Childhood
expects, quite rightly, to have its cake and eat it, for there is no
true reason why anything should ever end at all. The devices are
various: a titbit is set aside to enjoy later, thus deceiving Time and
checking its ridiculous hurry. But in the long run Time invariably
wins. After Thursday the week had shot into Saturday without a single
pause. It whistled past. And the titbit, Saturday, had come.
Yet without the usual titbit flavour; for Saturday, as a rule, wore
splashes of gold and yellow upon its latter end, being a half-holiday
associated with open air and sunshine, but now, Monday already in
sight, with lessons and early bed and other prohibitions by the dozen,
hearts sank a little, a shadow crept upon the sun. They had a
grievance; some one had cheated them of a final joy. The collapse was
unexpected, therefore wrong. And the arch-deceiver who had humbugged
them, they knew quite well, was Time. He was in their thoughts. He
mocked them all day long. Clocks grinned; _Saturday, June_ 3, flaunted
itself insolently in their faces.
"The day after to-morrow," remarked some one, noticing a calendar
staring on the wall; and from the moment that phrase could be used it
meant the day was within measurable distance.
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