ose same fingers.
Washing not only took time from other important pursuits, but also was
mildly unpleasant. Nevertheless, my mother was not even open to
reasonable argument on the matter. Arbitrarily, with the despotism of an
early Roman Emperor, she rendered a dictum to the effect that I must
wash, and soapy and submissive I had to be before I could come to the
table. Again, any reasonable child can tell you that pleasure is the
main object of eating; therefore, in all logic, one should eat if one
feels like it at ten o'clock in the morning, or at three o'clock in the
afternoon, a jar of Guava jelly, a pound of chocolates, a paper of
ginger cookies, or whatever may appeal to one's aesthetic taste. This
method of procedure, naturally, might necessitate recourse to the
brown-wood family medicine closet. Certain discomfort might ensue. But
was not the pleasure worth it? Again my mother arbitrarily took the
matter into her own hands, disagreeing with me on fundamentals. She
maintained that eating was not for pleasure simply, but for nourishment.
Sundry unfortunate remarks were made containing references to gluttony.
The pantry was locked, and regular meals at regular periods were
prescribed. Indeed, poems with dreadful morals for those who ate between
meals were recited to me, endeavor being made thereby to substitute
terror for inclination.

Any reasonable child will find many such parallel instances of the
assumed omnipotence of "grownups." With this awful indictment before me,
you ask me, a "grown-up," to write an introduction for the "Firelight
Fairy Book," and thereby to assume the responsibility for passing
judgment upon it. There is but one circumstance that makes me willing to
do so. I believe that where any nice "grown-up" is concerned, if you
crack the hard outside shell with which circumstances have surrounded
him, beneath it you will find a child. Banking on this, I venture to say
that I thoroughly enjoyed the "Firelight Fairy Book." I liked
particularly the story of the poor little prince, whose sneezing had
such a disastrous effect; and the lost half hour is unquestionably an
accurate historical account, because no one could have described so
accurately, simply from imagination, what a lost temper looked like.
What makes me even more willing to advance my opinion is that I do not
stand alone. My conclusions are supported by a jury of my peers, for I
have given the book as a Christmas gift, not only to my own