It was, as Colonel Higginson once observed later on, a pretty rarefied atmosphere for children, but they regarded their Aunt Emily as a magical creature, and were brought up on her stabbing wit, her condensed forms and subtle epigram, and felt a lively contempt for people who said they could not understand her when their mother sometimes read out sentences or poems of hers to the curious who begged to hear something she had written. They felt she was always on their side, a nimble as well as a loving ally. She never dulled their sunshine with grown-up apprehensions for their good, or hindered their imagination, but rather flew before, like Aurora, straight out into the ether of the impossible, as dear to her as to them.
The following she sent to Ned after some reputed indiscretion reported of him by harder hearts:
The cat that in the corner sits
Her martial time forgot—
The rat but a tradition now
Of her desireless lot,
Another class reminds me of—
Who neither please nor play,
But—"not to make a bit of noise"
Adjure each little boy!
P.S. Grandma characteristically hopes Neddy will be a good boy. Obtuse ambition of Grandma's!
On returning a photograph of a child in Greenaway costume:
That is the little girl I meant to be and wasn't; the very hat I meant to wear and didn't.
One verse she sent them that particularly hit their fancy was:
