Poems By a Little Girl | Page 4

is that Mrs.?Conkling is dowered with an admirable tact. In?the dedication poem to her mother, the little girl?says:
"If I sing, you listen;?If I think, you know."
No finer tribute could be offered by one person to?another than the contented certainty of understanding?in those two lines.
Hilda tells her poems, and the method of it is?this: They come out in the course of conversation,?and Mrs. Conkling is so often engaged in?writing that there is nothing to be remarked if she?scribbles absently while talking to the little girls.?But this scribbling is really a complete draught of?the poem. Occasionally Mrs. Conkling writes?down the poem later from memory and reads it?afterwards to the child, who always remembers?if it is not exactly in its original form. No line,?no cadence, is altered from Hilda's version; the?titles have been added for convenience, but they?are merely obvious handles derived from the?text.
Naturally it is only a small proportion of?Hilda's life which is given to poetry. Much is?devoted to running about, a part to study, etc. It?is, however, significant that Hilda is not very keen?about games with other children. Not that she?is by any means either shy or solitary, but they do?not greatly interest her. Doubtless childhood?pays its debt of possession more steadily than we?know.
Now to turn to the book itself; at the very start,?here is an amazing thing. This slim volume contains?one hundred and seven separate poems, and?that is counting as one all the very short pieces?written between the ages of five and six. Certainly?that is a remarkable output for a little girl,?and the only possible explanation is that the poems?are perfectly instinctive. There is no working?over as with an adult poet. Hilda is subconscious,?not self-conscious. Her mother says that she?rarely hesitates for a word. When the feeling is?strong, it speaks for itself. Read the dedication?poem, "For You, Mother." It is full of feeling,?and of that simple, dignified, adequate diction?which is the speech of feeling:
"I have found a way of thinking?To make you happy."
That is beautiful, and, once read, inevitable;?but it waited for a child to say. Poem after poem?is charged with this feeling, this expression of?great love:
"I will sing you a song,?Sweets-of-my-heart,?With love in it,?(How I love you!)"
"Will you love me to-morrow after next?As if I had a bird's way of singing?"
But it is not only the pulse of feeling in such?passages which makes them surprising; it is the?perfectly original expression of it. When one?reads a thing and voluntarily exclaims: "How?beautiful! How natural! How true!" then?one knows that one has stumbled upon that flash?of personality which we call genius. These poems?are full of such flashes:
"Sparkle up, little tired flower?Leaning in the grass!"
. . .
"There is a star that runs very fast,?That goes pulling the moon?Through the tops of the poplars."
. . .
"There is sweetness in the tree,?And fireflies are counting the leaves.?I like this country,?I like the way it has."
A pansy has a "thinking face"; a rooster has a?comb "gay as a parade," he shouts "crooked?words, loud . . . sharp . . . not beautiful!";?frozen water is asked if it cannot "lift" itself?"with sun," and "Easter morning says a glad?thing over and over."
No matter who wrote them, those passages?would be beautiful, the oldest poet in the world?could not improve upon them; and yet the reader?has only to turn to the text to see the incredibly?early age at which such expressions came into the?author's mind.
Where childhood betrays genius is in the mounting?up of detail. Inadequate lines not infrequently?jar a total effect, as when, in the poem of?the star pulling the moon, she suddenly ends,?"Mr. Moon, does he make you hurry?" Or,?speaking of a drop of water:
"So it went on with its life?For several years?Until at last it was never heard of?Any more."
This is the perennial child, thinking as children?think; and we are glad of it. It makes the whole?more healthy, more sure of development. When?the subconscious mind of Hilda Conkling takes a?vacation, she does not "nod," as erstwhile?Homer; she merely reverts to type and is a child?again.
I think too highly of these poems to speak of?the volume as though it were the finished achievement?of a grown-up person. Some of the poems?can be taken in that way, but by no means all.?The child who writes them frequently transcends?herself, but her thoughts for the most part are?those proper to every imaginative child. Fairies?play a large role in her fancies, and so does the?sandman. There are kings, and princesses, and?golden wings, and there are reminiscences of?story-books, and hints of pictures that have pleased?her. After all, that is the way we all make our?poems, but the grown-up poet tries to get away?from his author, he tries to see more than the?painter has seen. The little girl is quite?untroubled by any questions of technique. She?takes what to her is the obvious always, and in?these copied pieces it is, naturally, less her own?peculiar obvious than in