ages of three or four and five; a period which, to the eye of memory,
appears like a wide plain blurred over with a low-lying mist, with
here and there a group of trees, a house, a hill, or other large
object, standing out in the clear air with marvellous distinctness.
The picture that most often presents itself is of the cattle coming
home in the evening; the green quiet plain extending away from the
gate to the horizon; the western sky flushed with sunset hues, and the
herd of four or five hundred cattle trotting homewards with loud
lowings and bellowings, raising a great cloud of dust with their
hoofs, while behind gallop the herdsmen urging them on with wild
cries. Another picture is of my mother at the close of the day, when
we children, after our supper of bread and milk, join in a last grand
frolic on the green before the house. I see her sitting out of doors
watching our sport with a smile, her book lying in her lap, and the
last rays of the setting sun shining on her face.

When I think of her I remember with gratitude that our parents seldom
or never punished us, and never, unless we went too far in our
domestic dissensions or tricks, even chided us. This, I am convinced,
is the right attitude for parents to observe, modestly to admit that
nature is wiser than they are, and to let their little ones follow, as
far as possible, the bent of their own minds, or whatever it is they
have in place of minds. It is the attitude of the sensible hen towards
her ducklings, when she has had frequent experience of their
incongruous ways, and is satisfied that they know best what is good
for them; though, of course, their ways seem peculiar to her, and she
can never entirely sympathize with their fancy for going into water. I
need not be told that the hen is after all only step-mother to her
ducklings, since I am contending that the civilized woman--the
artificial product of our self-imposed conditions--cannot have the