My little boy confides to me that he would like a pear.
Now pears fall within his mother's province and I am sure that he has had as many as he is entitled to. And so we are at once agreed that what he wants is a wholly irrelevant, uncalled-for, delightful extra pear.
Unfortunately, it also appears that the request has already been laid before Mamma and met with a positive refusal.
The situation is serious, but not hopeless. For I am a man who knows how mean is the supply of pears to us poor wretched children of men and how wonderful an extra pear tastes.
And I am glad that my little boy did not give up all hope of the pear at the first obstacle. I can see by the longing in his green eyes how big the pear is and I reflect with lawful paternal pride that he will win his girl and his position in life when their time comes.
We now discuss the matter carefully.
First comes the prospect of stomach-ache:
"Never mind about that," says he.
I quite agree with his view.
Then perhaps Mother will be angry.
No, Mother is never angry. She is sorry; and that is not nice. But then we must see and make it up to her in another way.
So we slink in and steal the pear.
I put it to him whether, perhaps—when we have eaten the pear—we ought to tell Mother. But that does not appeal to him:
"Then I shan't get one this evening," he says.
And when I suggest that, possibly, Mother might be impressed with such audacious candour, he shakes his head decisively:
"You don't know Mother," he says.
So I, of course, have nothing to say.
Shortly after this, the mother of my little boy and I are standing at the window laughing at the story.
We catch sight of him below, in the courtyard.
He is sitting on the steps with his arm round little Dirty's neck. They have shared the pear. Now they are both singing, marvellously out of tune and with a disgustingly sentimental expression on their faces, a song which Dirty knows:
For riches are only a lo-oan from Heaven And poverty is a reward.
And we are overcome with a great sense of desolation.
We want to make life green and pleasant for our little boy, to make his eyes open wide to see it, his hands strong to grasp it. But we feel powerless in the face of all the contentment and patience and resignation that are preached from cellar to garret, in church and in school: all those second-rate virtues, which may lighten an old man's last few steps as he stumbles on towards the grave, but which are only so many shabby lies for the young.