He told himself wonderful stories in which the "buful faiwry" and
"hollible" giant of the story-books figured largely. I am almost ashamed
to acknowledge that I would hold my breath and strain my ear at times to
listen to these murmured stories, self-addressed, as I have never done
to receive the finest ebullitions of eloquence or the veriest marvels of
the _raconteur_. There was something so sweet, so wondrous to me in this
little, ever-babbling baby-brain fountain, content with its own music,
having no thought of auditors or effect, no care for appreciation,
totally self-addressed and self-absorbed, that I was never weary of
giving it my ear and interest. Had the child known of or perceived this,
the effect would have been destroyed, and a fatal self-consciousness
have been instituted instead of this lotus-eating infantile
_abandon_--the very existence of which mood indicated genius. What poor
Ernie's father might have been I could only surmise from his own
qualities, which, after all, may have flowed from a far-off source; but
that his mother had been gentle, simple, and inefficient, I knew full
well, from my slight acquaintance with her, and observation of her
non-resisting organization. Ernie, on the contrary, grappled with
obstacles uncomplainingly, and was only outspoken in his moments of
gratification.
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