Our Children Part 3

It is fear. Each day inevitably, at the end of the village street, he meets the dog that belongs to the big butcher, and each day his heart shrivels and his legs grow weak at the sight. It is not the pig man's dog ever attacks or menaces him. He just sits peaceably on the threshold of his master's shop. But he is black, and his eyes are fixed and bloodshot, and sharp, white teeth show beneath his baboon jaws. He is terrifying. And then he sits there in the midst of all sorts of meat cut up for pies and hashes, and seems the more terrible on that account. Of course no one supposes he has been the cause of all this carnage, but he presides over it. He's a fierce dog, the pig man's. And so, as far away as Frederick can see him in the doorway, he picks up a big stone, following the example of men he has seen arm themselves in this way against surly dogs, and goes hugging the wall of the house across the street from the pig butcher's closely.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THEY SING LIKE THE NIGHTINGALE BECAUSE THEIR HEARTS ARE GAY. THEY SING AN OLD SONG THAT THEIR GRANDMOTHERS SANG WHEN THEY WERE LITTLE GIRLS AND WHICH ONE DAY THEIR CHILDREN'S CHILDREN WILL SING, FOR SONGS ARE FRAIL IMMORTALS WHICH FLY FROM LIP TO LIP THROUGHOUT THE AGES.

_Printed in France_]

This time he has followed this practice, but Louisa mocks at him.

She has taken none of these violent precautions, against which people always arm themselves more violently still. No, she doesn't even speak to him, but keeps on singing, only changing her tone in such a mocking way that Frederick grows red to his ears. Then there is great travail in his little head. He understands that he must fear fear as much as danger. And he is afraid to be afraid.

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And so, when school is out, and he sees the pig man's dog again, he stalks by that astonished animal proudly.

History adds that he looked at Louisa out of the corner of his eye to see if she were looking. It must be admitted that with no ladies or young maidens in the world men might be less brave.

CATHERINE'S DAY

Five o'clock, and Miss Catherine is receiving her dolls. It is her day at home. The dolls don't talk: the little genius that gave them smiles refused them speech. It must have been done for the good of the world, for if dolls could talk people would listen to no one else. However, the circle to-day is very animated. Miss Catherine talks for her visitors as well as for herself. She makes the questions and gives the answers.

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"How are you, madame?--Very well, madame. I broke my arm yesterday morning going to buy some gloves, but it's cured now.--Oh, that's good.

And how is your little girl?--She has the whooping cough.--Oh, what a pity! Does she cough much?--No, it's a whooping cough that has no cough.

You know, madame, I had two children last week?--Really? That makes four.--Four or five, I don't know which. When you have so many you get confused.--You have a very pretty dress on.--Oh, I have still nicer ones at home--Do you go to the theatre?--Every evening.--I went yesterday to the opera, but Punch did not act, because a wolf ate him up.--I, my dear, go to a dance every day.--That's very amusing.--Yes, I wear a blue dress and I dance with all the young people, the very nicest, generals, princes, confectioners.--You are as pretty as heart could wish to-day, little one.--It's the springtime.--Yes, but too bad it snows.--I like the snow, because it's so white.--Oh, but this is black snow.--Yes, isn't it a horrid kind?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE LITTLE GENIUS THAT GAVE THEM SMILES REFUSED THEM SPEECH. IT MUST HAVE BEEN DONE FOR THE GOOD OF THE WORLD. FOR IF DOLLS COULD TALK PEOPLE WOULD LISTEN TO NO ONE ELSE. HOWEVER, THE CIRCLE TO-DAY IS VERY ANIMATED. MISS CATHERINE TALKS FOR HER VISITORS AS WELL AS FOR HER SELF.

_Printed in France_]

This fine conversation Miss Catherine maintains with much skill. I have only one fault to find with it: she talks always to the same caller, who is pretty and has a pretty dress. That is wrong. A good hostess is equally polite to all her guests. She treats them all with consideration, and if she shows any preference it is for those who are most modest and least fortunate. One must flatter the unfortunate: it is the only flattery that is permissible. But Catherine has found this out herself. She has found the true politeness--which comes from the heart.

She serves tea to her guests, and remembers every one. Indeed, she insists especially with those dollies that are poor or unhappy or shy that they take some invisible cakes or sandwiches made of dominos.

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Catherine will one day be a hostess in whose drawing room no doubt politeness of the real old-fas.h.i.+oned kind will flourish.

THE LITTLE SEA DOGS

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They are little sailors, real little sea dogs, every one. Look how they pull their caps down low on their necks so that the sea wind, misty and whistling, shall not split their ears with its terrible groanings. They wear suits of heavy wool, for protection against the cold and damp.

Their made-over pea jackets and breeches were their elder brothers'

before them. Their garments in turn were made out of their fathers' old suits. Their hearts too are of the same stuff as their father's--simple, patient and full of courage. Since they came into the world they have been simple and big of heart. Who has made them so? After G.o.d and their fathers and mothers it is the ocean. The ocean teaches sailors courage through danger--a rude benefactor.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THEY LOOK FOR THE BOATS THAT SAILED FOR THE FIs.h.i.+NG GROUNDS, AND THAT MUST NOW SOON APPEAR ON THE HORIZON LOADED TO THE GUNWALES, AND BRINGING BACK UNCLES AND OLDER BROTHERS AND FATHERS.

_Printed in France_]

That is why the little sailors, in their childish hearts, bear such brave thoughts. Stooping over the parapet of the stockade they look off over the sea. They see more than the thin blue line of boundary between the sky and sea. The ocean does not interest them for its fine changing colors, nor the sky for the huge grotesque shapes of its clouds. What they see off there in s.p.a.ce is something more real to them than the tint of waters and the face of the clouds: something that they love. They look for the boats that sailed for the fis.h.i.+ng grounds, and that must now soon appear on the horizon bringing back besides their full cargoes of shrimps, uncles and older brothers and fathers. The little fleet will soon show its white or weather-stained sails down there, between the ocean and G.o.d's good sky. To-day the sky is clear, the ocean still: the tide brings the fishers gently to the sh.o.r.e. But the ocean is a changeable old veteran, who takes many forms and sings in many tones. To-day he smiles: to-morrow he will scold beneath his foamy beard. He will capsize the ablest s.h.i.+ps, s.h.i.+ps that have been blest by the priest with songs and Te Deums: he will drown his st.u.r.diest patrons.

It is his fault that one sees, outside the doors where the chaluts dry in the baskets, so many women wearing the black caps of widows.

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