In this warm summer weather Gissing slept on a little outdoor balcony that opened off the nursery.The world, rolling in her majestic seaway, heeled her gunwale slowly into the trough of space.Disked upon this bulwark, the sun rose, and promptly Gissing woke.The poplars flittered in a cool stir.Beyond the tadpole pond, through a notch in the landscape, he could see the far darkness of the hills.That fringe of woods was a railing that kept the sky from flooding over the earth.
The level sun, warily peering over the edge like a cautious marksman, fired golden volleys unerringly at him.At once Gissing was aware and watchful.Brief truce was over: the hopeless war with Time began anew.
This was his placid hour.Light, so early, lies timidly along the ground.It steals gently from ridge to ridge; it is soft, unsure.That blue dimness, receding from bole to bole, is the skirt of Night's garment, trailing off toward some other star.As easily as it slips from tree to tree, it glides from earth to Orion.
Light, which later will riot and revel and strike pitilessly down, still is tender and tentative.It sweeps in rosy scythe-strokes, parallel to earth.It gilds, where later it will burn.
Gissing lay, without stirring.The springs of the old couch were creaky, and the slightest sound might arouse the children within.Now, until they woke, was his peace.Purposely he had had the sleeping porch built on the eastern side of the house.Making the sun his alarm clock, he prolonged the slug-a-bed luxury.He had procured the darkest and most opaque of all shades for the nursery windows, to cage as long as possible in that room Night the silencer.At this time of the year, the song of the mosquito was his dreaded nightingale.In spite of fine-mesh screens, always one or two would get in.Mrs.Spaniel, he feared, left the kitchen door ajar during the day, and these Borgias of the insect world, patiently invasive, seized their chance.It was a rare night when a sudden scream did not come from the nursery every hour or so."Daddy, a keeto, a keeto!" was the anguish from one of the trio.The other two were up instantly, erect and yelping in their cribs, small black paws on the rail, pink stomachs candidly exposed to thewinged stilleto.Lights on, and the room must be explored for the lurking foe.Scratching themselves vigorously, the fun of the chase assuaged the smart of those red welts.Gissing, wise by now, knew that after a forager the mosquito always retires to the ceiling, so he kept a stepladder in the room.Mounted on this, he would pursue the enemy with a towel, while the children screamed with merriment.Then stomachs must be anointed with more citronella; sheets and blankets reassembled, and quiet gradually restored.Life, as parents know, can be supported on very little sleep.
But how delicious to lie there, in the morning freshness, to hear the earth stir with reviving gusto, the merriment of birds, the exuberant clink of milk-bottles set down by the back-door, the whole complex machinery of life begin anew! Gissing was amazed now, looking back upon his previous existence, to see himself so busy, so active.Few people are really lazy, he thought: what we call laziness is merely maladjustment.For in any department of life where one is genuinely interested, he will be zealous beyond belief.Certainly he had not dreamed, until he became (in a manner of speaking) a parent, that he had in him such capacity for detail.
This business of raising a family, though-- had he any true aptitude for it? or was he forcing himself to go through with it? Wasn't he, moreover, incurring all the labours of parenthood without any of its proper dignity and social esteem? Mrs.Chow down the street, for instance, why did she look so sniffingly upon him when she heard the children, in the harmless uproar of their play, cry him aloud as Daddy? Uncle, he had intended they should call him; but that is, for beginning speech, a hard saying, embracing both a palatal and a liquid.Whereas Da-da--the syllables come almost unconsciously to the infant mouth.So he had encouraged it, and even felt an irrational pride in the honourable but unearned title.
A little word, Daddy, but one of the most potent, he was thinking.More than a word, perhaps: a great social engine: an anchor which, cast carelessly overboard, sinks deep and fast into the very bottom.The vessel rides on her hawser, and where are your blue horizons then?
But come now, isn't one horizon as good as another? And do they really remain blue when you reach them?
Unconsciouslyhestirred,stretchinghislegsdeeplyintothecomfortable nest of his couch.The springs twanged.Simultaneous clamours! The puppies were awake.
They yelled to be let out from the cribs.This was the time of the morning frolic.Gissing had learned that there is only one way to deal with the almost inexhaustible energy of childhood.That is, not to attempt to check it, but to encourage and draw it out.To start the day with a rush, stimulating every possible outlet of zeal; meanwhile taking things as calmly and quietly as possible himself, sitting often to take the weight off his legs, and allowing the youngsters to wear themselves down.This, after all, is Nature's own way with man; it is the wise parent's tactic with children.Thus, by dusk, the puppies will have run themselves almost into a stupor; and you, if you have shrewdly husbanded your strength, may have still a little power in reserve for reading and smoking.
The before-breakfast game was conducted on regular routine.Children show their membership in the species by their love of strict habit.
