He was a winged thing hovering over little formal beds of lavender, catching for a moment an echo of children's voices repeating the creed of "The Little Black Boy," dropping a tear for the Chimney-Sweeper, then flying off unseen and unheard to sing his own songs of joy and love, too much a child to suffer the interruptions of other children; scarcely to be understood by those who were dreaming their own dreams under the noses of the pedagogues.
