Sea and Shore: A Sequel to "Miriam's Memoirs"Warfield, Catherine A. (Catherine Ann)
General
Sea and Shore: A Sequel to "Miriam's Memoirs"
Warfield, Catherine A. (Catherine Ann)
Fiction
It is the error of all errors to suppose that, because a child has a
sickly frame or imperfect animal organization, it is just or profitable
to give it over to its own devices, and consign it to indolence and
ignorance. Alas! the vacancy that begets fretfulness, and crude,
capricious desires, the confusion of images that arises from partial
understanding, are far more wearing to the nerves of an intelligent
infant than the small labor the brain undertakes, if any, indeed, be
needed, in mastering ideas properly presented, and suitable to the
condition of the sufferer. One might as well forbid the hand to grasp,
the eye to see, nay, more, it will not do to confound the child of
genius with the fool, or to suppose that the one needs not a mental
aliment of which the other is incapable. Feed well the hungry mind, lest
it perish of inanition. It is a sponge in infancy that imbibes ideas
without an effort; it is a safety-valve through which fancy and poetry
conduct away foul vapors; it is an alembic, retaining only the pure and
valuable of all that is poured into it, to be stored for future use. It
is a lightning-rod that conducts away from the body all superfluous
electricity. It does not harm a sensible child to put it to study early,
but it destroys a dull one. Let your poor soil lie fallow, but harvest
your rich mould, and you shall be repaid, without harm to its fertility.
Ideas were balm to Ernie, even as regarded his physical suffering. His
enthusiasm rose above it and carried him to other spheres.
Some illustrated volumes of "Wilson's Ornithology," which I found in
the bookcase, proved to be oil on troubled waters in Ernie's case; and
before long he knew, without an effort, the name of every bird in the
two folios of prints, and would come of his own accord to repeat and
point them out to me.
I found, to my amazement, that, when a cage of canaries was brought in
and hung in the bath-room at my request for his amusement, he
discriminated and gravely averred that no birds like those were to be
found in his big book, though yellow hammers and orioles were there in
their native colors, that might have deceived a less observant eye into
a delusion as to their identity with our pretty importation.
Verses, remarkable for rhyme and rhythm both, when repeated to him a few
times with scanning emphasis, took root in that fertile brain which
piled his compact forehead so powerfully above his piercing, deep-set
eyes, and fell from his infant lips in silvery melody as effortless and
spontaneous as the trickling of water or the singing of birds in the
trees.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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