Man is by nature an artist, say the psychologists!

Stand still once, and watch a child, wherever he may be — you will see him an artist in all his movements! Listen to him as he echoes back a melody in whispers or hummings; watch his hands toying with his playthings or with a heap of sand... and observe his legs as he paddles in the tub at bath time.

Now go out into the garden. Your child runs ahead of you, hurrying along, and you are at a loss to explain why; but one glance assures you that he is after something: it is the butterfly — there he is, chasing it and imitating it, or mimicking the bird in the sky.

And why should this boy not remain an artist when he grows up?... That lies in your hands, and rests upon your effort and your guidance.

These artistic motions you can turn into a picture, or a melody, or poetry — or an earthenware pot! It makes no difference which; the important thing is that they take body one day. But how?

How many parents give themselves to their children in earnest?... How many a mother knows her son, and how to nurture these gifts?

We carry them off to the cinema, or the dance hall. Yes, the grown-up may find pleasure in watching moving pictures and swaying hips, but they stir up something in the child's soul; and far better for him than these is watching the sun go down behind the sea or the hill, or observing the flowers fold themselves up after sunset.

To nature — in her rocks and her flowers, in her birds and her woods — carry your little one, and teach him the deepest lesson in life. Open his eyes to the beauty hidden in the rustling of leaves and the murmur of the brooks; in the stillness of evening and the freshness of morning; or in the rebellious rocks and the green or dun-colored hills...

Show him the wonders of the universe, and he will hear music, and fall in love with poetry from the mouths of the flowers, and learn how to create!

He creates, he discovers, and he feeds his spirit through your companionship and your guidance. This age has carried us far from the reality of life, has busied us with the husk instead of the kernel, has made of our children imitators of those who went before them, and has hemmed in their creative powers.

And then, if these horizons are not opened from childhood — while you are breathing every breath of yours over this mass of your own being — do you imagine another day will come, and a second season, for the task?...

So set him free, that he may discover life, sweep through the universe, and send forth poetry, and melody, and colors!