TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH
BY
ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS
MY LITTLE BOY
COPYRIGHT 1906 BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
SOLE AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION
REPRINTED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH THE PUBLISHERS. NO PART OF THIS
WORK MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM WITHOUT THE PERMISSION OF
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
MY LITTLE BOY
I
My little boy is beginning to live.
Carefully, stumbling now and then on his little knock-kneed legs, hemakes his way over the paving-stones, looks at everything that there isto look at and bites at every apple, both those which are his due andthose 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 youwith quite cold eyes. He has a strong intuition and he is incorruptible.He has never yet bartered a kiss for barley-sugar. There are people whomhe likes and people whom he dislikes. There is one who has long courtedhis favour indefatigably and in vain; and, the other day, he formed aclose friendship with another who had not so much as said "Good day" tohim before he had crept into her lap and nestled there with glowingresolution.
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 thephenomenon and arrived at a result, I feel his little fist in mineagain.
He has bad habits too.
He is apt, for instance, suddenly and without the slightest reason, togo up to people whom he meets in the street and hit them with his littlestick. What is in his mind, when he does so, I do not know; and, so longas he does not hit me, it remains a matter between himself and thepeople 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 andconceal my emotion under a mighty romp. Then, when we sit breathless andtired, I answer, gravely:
"Life is delightful, my little boy. Don't you be afraid of it!"
II
Today my little boy gave me my first lesson.
It was in the garden.
I was writing in the shade of the big chestnut-tree, close to where thebrook flows past. He was sitting a little way off, on the grass, in thesun, with Hans Christian Andersen in his lap.
Of course, he does not know how to read, but he lets you read to him,likes to hear the same tales over and over again. The better he knowsthem, the better he is pleased. He follows the story page by page, knowsexactly where everything comes and catches you up immediately should youskip a line.
There are two tales which he loves more than anything in the world.
These are Grimm's Faithful John and Andersen's The Little Mermaid.When anyone comes whom he likes, he fetches the big Grimm, with thoseheaps of pictures, and asks for Faithful John. Then, if the readerstops, because it is so terribly sad, with all those little deadchildren, a bright smile lights up his small, long face and he says,reassuringly and pleased at "knowing better":
"Yes, but they come to life again."