timid helplessness round those great gates that open down into the world?
The world! the small round world! what a vast, mysterious place it must seem to baby eyes! What a trackless continent the back garden appears! What marvellous explorations they make in the cellar under the stairs! With what awe they gaze down the long street, wondering, like us bigger babies, when we gaze up at the stars, where it all ends!
And down that longest street of all—that long, dim street of life that stretches out before them—what grave, old-fashioned looks they seem to cast! What pitiful, frightened looks sometimes! I saw a little mite sitting on a doorstep in a Soho slum one night, and I shall never forget the look that the gas-lamp showed me on its wizen face—a look of dull despair, as if, from the squalid court, the vista of its own squalid life had risen, ghost-like, and struck its heart dead with horror.
Poor little feet, just commencing the stony journey! We, old travellers, far down the road, can only pause to wave a hand to you. You come out of the dark mist, and we, looking back, see you, so tiny in the distance, standing on the brow of the hill, your arms stretched out towards us. God speed you! We would stay and take your little hands in ours, but the murmur of the great sea is in our ears, and we may not linger. We must hasten down, for the shadowy ships are waiting to spread their sable sails.
