devoted lovers and their lasses; of the most headlong and horn-blowing
huntsmen--a land where Madam Blaize forgathers with the impeccable
worthy who caused the death of the Mad Dog; where John Gilpin takes the
Babes in the Wood _en croupe_; and the bewitchingest Queen of Hearts
coquets the Great Panjandrum himself "with the little round button at
top"--a land, in short, of the most kindly and light-hearted fancies, of
the freshest and breeziest and healthiest types--which is the land of
CALDECOTT.

Finally, there is a third country, a country inhabited almost
exclusively by the sweetest little child-figures that have ever been
invented, in the quaintest and prettiest costumes, always happy, always
gravely playful,--and nearly always playing; always set in the most
attractive framework of flower-knots, or blossoming orchards, or
red-roofed cottages with dormer windows. Everywhere there are green
fields, and daisies, and daffodils, and pearly skies of spring, in which
a kite is often flying. No children are quite like the dwellers in this
land; they are so gentle, so unaffected in their affectation, so easily
pleased, so trustful and so confiding. And this is GREENAWAY-land.

It is sixty years since Thomas Stothard died, and only fifteen since
Randolph Caldecott closed his too brief career.[26] And now Kate
Greenaway, who loved the art of both, and in her own gentle way
possessed something of the qualities of each, has herself passed away.
It will rest with other pens to record her personal characteristics, and
to relate the story of her life. I who write this was privileged to know
her a little, and to receive from her frequent presents of her books;
but I should shrink from anything approaching a description of the
quiet, unpretentious, almost homely little lady, whom it was always a
pleasure to meet and to talk with. If I here permit myself to recall one