Much that follows fades, but
the colours of those baby-pictures are permanent.
There rises, perhaps, a warm summer's evening; we are seated on the
doorstep; we have yet the taste of the bread and milk in our mouth, and the
red sunset is reflected in our basin.
Then there is a dark night, where, waking with a fear that there is some
great being in the room, we run from our own bed to another, creep close to
some large figure, and are comforted.
Then there is remembrance of the pride when, on some one's shoulder, with
our arms around their head, we ride to see the little pigs, the new little
pigs with their curled tails and tiny snouts--where do they come from?
Remembrance of delight in the feel and smell of the first orange we ever
see; of sorrow which makes us put up our lip, and cry hard, when one
morning we run out to try and catch the dewdrops, and they melt and wet our
little fingers; of almighty and despairing sorrow when we are lost behind
the kraals, and cannot see the house anywhere.
And then one picture starts out more vividly than any.
There has been a thunderstorm; the ground, as far as the eye can reach, is
covered with white hail; the clouds are gone, and overhead a deep blue sky
is showing; far off a great rainbow rests on the white earth. We, standing
in a window to look, feel the cool, unspeakably sweet wind blowing in on
us, and a feeling of longing comes over us--unutterable longing, we cannot
tell for what.
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