THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES
AND OTHER STORIES

When I was a little girl, which is now a good many years ago, therecame to spend some time with us a cousin who had been brought up inGermany. She was almost grown-up—to me, a child of six or seven, sheseemed quite grown-up; in reality, she was, I suppose, about fifteenor sixteen. She was a bright, kind, good-natured girl, very anxious toplease and amuse her little English cousins, especially me, as I wasthe only girl. But she had not had much to do with small children;above all, delicate children, and she was so strong and hearty herselfthat she did not understand anything about nervous fears and fancies.I think I was rather delicate, at least, I was very fanciful; and as Iwas quiet and gave very little trouble, nobody noticed how constantlyI was reading, generally in a corner by myself. I now see that I readfar too many stories, for even of good and harmless things it ispossible to have too[8] much. In those days, fortunately for me, therewere not nearly so many books for children, so, as I read very fast, Iwas often obliged to read the same stories over and over again. Thiswas much better for me than always getting new tales and gallopingthrough them, as I see many children do now-a-days, but still I thinkI lived too much in story-book world, and it was well for me whenother things forced me to become more, what is called, "practical."