They were deep and wide and tall, and filled as to the lower shelves with a number of objects which no child of spirit could find interesting any longer. Here were the battered fragments of the presents of bygone birthdays, of which the true ownership was dubious, because we none of us would confess that we had ever been young enough to receive such childish gifts. Here also were foolish trifles from forgotten Christmas-trees, useless objects employed by the fraudulent to give their trees a deceitful appearance of wealth. Then there were the presents that were too useful: the elevating gifts of aunts and the improving offerings of god-parents, things that either trespassed on the arid land of lessons or presumed some grown-up virtue which the recipient neither had nor coveted. The Olympians would refer to these dull possessions in the aggregate as “the children’s toys”; but we knew better. Our true treasures, the things we loved, never saw the inside of that unromantic depository save through the thoughtless tidying of our rulers. The works of watches and mechanical toys, our soldiers and cannon of brass, our fleet of walnut boats and empty cartridge-cases—these things and their brothers slept under our pillows or in the very private cardboard boot-box under the bed. By day those that were being employed were spread about the floor or strained our pockets to bursting-point. The people who were too old to know any better referred to them contemptuously as “rubbish,” a word we privately reserved for their aggravating presents. And though the long interval that separated dinner and tea on wet days might weary us of our immediate jewels, it was not in the cupboard that we sought relief from Boredom. It is true that now and again some Gentleman Adventurer would climb on a chair and investigate the shelves that were supposed to be beyond our reach, to return with piratical spoil of matches and cotton and citrate of magnesia, a cate that tingles pleasantly on the tongue of youth. But even from this point of view it could not compare with the rich cupboards of the kitchen and the dining-room, those Meccas of piracy that filled our dreams with monstrous raisins and pickled onions, a successful pilgrimage to which would assure a man the admiring homage of his comrades for days to come.

In short, we were content to regard the toy-cupboard as a harmless hobby of the grown-up people, and we were not far wrong. It was not for them to understand that one general cupboard could not hold the real treasures of four children, whose sense of possession was keen even to the point of battle. It was a dustbin for toys that had been found out, and we would have scorned to display its sordid contents to our friends. To them, if they were worthy, were revealed the true mysteries, the things that we fought for and made into dreams, the sun and moon and stars of our imaginative heaven. Sentimental elders might greet it with tears for their lost youth if they wished; we received their congratulations calmly, and kept our pity for their insanity to ourselves.

In truth, the thing was a symbol for all our relations with grown-up people. They always seemed so sensible and yet they could not understand. If we fell off the banisters on to our heads they would overwhelm us with sympathy, when every one knows that a big lump on the head is a thing to be proud of. But if a well-meaning aunt insisted on reading to us for a whole afternoon in the horse-chestnut season we were expected, and even commanded, to be grateful for this undesired favour. And so it was in the matter of toys. Sometimes, by accident as it were, they gave us sensible things that we really wanted. But as a rule their presents were concrete things that gave our imaginations no chance. We only wanted something to make a “think” about, but few of the official presents were suitable for this purpose. One of the gifts that delighted me most as a child was a blue glass dish, large and shallow. Filled with water it became a real blue sea, very proper for the navigation of smaller craft. Empty and subverted it became the dome of an azure city. And holding it before my eyes I would see a blue world, a place the existence of which I had previously only suspected. An ocean, a city, and a world combine to make a better present than a commonplace toy. Once in a blue moon I have seen strange sights, and something of the glamour of that dish is with me even now.

Naturally, in course of time an uncommon significance became attached to such things as this, and I should have no more thought of keeping my blue sea in the same cupboard as my brother’s maxim gun than he would have allowed that excellent weapon to be the bedfellow of my sister’s famous one-legged nigger doll. We realised far better than our elders the meaning of their favourite shibboleth, “a place for everything”; we knew that the sea air would rust a cannon, and that poor Dorothy could swim but poorly with her one dusky leg. So we tacitly left the cupboard as a place wherein the grown-ups could keep the toys they gave us to please themselves, and found exclusive and more sympathetic hiding-places for our treasures. Now and again a toy might pass through both stages of existence. Mechanical toys did not amuse us at all, until the donors were tired of playing with them, and we might pull them to pieces and make them our very own. And the costly gifts of uncles were useless until the authorities had ceased to see that we took care of them. But these doubtful cases apart, we would divide our presents into their respective groups as soon as we had removed the wrappings. “This and this can go into the cupboard, but this shall go to bed with me to-night!” It was not the person who “understands” children who was most fortunate in the choice of gifts.

For the rest, with unconscious satire, we constituted the toy-cupboard the state prison of the nursery. Refractory dolls and kittens, and soldiers awaiting court-martial, repented their crimes in its depressing gloom, and this was really the only share it had in our amusements. Beyond that it stood merely for official “play,” a melancholy traffic in which we never indulged. Its shelves were crowded with the illusions of grown-up people, and, if we considered it at all, it was in the same aspect in which we were wont to regard them. They were obviously well-meaning, but somehow or other they lacked understanding, and the nursery cupboard was full in consequence.