A London Land Transaction

A FRIEND of mine here in London has just received a rather valuable piece of land, given her, curiously enough, by her sixyear-old son.

She took him, the Saturday before her enrichment, to buy his school outfit. The mere nature of the errand removed him completely from the baby school he had shamefully attended the year before. Some of the big-boy garments he consented to have sent home, but to part from his football costume would have been more than he could bear. So the parcel with the boots and the cherry-red and black shirt and the shorts he carried cautiously all the way himself. As soon as he got home, he hurried into them, and, since no one had made him self-conscious about vanity, for most of an hour he admired himself earnestly and without misgivings before the glass.

His father came home for lunch, and John ate in his football boots, from time to time lifting his feet politely to the level of the table to make sure they were still shod with the doughty symbols of his maturity. At bedtime he protested against removing them. ‘The nights are getting so cold now, Mummie,’ he urged. She compromised by tying them together and hanging them over the top of the bed, and then she added a long string, so that the soles, with their impressive great bars, all but touched the head on the pillow.

On Sunday he asked to be taken to church in his sporting togs. ‘They’re much the best clothes I ever had,’ he argued. On Monday he had a tea party for his greataunts. ‘It would be too bad if you missed seeing me in my shorts,’ he explained when he invited them. This was far truer than he knew. He admired himself eagerly, to be sure, but only maturity could appreciate all the loveliness of his innocent little face. On Tuesday he was feverish. His high hopes were exhausting him. My heart sank when I looked at him, for of course he would be disappointed with the school.

But when he came home Wednesday it was evident he had entered into his first ecstasy. His eyes were tired of admiring. His tongue was entirely inadequate.

‘Oh, Mummie, you did n’t tell me how nice prayers are! We march up to the hall with the big boys in a line. I do love prayers! They kick you from behind all the time! Mummie, how did you guess what we should have for lunch? You said we should have potatoes and cabbage, and we did, and nobody but men and boys, and if you forget to say “sir,” they poke you in the ribs. What time is it now, Mummie? I wish I could go to prayers right now!’

On Thursday his raptures were undiminished. I was having tea with his mother that afternoon, and he sat limply at the table — I supposed because he was tired. He had paused in his excited narrative now and then to bolt a bite of bread and butter. All at once he cried, ‘Oh, excuse me!’

The suddenness of his jumping from the table and the urgency of his tone suggested some physical emergency. He ran, however, not toward the bathroom door, but to the great wing chair in the farther corner of the room. He ran with a wild yell, and he grabbed that heavy creature below the knees, and brought him down, worrying him like a terrier, with fearful growls.

‘What are you doing, John?’ his mother exclaimed. ‘Come and sit down and eat your supper!’

‘I’m tackling him!’ he replied, earnestly. ‘That’s the way the big boys tackle, Mummie!’ And thereupon he fell upon the great half-back again, roaring like a bear. We rescued the furniture. He came back to the table and began bolting his food. His mother reminded him to eat slowly.

‘I can’t, Mummie. I’ve got to hurry.'

‘What’s the hurry?’

‘I’ve got to go to bed.’

‘At five o’clock?’

‘Yes, I got to go to bed. I’m going to play football to-morrow. We’ve got to go to bed early, they told us. We’ve got to save our breafs.’

I was there when he burst into the living room on Friday. Running to his mother, he relapsed into infancy. With one arm hugging her, he kissed her unashamed. His cherry-red cap was over one ear. His cheeks were the color of the cap. His small nose was one black smudge. His long lashes drooped wearily over his shining dark eyes.

‘Oh, Mummie, I played football! Oh, Mummie, I did!’ he murmured, again and again. She quieted him. His hand kept tugging at his greatcoat pocket.

‘What have you got there?’ she asked, with a gesture of help.

’Oh, I’ve got you a present, Mummie. I’ve got you a surprise!’

And he jumped from her lap, and applied both hands for his purpose. The gift, being large, stuck stubbornly, but he managed to get it out. He handed it to her reverently.

‘I’ve brought you a present, Mummie! Here’s part of our football field for you.’ And he laid in her lap a very hard large lump of clay.

MARGARET WILSON