CHAPTER II
Drawing our Toys
WHEN we are very small nothing seems too difficult for our pencil. If we wish to draw a tree, a horse, or an engine, we make no bones about the matter, we draw it. Possibly the drawings may look rather quaint in the eyes of other people, but they satisfy ourselves.
And behind these quaint early drawings lies, more often than not, a sound and practical line of reasoning.
You know, for instance, how fond is Baby John of drawing an engine in full steam.
"My t'ain," he will say, proudly pointing to a piece of paper covered with whirligigs of pencil.
He's right enough, I dare say. Did he not begin by drawing a queer bit of shed, some odd-looking wheels, and perhaps even a coconut thing with a few straight lines meant for the engine-driver's features? And always he drew the shape of a funnel. And then . . . his fancy ran riot! Out of the funnel came smoke! Lots and lots of smoke! Wasn't the train the puff-puff of his infancy? Puff-puff-puff came the smoke. It was glorious drawing! Everything was covered in smoke.
He showed you his train, and, in all probability, you laughed, as I might have done in your place.
And yet he was doing what is a very difficult thing to do, he was drawing 'out of his imagination,' or, as some people say, 'drawing out of his head.'
Once, and not a very long time ago, I was sitting alone and drawing in haste, when old Cary entered, curious and inquiring. She looked round the empty room, she looked at me, and she looked at my paper, on which several scenes were
