“Nothing. Uncle was very clever that way; but I never cared about seeds—they looked so very uninteresting; I only cared about the flowers.”
“If I were you,” said the frog, “I would rub a little of that liquid out of the bottle on my hands. If they are blistered and sore it will heal them very quickly. I’ve had sore hands myself, so I can sympathise. And here’s a pair of gloves,” it continued, drawing a pair from behind the coal-scuttle. “I made them this afternoon, instead of coming out to keep you company. I might have made them outside, but I thought it would be a little surprise for you.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Rosalie. “How very thoughtful of you! Where did you learn everything you know?”
“Well! well!” said the frog, with quite a sorrowful croak, “I learnt it in the school where it is most generally taught.”
“Where was that?”
“In the school of experience and adversity, for the most part.”
“Don’t you think that people can be kind unless they’ve gone through a great deal of suffering?” asked Rosalie.
“Now and again, just now and again, one finds them. But they’re few and far between.”
“I think suffering and trouble make people bitter, or else break them up altogether.”
“Not if they’re made of the right stuff,” said the frog. “It’s the needle’s eye that rich and poor men alike have to pass through. If you can’t stand sorrow, you can’t stand happiness, though you may think you can.”