spired idiots, there should be some kinder word for the blind heroism which subordinates reason to obedience. And I am by no means sure that this form of relentless nineteenth-century criticism does not do more to vulgarize a child's mind by destroying his simple ideals, than do the frank old games which Mrs. Wiggin considers so boorish, and which fill her with "unspeakable shrinking and moral disgust." The coarseness of "Here come two ducks a-roving," which was once the blithest of pastorals, and of that curious relic of antiquity, "Green Gravel," is not of a hurtful kind, and some of these plays have a keen attraction for highly imaginative children. For my part, I do not believe that all the kindergarten games in Christendom, all the gentle joy of pretending you were a swallow and had your little baby swallows cuddled under your wing, can compare for an instant with the lost delight of playing "London Bridge" in the dusk of a summer evening, or in the dimly-lit schoolroom at bedtime. There was a mysterious fascination in the words whose meaning no one understood, and no one sought to understand:—
