CHILD, HOW happy you are sitting in the dust, playing with a broken twig all the morning. I smile at your play with that little bit of a broken twig. I am busy with my accounts, adding up figures by the hour. Perhaps you glance at me and think, 'What a stupid game to spoil your morning with!' Child, I have forgotten the art of being absorbed in sticks and mud pies. I seek out costly playthings, and gather lumps of gold and silver. With whatever you find you create your glad games, I spend both my time and my strength over things I never can obtain. In my frail canoe I struggle to cross the sea of desire, and forget that I too am playing a game.
MOTHER, I do want to leave off my lessons now. I have been at my book all the morning. You say it is only twelve o'clock. Suppose it isn't any later; can't you ever think it is afternoon when it is only twelve o'clock? I am easily imagine now that the sun has reached the edge of that rice-field, and the old fisher-woman is gathering herbs for her supper by the side of the pond. I can just shut my eyes and think that the shadows are growing darker under the madar tree, and the water in the pond looks shiny black. If twelve o'clock can come in the night, why can't the night come when it is twelve o'clock.
