WHY DO YOU sit there on the floor so quiet and silent, tell me, mother dear? The rain is coming in through the open window, making you all wet, and you don't mind it. Do you hear the gong striking four? It is time for my brother to come home from school. What has happened to you that you look so strange? Haven't you got a letter from father today? I saw the postman bringing letters in his bag for almost everybody in the town. Only, father's letters he keeps to read himself. I am sure the postman is a wicked man. But don't be unhappy about that, mother dear. To-morrow is market day in the next village. You ask your maid to buy some pens and papers. I myself will write all father's letters; you will not find a single mistake. I shall write from A right up to K. But, mother, why do you smile? You don't believe that I can write as nicely as father does! But I shall rule my paper carefully, and write all the letters beautifully big. When I finish my writing, do you think I shall be so foolish as father and drop it into the horrid postman's bag? I shall bring it to you myself without waiting, and letter by letter help you to read my writing. I know the postman does not like to give you the really nice letters.
TIRED OF waiting, you burst your bonds, impatient flowers, before the winter had gone. Glimpses of the unseen comer reached your wayside watch, and you rushed out running and panting, impulsive jasmines, troops of riotous roses. You were the first to march to the breach of death, your clamour of colour and perfume troubled the air. You laughed and pressed and pushed each other, bared your breast and dropped in heaps. The Summer will come in its time, sailing in the floodtide of the south wind. But you never counted slow moments to be sure of him. You recklessly spent your all in the road, in the terrible joy of faith. You heard his footsteps from afar, and flung your mantle of death for him to tread upon. Your bonds break even before the rescuer is seen, you make him your own ere he can come and claim you.
