38. 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.
