how it might have kept up health and
cleanliness in poor creatures packed away in the back streets of the
nearest town, or even in London itself. Think even how country folk, in
many parts of England, in three months' time, may be crying out for rain,
and afraid of short crops, and fever, and scarlatina, and cattle-plague,
for want of the very water which we are now letting run back, wasted,
into the sea from whence it came. And yet we call ourselves a civilised
people."

It is not wise, I know, to preach to boys. And yet, sometimes, a man
must speak his heart; even, like Midas' slave, to the reeds by the river
side. And I had so often, fishing up and down full many a stream,
whispered my story to those same river-reeds; and told them that my Lord
the Sovereign Demos had, like old Midas, asses' ears in spite of all his
gold, that I thought I might for once tell it the boy likewise, in hope
that he might help his generation to mend that which my own generation
does not seem like to mend.

I might have said more to him: but did not. For it is not well to
destroy too early the child's illusion, that people must be wise because
they are grown up, and have votes, and rule--or think they rule--the
world. The child will find out how true that is soon enough for himself.
If the truth be forced on him by the hot words of those with whom he
lives, it is apt to breed in him that contempt, stormful and therefore
barren, which makes revolutions; and not that pity, calm and therefore
helpful, which makes reforms.

So I might have said to him, but did not--

And then men pray for rain:

My boy, did you ever hear the old Eastern legend about the Gipsies? How
they were such good musicians, that some great Indian Sultan sent for the
whole tribe, and planted them near his palace, and gave them land, and
ploughs to break it up, and seed to sow it, that they might dwell there,
and play and sing to him.

But when the winter arrived, the Gipsies all came to the Sultan, and
cried that they were starving. "But what have you done with the seed-
corn which I gave you?" "O Light of the Age, we ate it in the summer."
"And what have you done with the ploughs which I gave you?" "O Glory of
the Universe, we burnt them to bake the corn withal."

Then said that great Sultan--"Like the butterflies you have lived; and
like the butterflies you shall wander." So he drove them out. And that
is how the Gipsies came hither from the East.