite 
 unheeded by Dame-scholars. The dripping 
 home in the rain was fun enough for a week- 
 day. After the solemn dinner cam.e hymns and 
 'Pilgrim's Progress,' but neither doll, story- 
 book, nor Garden. The secular part of the 
 Catechism was slowly spelled out in the long 
 hours to the solemn ticking of a tall clock in the 
 
 corner. 
 
 "In Adam's Fall 
 We sinned all." 
 " Thy life to mend 
 This Book attend." 
 "The Cat doth play 
 And after slay." 
 
THK child's KDKN. 23 
 
 "The Dog will bite 
 A thief at night.'' 
 "Job feels the Rod, 
 Yet blesses God." 
 "The idle fool 
 Is whipped at school." 
 
 — which was in some way connected with Job's 
 punishment in the Child's small mind. 
 
 "The Eagle's flight 
 
 Is out of sight." 
 
 ' ' As runs the Glass 
 
 Man's life doth pass." 
 
 " Zaccheus he 
 
 Did climb the tree 
 
 His Lord to see." 
 
 " Proud Korah's troop 
 
 Was swallowed up." 
 
 " Young Obadias, 
 
 David, Josias, 
 
 All were pious." 
 
 * ' Xerxes the Great did die, 
 
 And so must you and I " — 
 
 which singled Xerxes out from the great, vague 
 world full of alarming people, yet in some way 
 lowered him to the Child's comprehension, and 
 brought day-dreams of his glory. 
 
 If only the Garden days might have been half 
 so long ! What journeys might the Child have 
 
24 THE CHII^D'S KDKN. 
 
 taken, sitting solitary on the stone wall above 
 the flat rock that sloped to the deep water, and 
 looking across to Harbor Woods. Many a time 
 had Xerxes rounded the Point this side the Gulf 
 with a fleet of glorified fishing smacks and 
 purple banners. Red-white-and-blue streamed 
 everywhere from the Conquering Ship, and a 
 Band in the bow played Xerxes' s favorite tunes, 
 while the Commander waved his crown of gold 
 and jewels toward the shore, and his yellow hair 
 and velvet robes streamed in the wind. It was 
 at the high point where the Almighty spoke to 
 Adam in the Garden that the vessels always 
 anchored, and Xerxes proudly knelt and kissed 
 the wet sand, holding a gold cross as tall as 
 himself, which was very tall, and naming the 
 land. Well, perhaps it was not Xerxes ; the 
 thing only signified, and the vision and the glory 
 were the Child's. 
 
 And sometimes the Crusaders, young and old, 
 came singing across the Gulf like a heavenly 
 choir, and the Child waited with a beating heart 
 and moist eyes to see them round the Point, all 
 in white, with red crosses on their garments and 
 
THK CHIIvD'S KDBN. 25 
 
 harps in their hands. Many a time it dashed 
 away the blinding tears lest they should come 
 suddenly and be dim in its sight. Abigail said 
 it was nothing but the men and boys digging 
 clams the other side of the rock. So the Child 
 did not tell Abigail what she heard any more. 
 
 One day when the Child sat on the low wall, 
 built up of stones taken from the Garden, look- 
 ing across the millstream, it saw Abigail com- 
 ing, with shoes and stockings gathered up in 
 her apron and knew that she dared come across. 
 What if the great gate should be lifted up, and 
 the flood come boiling down and sweep the bold 
 girl away to the harbor and on to the sea, roll- 
 ing and tossing like a dry leaf or a chip boat, 
 shoes and stockings and all ? Who in all the 
 world could save her, and what would become 
 of her soul unless she was prepared to die ? 
 
 But Abigail came softly across, for the ex- 
 pected does not happen ; and the water covered 
 her feet and crisped up around her ankles. But 
 it seemed really much deeper, because she held 
 her skirts so high and walked delicately, like 
 Agag before the Great King. That was because 
 
26 THK CHII^d'S KDKN. 
 
 of the stones that hurt her feet. Soon she 
 scrambled up beside the Child and dangled her 
 wet feet in the sun until such time as she could 
 put on her shoes and stockings and play house. 
 The Child never cared for a little square of 
 ground fenced in with small stones, nor for a 
 house built of corncobs, or of twigs and straws 
 like a bird's nest ; nor for bits of pink and blue 
 broken china carefully washed and stood on a 
 shingle-shelf balanced on two stones. She did 
 not care for sand pies and mud gingerbread 
 baked in the sun, nor for dolls made of a stick 
 and a pocket handkerchief. But unlike many 
 wiser and older folk, she was willing to let Abi- 
 gail enjoy herself in her chosen way, if only left 
 free to think her own thoughts and choose her 
 own pleasures. And while Abigail puttered 
 about her house and scolded her children, shak- 
 ing them well, and whisked up the floor with a 
 bunch of limp grass, the Child, always looking 
 for Something, saw the miller's other son com- 
 ing to the flat rock in his father's dory. 
 
