ction she studied
the birds and animals. In city and country alike we came together at
nightfall, to read or sing or "play circus." I sang to her all the songs
my mother had taught me, I danced with her as she grew older, with
Zulime playing the tunes for us, "Money Musk" and "The Campbells are
Coming." As we walked the streets the trusting cling of her tiny fingers
was inexpressibly sweet.

"Poppie, I'm so happy!" she often said to me after she was three, and
the ecstasy which showed in her big blue eyes scared me with its
intensity for I knew all too well that it could not last. This was her
magical time. She was enraptured of the wind and sky and the grass.
Every fact in nature was a revelation to her.

"Why, Poppie? What does it? What was that noise?" The dandelions, the
dead bird, a snake--these were miracles to her--as they once were to me.
She believed in fairies with devotional fervor and I did nothing to
shake her faith, on the contrary I would gladly have shared her credence
if I could.

Once as we were entering a deep, dark wood, she cautioned me to walk
very softly and to speak in a whisper in order that we might catch the
Forest Folk at play, and as we trod a specially beautiful forest aisle
she cried out, "I _saw_ one, Poppie! Didn't you see that little shining
thing?"

I could only say, "Yes, it _must_ have been a fairy." I would not
destroy her illusion.

She inhabited a world of ineffable beauty, a universe in which minute
exquisite winged creatures flashed like flakes of fire, through dusky
places. She heard their small faint voices in the whisper of the leaves,
and every broad toadstool was to her a resting place for weary elfin
messengers hurrying on some mission for their queen. Her own imaginings,
like her favorite books, were all of magic wands, golden garments and
crystal palaces. Sceptered kings, and jeweled princesses trailing robes
of satin were the chief actors in her dreams.

I am aware that many educators consider such reading foolish and
harmful, but I care nothing for wire-drawn pedagogic theories. That I
did nothing to mar the mystical beauty of the world in which my daughter
then dwelt, is my present satisfaction, and I shamelessly acknowledge
that I experienced keen pangs of regret as her tender illusions, one
after another faded into the chill white light of later day. Without
actually deceiving her, I permitted her to believe that I too, heard the
wondrous voices of Titania a