in!"

[Illustration: We value this photo exceedingly, it was so hard to get.
We were in a big heathen village when we saw this Ugly Duckling, in fact
she was one of the most tiresome of the "rabbits" mentioned in Chapter
I. She saw us, and darted off and climbed a wall and made faces at us in
a truly delightful manner. We thought we would take her, and tried. As
well try to pick up quicksilver; she would not be caught. The deed was
finally done when she had not the least idea of it, and the camera gave
a triumphant click as it snapped her unawares. "What do they want her
for?" inquired a grown-up bystander, who had observed our little game.
"Look at her hair," said another, "they never saw hair like that in
England, that's what they want her for!"]

Professor Drummond speaks of our whole life as a long-drawn breath of
mystery, between the two great wonders--the first awakening and the last
sleep. I often think of that as I listen to the little children talking
to each other and to us. They are always wondering about something. One
day it was, "Do fishes love Jesus?" followed by "What is a soul?" The
conclusion was, "It's the thing we love Jesus with." When they first
come to us they invariably think that mountains grow like trees: "Stones
are young mountains, aren't they? and hills are middle-aged mountains."
Later on, every printed thing on a wall is a text. We were in a railway
station, on our way to the hills: "Look! oh, what numbers and numbers of
texts! But what queer pictures to have on texts!" One was specially
perplexing; it was a well-known advertisement, and the picture showed a
monkey smoking a cigar. What could that depraved animal have to do with
_a text_? When we got to the hills the first amazement was the sight of
the fashionable ladies wearing veils. "Don't they like to look at God's
beautiful world? Do they like it better _spotty_?"

Tangles has another name; it is the "Ugly Duckling," and it is extremely
descriptive; but Ugly Duckling or not, she is of an inquiring turn of
mind, and one Saturday afternoon, after standing under a tree for fully
five minutes lost in thought, she came to me with a question: "What are
the birds saying to each other?" I looked at the Ugly Duckling, and she
twisted herself into a note of interrogation, in the ridiculous way she
has, but her face was full of anxiety for enlightenment about the
language of the sparrows. "There," she said, pointing vigorously to the
astonish