XXXVIII Hartes
Sum hartes is trumps.
The little child’s harte has a host ov shaddery things in it, fairy ghostesses, in the distanse, without mutch form,—in the fore-ground, tops, and marbles, rag dolls, and sweet whissels; christmas, with the little old esquire in his tights, and frisky span, loaded with wares for a baby market; dreams without enny meaning, little jelosys, little hopes and curious fears,—strange invoice, but life’s capital, in which sleep giants and pigmys, happiness and misery.
Life’s capital! which can’t be increased, but which may aul be lost.
The little child’s harte! look down into it, it is like the vault ov a wild-flower; apparently tenantless but full ov little sekrets, sekrets—unknown tew itself,—sekrets worth knowing,—life’s capital.
Sweet little vault whare God has locked up creation’s destiny.