A morning in August the two were walking hand in hand. Wonder was one of
those little girls that seem to know all the meanings of life, while yet
struggling with the alphabet of its unimportant words.
The soul of such a child is, of all things, the most mysterious. There
was that in her face, as she clung on to her mother's hand, which seemed
to say: "O mother, I understand it all, and far more; if I might only
talk to you in the language of heaven,--but my words are like my little
legs, frail and uncertain of their footing, and, while I think all your
strange grown-up thoughts, I can only talk of toys and dolls. Mother,
father's blood as well as yours is in my veins, and so I understand you
both. Poor little mother! Poor little father!"
Little Wonder looked these things, she may indeed have thought them;
but all she said was: "O mother, what was that?"
"That was a rabbit, dear. See, there is another! See his fluffy white
tail!"
And again: "O mother, what was that?"
"That was a water-hen, dear. She has a little house, a warm nest, close
to the water among the bushes yonder, and she calls like that to let her
little children know she's coming home with some dainty things for
lunch.
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