they would, in all probability, have been
lost, since Hilda does not write her poems, but tells them; in the
second, they would have been either extravagantly praised or laughingly
commented upon. In either case, the fine flower of creation would most
certainly have been injured.

Then again, blessed though many of the nurses of childhood undoubtedly
are (and we all remember them), they have no means of answering the
thousand and one questions of an eager, opening mind. To be an adequate
companion to childhood, one must know so many things. Hilda is fortunate
in her mother, for if these poems reveal one thing more than another
it is that Mrs. Conkling is dowered with an admirable tact. In the
dedication poem to her mother, the little girl says:

"If I sing, you listen;
If I think, you know."

No finer tribute could be offered by one person to another than the
contented certainty of understanding in those two lines.

Hilda tells her poems, and the method of it is this: They come out in
the course of conversation, and Mrs. Conkling is so often engaged in
writing that there is nothing to be remarked if she scribbles absently
while talking to the little girls. But this scribbling is really a
complete draught of the poem. Occasionally Mrs. Conkling writes down the
poem later from memory and reads it afterwards to the child, who
always remembers if it is not exactly in its original form. No line, no
cadence, is altered from Hilda's version; the titles have been added for
convenience, but they are merely obvious handles derived from the text.

Naturally it is only a small proportion of Hilda's life which is given
to poetry. Much is devoted to running about, a part to study, etc. It
is, however, significant that Hilda is not very keen about games with
other children. Not that she is by any means either shy or solitary, but
they do not greatly interest her. Doubtless childhood pays its debt of
possession more steadily than we know.

Now to turn to the book itself; at the very start, here is an amazing
thing. This slim volume contains one hundred and seven separate poems,
and that is counting as one all the very short pieces written between
the ages of five and six. Certainly that is a remarkable output for a
little girl, and the only possible explanation is that the poems are
perfectly instinctive. There is no working over as with an adult poet.
Hilda is subconscious, not self-conscious. Her mother says t