n 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. 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. We hardly dar