nerisms of the hour, artfulness of speech
and reading, the countless little reserves and covers for neglected
thinking, the endless misunderstandings of life and the realities of
existence--had already begun to clog the ways which, to every old
artist, are the very passages of power.

"... Except that ye become as little children----" that is the
beginning of significant workmanship, as it is the essential of faith in
religion. The great workmen have all put away the illusions of the
world, or most of them, and all have told the same story--look to Rodin,
Puvis de Chavannes, Balzac, Tolstoi, only to mention a little group of
the nearer names. In their mid-years they served men, as they fancied
men wanted to be served; and then they met the lie of this exterior
purpose, confronted the lie with the realities of their own nature, and
fought the fight for the cosmic simplicity which is so often the
unconscious flowering of the child-mind. All of them wrenched open, as
they could, the doors of the prison-house, and became more and more like
little children at the end.

The quality I mean is difficult to express in straight terms. One must
have the settings to see and delight in them. But it is also the quality
of the modern verse. The new generation has it as no other generation,
because the old shames and conventions are losing their weight in our
hearts.... I was promising an untold something for a future lesson to
the little girl yesterday, just as she was getting to work. The
anticipation disturbed the present moment, and she said:

"Don't have secrets. When there are secrets, I always want to peek----"

Yesterday, a little later, we both looked up from work at the notes of a
song-sparrow in the nearest elm. The song was more elaborate for the
perfect morning. It was so joyous that it choked me--in the sunlight and
elm-leaves. It stood out from all the songs of the morning because it
was so near--every note so finished and perfect, and we were each in the
pleasantness of our tasks. The little girl leaned over to the window. I
was already watching. We heard the answer from the distance. The song
was repeated, and again. In the hushes, we sipped the ecstasy from the
Old Mother--that the sparrow knew and expressed. Like a flicker, he was
gone--a leaning forward on the branch and then a blur,... presently this
sentence in the room:

"... _sang four songs and flew away._"

It was a word-portrait. It told me so much that