 ''Want a sail?" he called. And then the 
 children saw that he was stepping a mast into 
 
THK CHII^d'S KDEN. 27 
 
 the boat, made of a broken oar, and tying a bit 
 of red and white shawl to it for a sail. 
 
 " Where are you goin' ? " asked Abigail. 
 
 "Oh, somewhere," the Boy said. "Get in, 
 both of you, and you'll know." 
 
 " Won't you tip us over?" asked the Child. 
 
 '* No ; not if you don't look," the Boy said 
 tentatively. " I want you girls to shut your 
 eyes tight, honor bright, and not open them till 
 I say 'Now!'" 
 
 The children clambered into the boat, for this 
 was one of the things unforbidden, because un- 
 foreseen, and the oars thumped in the rowlocks. 
 
 "Why can't we look ?" the Child asked. 
 
 "Oh, because. You keep still, and see where 
 I'll take you." 
 
 "Will you bring us back again?" asked 
 Abigail. '' My mother would feel bad if I didn't 
 come back." 
 
 "Sure's you live," said the Boy, who was 
 two sizes larger than they, and they trusted his 
 word of honor, and folded their hands in the lap 
 of their aprons. 
 
 " Is it most to Harbor Woods ? ' ' asked Abigail 
 
28 THK CHII.D S KDKN. 
 
 again, as the waves curled softly about the bow 
 and rippled away. 
 
 " Hush up !" said the Boy manfully. "I'm 
 givin' you a sail." 
 
 "But where are we?" the child persisted; 
 and the Boy was silent, like his kind. " I wisht 
 I knew, ' ' she sighed ; and the Boy at last took 
 pity, and said gruffly, "You'll see." 
 
 " Better not go out in the Gulf," said Abigail 
 again, for it was her own brother, accustomed 
 to feminine advice. ' ' Sloops might run into us 
 and tip us over. Sail's dangerous. Mother 
 said so." 
 
 The Oracle rocked the boat gently, and the 
 passengers clutched the gunwale. 
 
 But the Child did not speak. Its eyes were 
 shining under their screwed-up lids, and its 
 breath came with thrills that tingled down to its 
 feet. 
 
 They must be at Harbor Woods now — around 
 the Point — out in the Gulf, that green place of 
 awful deeps. Oh, where were they going ? The 
 strain was too great. But would he tip them 
 over if they looked ? He had said, honor bright ; 
 
THE child's EDKN. 29 
 
 no, if they didn't look. The Child could 
 scarcely breathe now. She thought it was like 
 Death ; that fearful thing that comes and stops 
 one's breath, and that even a mother cannot for- 
 bid, nor shield one from. The Child was too 
 young to know that it was already in Eternity, 
 hemmed in by Time, and that the Soul may go 
 out softly in death as in dreams. 
 
 They were going through the great, green 
 Gulf of the Unknown Ocean. And with a sail ! 
 The Child knew it must cry out in time— very 
 soon— "Oh, mother, mother!" The first cry 
 and the last of helpless humanity launched on 
 Unknown tides. 
 
 ''Now !" said the Boy. 
 
 The boat grated on the sand, the children 
 opened dazed eyes, and dimly saw their own flat 
 rock, their own stone wall, The Garden. 
 
 If the Child were to go back to the Garden 
 after fifty years, would it sit on the stone wall 
 and dip its feet in the water, pushing it down 
 until it pushed back, and look out to Harbor 
 Woods for Xerxes and the Crusaders? Why 
 not ? And if the big timber of the mighty dam 
 
30 THE CHIIvD'S KDEN. 
 
 has shrunken with the years like the miller, and 
 the breadth of the fall narrowed that a man may 
 leap across it ; if the bottomless pits can be 
 sounded with a little longer stick, and the path 
 from the porch is only a sheep-walk up a hand's- 
 breadth rise of rock and down again ; if the 
 height from which the Almighty called to Adam 
 has a house on it, and the apple tree is bowed 
 and mossy with age ; if the Garden itself, like 
 the British Islands, is shrinking from the sea, 
 what matters it if only the years have left the 
 heart of the Child? 
 
srajtsii 
 
 
 M n$ 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CAUFORNIA UBRARY | 
 
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