The young brain was awake and hungry. It was a vigorous young brain, well-organized; eager, receiving impressions with keen joy and storing them rapidly away in due relation.
Such a wonder world!
Sweetness and light were the first impressions—light which made his eyes laugh; and Sweetness Incarnate—that great soft Presence which was Food and Warmth and Rest and Comfort and something better still; for all of which he had no name as yet except "Ma-ma!"
He was growing, growing fast. He was satisfied with food. He was satisfied with sleep. But his brain was not satisfied. So the brain's first servant went forth to minister to it; small, soft, uncertain, searching for all knowledge—the little hand.
Something to hold! Ancestral reflexes awoke as the fingers closed upon it. Something to pull! The soft arm flexors tightened with a sense of pleasure. Sensations came flowing to the hungry brain—welcomed eagerly.
Then suddenly, a new sensation—Pain! He drew back his hand as a touched anemone draws in its tentacles, scarce softer than those pink fingers; but he did not know quite where the pain was—much less where it came from, or what it meant.
"More!" said the hungry brain. "More!" and the little hand went out again.
It was sharply spatted. "No, No!" said a strange voice—he had never heard that kind of tone before. "No! No! Naughty! Don't touch!" He lifted his face unbelievingly. Yes—it was Food and Warmth and Comfort who was doing this to him.
The small moist mouth quivered grievingly—a cry rose in him.
"Here!" said the Presence, and gave him a rattle.