Dirty children are healthy, happy children.
If a bee stings you in England, you clap on fresh dirt to cure the
pain. Here we cure all kinds of pain with dirt. If my child is ill I
dig up a spadeful of fresh mould and rub it well--best remedy out. I'm
not religious, but I remember _one_ miracle. The Saviour spat on
the ground and made mud with the spittle to anoint the eyes of the
blind man. Made him see directly. What does that mean? Common remedyof
the country, of course. _He_ didn't need the clay, but followed
the custom, same as in the other miracles. In Scotland dirt's
wickedness--how'd they reconcile that with Scripture? I don't say
_Nature_, mind, I say, _Scripture_, because the Bible's the
book they swear by, though they didn't write it."
"I shall think over what you say about children, and the best way to
rear them," I returned. "I needn't decide in a hurry, as I haven't any
yet."
He barked his short laugh and led me back to the house, where the
arrangements for breakfast were now completed. The children took their
meal in the kitchen, we had ours in a large, cool room adjoining it.
There was a small table laid with a spotless white cloth, and real
crockery plates and real knives and forks. There were also real glass
tumblers, bottles of Spanish wine, and snow-white _pan creollo_.
Evidently my hostess had made good use of her time.
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