older, and, if I may use the word, riper, that we learn to distinguish between fact and fiction, between history and myth.
In childhood we need playthings, and the more fantastic and bizarre they are, the better we are pleased with them. We dream, for instance, of castles in the air—gorgeous and clothed with the azure hue of the skies. We fill the space about and over us with spirits, fairies, gods, and other invisible and airy beings. We covet the rainbow. We reach out for the moon. Our feet do not really begin to touch the firm ground until we have reached the years of discretion.
I know there are those who wish they could always remain children,—living in dreamland. But even if this were desirable, it is not possible. Evolution is our destiny; of what use is it, then, to take up arms against destiny?
Let it be borne in mind that all the religions of the world were born in the childhood of the race.
Science was not born until man had matured. There is in this thought a world of meaning.
Children make religions.
Grown up people create science.
