Not because my childhood was different from that of others, not because I have anything strange to relate, anything new to tell, are these words written. For the other reason rather that I was a child as other children, that my memories are their memories, as my hopes were their hopes, my dreams their dreams, my fears their fears. I open the book of memory to tear out some pages for you others.
ght, because my head lay on her arm. But even then I could not express bow wretched I had been. Only when I heard that my mother was going to the South of France with my sisters, I clung about her neck, and with such insistence implored her not to leave me--not to go without me, that I think I must have expressed my trouble without uttering it, for when, after three delicious days of drives and walks, in which I had always a loving hand to hold, my mother left Stamford, she took me--trembling with joy like a prisoner reprieved--with her.
And I have never seen--or wished to see--Stamford again.
SOUTH WITH THE SWALLOWS.
WITH what delicious thrills of anticipation and excitement I packed my doll's clothes on the eve of our journey! I had a little tin trunk with a real padlock; I have it still, by the way, only now it holds old letters and a bunch of violets and a few other little worthless things that I do not often have the courage to look at nowadays. It is battered n
A memoir of her own peripatetic childhood by one of the foremost children's writers of her time. As she describes her life moving around Europe in the 1860s, the youngest of five, Nesbit reveals the not always comfortable imagination that stood her in such good stead in her storytelling. She doesn't get very far into her life -- she has only reached age 10 by the last chapter -- yet despite the very different times in which she lived, she captures the poignant universals of early terrors and boredom in a way that most of us can remember.