“It’s true, though, so you’d better try to understand. If you paint a picture and work at it,--slave over it and are not happy doing it,--then your picture is only so many pennies’ worth of paint. The cruelest thing people can say of a book or a picture is, ‘Well, he worked hard at it!’ The spirit of mischief is only the spirit of play; and the spirit of play is really the spirit of the work we love. “It’s too bad that you are not always patient with us,” the Spirit continued. (I noted the plural. Clearly Jessamine and the Spirit were one!) “I’m sorry, too,” I answered contritely. “The laws of the foolish world do not apply to childhood at all. Children are born into a condition of ideality. They view everything with wonder and awe, and you and all the rest of the grown-up world are busy spoiling their illusions. How happy you would be if you could have gone on blowing bubbles all your days!” “True, alas, too true!” The face of the Spirit grew suddenly very old. “Life,” she said, “consists largely in having to accept the fact that we cannot do the things we want to do. But in the blessed days of mischief we blow bubbles in forbidden soap and water with contraband pipes--and do not know that they are bubbles!” “That is the fine thing about it, O Spirit--the sweet ignorance of it! I hope I understand that.” “I see that you are really wiser than you have always seemed,” she said, with her baffling smile. “Mischief, as you are prone to call so many things that children do, is as wholesome and sweet as a field of clover. I, the Spirit of Mischief, have a serious business in the world, which I’ll tell you about, as you are old and know so little. I’m here to combat and confuse the evil spirits that seek to stifle the good cheer of childhood. These little children that always go to bed without a fuss and say good night very sweetly in French, and never know bread and butter and jam by their real names--you really do not like them half as well as you like natural children. You remember that you laughed when Jessamine’s French governess came, and left the second day because the black cat got into her trunk. There was really no harm in that!” The Spirit of Mischief laughed. She grew very small, and I watched her curiously, wondering whether she was really a creature of this work-a-day world. Then suddenly she grew to life-size again, and laughed gleefully, standing with her hands thrust deep into her coat pockets. “Jessamine!” I exclaimed. “I thought you were asleep.” “I was, a little bit; but you--you snored awfully,” she said, “and waked me up.” She still watched me, laughing; and looking down I saw that she had been busy while I slept. A barricade of books had been built around me,--a carefully wrought bit of masonry, as high as my knees.