They have read their little book? have seen a little
play, have looked at pretty pictures. The kind gentleman with the
long hair has played the piano to them. They have danced. Their
little feet are really quite tired. The footman brings them home.
They are put into their little nighties. The candle is blown out,
the nursery door is softly closed.
Now and again some restless little man, wearying of the smug nursery,
will run out past the garden gate, and down the long white road; will
find the North Pole or, failing that, the South Pole, or where the
Nile rises, or how it feels to fly; will climb the Mountains of the
Moon--do anything, go anywhere, to escape from Nurse Civilisation's
everlasting apron strings.
Or some queer little woman, wondering where the people come from,
will run and run till she comes to the great town, watch in wonder
the strange folk that sweat and groan--the peaceful nursery, with the
toys, the pretty frocks never quite the same again to her.
But to the nineteen-twentieths of the well-to-do the world beyond the
nursery is an unknown land. Terrible things occur out there to
little men and women who have no pretty nursery to live in. People
push and shove you about, will even tread on your toes if you are not
careful. Out there is no kind, strong Nurse Bank-Balance to hold
one's little hand, and see that no harm comes to one. Out there, one
has to fight one's own battles.
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