"You're an amphibious animal," Elizabeth said. "I don't just know what kind, but I do know what your mind is like—the way it flies around, up one thing and down another. It's exactly like a squirrel."
"I don't know whether that's a compliment or not. Look who's here, Elizabeth. A little fish, see. A perfectly good fish. I wonder how he got here."
"Is he dead?" Elizabeth asked, shrinking a little.
"He's either dead or sleeping. I think he's alive. He hasn't any eyes, that's his trouble. Let's put him back in the water—but let's wish on him first."
"Wait a minute," Elizabeth cried. "I know a perfectly lovely poem out of the Kipling book. I'll try it on the poor little thing.
"Little blind fish, thou art marvelous wise. Little blind fish, who put out thine eyes? Open thy eyes, while I whisper my wish; Bring me a lover, thou little blind fish."
"He couldn't very well open his eyes, on account of never having any, but I guess he got the general idea. Back you go into the water, you little blind fish."
"You wish, too."
"I did—one of my next week wishes. You know how they tell your fortune with cards. 'What you expect, What you don't expect, What's sure to come true. Next week.' My wishes are all on that principle. There goes fishie, swimming away for dear life."
"Bring me a lover, thou little blind fish." The raft was rocking gently under a fleece-lined sky, and the water was blue-green and full of little thrills and ripples. Peggy took off her cap, and let her black hair stream on the breeze.