We are so small, our head only reaches as high as the first
three panes. We look at the white earth, and the rainbow, and the blue
sky; and oh, we want it, we want--we do not know what. We cry as though
our heart was broken. When one lifts our little body from the window we
cannot tell what ails us. We run away to play.
So looks the first year.
II.
Now the pictures become continuous and connected. Material things still
rule, but the spiritual and intellectual take their places.
In the dark night when we are afraid we pray and shut our eyes. We press
our fingers very hard upon the lids, and see dark spots moving round and
round, and we know they are heads and wings of angels sent to take care of
us, seen dimly in the dark as they move round our bed. It is very
consoling.
In the day we learn our letters, and are troubled because we cannot see why
k-n-o-w should be know, and p-s-a-l-m psalm. They tell us it is so because
it is so. We are not satisfied; we hate to learn; we like better to build
little stone houses. We can build them as we please, and know the reason
for them.
Other joys too we have incomparably greater then even the building of stone
houses.
We are run through with a shudder of delight when in the red sand we come
on one of those white wax flowers that lie between their two green leaves
flat on the sand.
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