Yet here
was I, an infant of less than six years, who had committed a sin.
I did not know what to do with my own case. I doubted whether it
would do any good for me to pray to be forgiven, but I did pray,
because I could not help it, though not aloud. I believe I
preferred thinking my prayers to saying them, almost always.
Inwardly, I objected to the idea of being an infant; it seemed to
me like being nothing in particular--neither a child nor a little
girl, neither a baby nor a woman. Having discovered that I was
capable of being wicked, I thought it would be better if I could
grow up at once, and assume my own responsibilities. It quite
demoralized me when people talked in my presence about "innocent
little children."
There was much questioning in those days as to whether fictitious
reading was good for children. To "tell a story" was one
equivalent expression for lying. But those who came nearest to
my child-life recognized the value of truth as impressed through
the imagination, and left me in delightful freedom among my
fairy-tale books.
Pages:
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109