No Storybooks

Let us suppose mother and children arrived at some breezy open “wherein it seemeth always afternoon.”[1]  In the first place, it is not her business to entertain the little people:  there should be no story-books, no telling of tales, as little talk as possible, and that to some purpose.  Who thinks to amuse children with tale or talk at a circus or a pantomime?  And here, is there not infinitely more displayed for their delectation?  Our wise mother, arrived, first sends the children to let off their spirits in a wild scamper, with cry, halloo, and hullaballoo, and any extravagance that comes into their young heads.  There is not distinction between big and little; the latter love to follow in the wake of their elders, and, in lessons or play, to pick up and do according to their little might.  As for the baby, he is in bliss:  divested of his garments, he kicks and crawls, and clutches the grass, laughs soft baby laughter, and takes in his little knowledge of shapes and properties in his own wonderful fashion – clothed in a woolen gown, long and loose, which is none the worse for the worst usage it may get.