Carefully, stumbling now and then on his little knock-kneed legs, he makes his way over the paving-stones, looks at everything that there is to look at and bites at every apple, both those which are his due and those which are forbidden him.

 

He is not a pretty child and is the more likely to grow into a fine lad. But he is charming.

 

His face can light up suddenly and become radiant; he can look at you with quite cold eyes. He has a strong intuition and he is incorruptible. He has never yet bartered¹ a kiss for barley-sugar. There are people whom he likes and people whom he dislikes. There is one who has long courted his favour indefatigably² and in vain; and, the other day, he formed a close friendship with another who had not so much as said "Good day" to him before he had crept into her lap and nestled there with glowing resolution.

 

He has a habit which I love.

 

When we are walking together and there is anything that impresses him, he lets go my hand for a moment. Then, when he has investigated the phenomenon and arrived at a result, I feel his little fist in mine again.

 

He has bad habits too.

 

He is apt, for instance, suddenly and without the slightest reason, to go up to people whom he meets in the street and hit them with his little stick. What is in his mind, when he does so, I do not know; and, so long as he does not hit me, it remains³ a matter between himself and the people concerned.

 

He has an odd trick of seizing big words in a grown-up conversation, storing them up for a while and then asking me for an explanation:

 

"Father," he says, "what is life?"

 

I give him a tap in his little stomach, roll him over on the carpet and conceal⁴ my emotion under a mighty⁵ romp⁶. Then, when we sit breathless and tired, I answer, gravely:

 

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