“Dear me, it’s nice to think about it,” said Mollie. “You do make everything sound nice, and you make one glad to be alive and living in the country. Let’s have lessons outside sometimes, Miss Gibson,” she went on. “Oh, I’d love it!”
“So would I!” and “So would I,” they all shouted.
“Very well,” answered Miss Gibson, delighted to see them so enthusiastic. “We shall have lessons outside sometimes, and excursions to the river and different parts of the paddocks, and in the years to come you will look back with pleasure on those Nature studies, I am sure. Why, you might all develop into writers or artists or poets if you will only open your minds to the beauties about you.”
“Oh, dear!” sighed Eva. “If I could only be an artist!”
“I want to be a poet,” declared Doris.
“And I’d love to write,” said Mollie.
“I’d like to be all,” declared Eileen, “and I might be some day once I start and put my mind to things.”
“I don’t think,” jeered Willie. “It’s as much as you’ll manage to be one of ’em.”
“I’m goin’ to write poetry,” declared Doris.
After that the children grew most enthusiastic, and were always bringing in specimens and plants and leaves, and watching butterflies and ants and calling each other to watch the sunsets, and discovering new beauties in everything. But one day Mother said they were carrying things too far, when Doris came home sopping wet and her boots and socks caked with black mud; and Eva nearly as bad, for she had just pulled Doris out of the creek, where she slipped in while trying to catch a little wild duck that was playing at the water’s edge.