Джон Голсуорси - The Silver Spoon

He went to the nursery, and opened the door softly. Whiteness and dimity; the dog on his fat silver side, the Magicoal fire burning; the prints on the white walls so carefully selected for the moment when the eleventh baronet should begin to take notice—prints slightly comic, to avoid a moral; the high and shining fender-guard that even Magicoal might not be taken too seriously; the light coming in between bright chintz. A charming room! The nurse, in blue, was standing with her back to the door, and did not see him. And, in his little high chair, the eleventh baronet was at table; on his face, beneath its dark chestnut curls, was a slight frown; and in his tiny hand he held a silver spoon, with which over the bowl before him he was making spasmodic passes.

Michael heard the nurse saying:

“Now that mother’s gone, you must be a little man, Kit, and learn to use your spoon.”

Michael saw his offspring dip at the bowl and throw some of its contents into the air.

“That’s not the way at all.”

The eleventh baronet repeated the performance, and looked for applause, with a determined smile.

“Naughty!”

“A—a!” said the eleventh baronet, plopping the spoon. The contents spurted wastefully.

“Oh! you spoiled boy!”

“‘England, my England!’” thought Michael, “as the poet said.”