“And when it tips on a cloud some of them spill out and fall into your sleep.”
“Exactly, teacher. Oh, you do know. And I think the violets are little snips of the sky that fell down when the angels cut out holes for the stars to shine through. And the buttercups are made out of old sunshine; and I think the sweet peas will be butterflies when they go to heaven. Now, teacher, do you see anything so very queer about those thoughts?”
“No, laddie dear, they are not queer at all; they are strange and beautiful thoughts for a little boy to think, and so people who couldn’t think anything of the sort themselves, if they tried for a hundred years, think them queer. But keep on thinking them, Paul . . . some day you are going to be a poet, I believe.”
When Anne reached home she found a very different type of boyhood waiting to be put to bed. Davy was sulky; and when Anne had undressed him he bounced into bed and buried his face in the pillow.
“Davy, you have forgotten to say your prayers,” said Anne rebukingly.
“No, I didn’t forget,” said Davy defiantly, “but I ain’t going to say my prayers any more. I’m going to give up trying to be good, ’cause no matter how good I am you’d like Paul Irving better. So I might as well be bad and have the fun of it.”
“I don’t like Paul Irving better,” said Anne seriously. “I like you just as well, only in a different way.”
