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Warfield, Catherine A.

"Miriam Monfort A Novel"


See how they shake! And the women are dressed in paste jewelry, like
that our cook-maid wears to parties, and no jeweler would give a cent
for them; and the fairies are poor girls, dressed up for the occasion;
and the whole play is made up as they go. You see, I know all about it,
father says."
I heard no more, but had a glimpse of a little, eager face suddenly
dashed in its expression, and of small fingers pressed to unwilling ears
to shut out unwelcome truths.
The discriminating child seemed a little monster in my eyes, who ought
to have been sent out of the way at once of all companions capable of
_abandon_ and enjoyment; and, as to the "father" she quoted from, I
could imagine him as the embodiment of asinine wisdom, so to speak--the
quintessence of the practical, which so often, I observe, inclines its
devotees to idiocy!
I knew very well that Wattie was not of the stamp to doubt the truth and
splendor of "Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp," or "Cinderella," as
surveyed from the stage-box, in his confiding infancy, any more than to
believing in baubles when the time came to justly discriminate. Woe for
the incredulous child, too matter-of-fact to be enlisted in the
creations of fancy, and who tastes in infancy the chief bitterness of
age--the incapability of surrendering life to the ideal!
How fresh imagination keeps the heart--how young! What a glorious gift
it is when rightly used and governed! Hear Charlotte Bronte's testimony,
as recorded by her biographer: "They are all gone," she says, "the
sisters I so loved, and I have only my imagination left to comfort me.


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