He had had that before. He knew all that it could do. He dropped it.
Over and over again, day after day, the little servant of the brain ran forth to minister, and met sharp pain; while the dim new concept "'Naughty'—something you want to do and mustn't"—was registered within.
The child grew and his brain grew faster. He learned new words, an behind the words, in the fresh untouched spaces, the swift brain placed ideas—according to its lights. He had learned that the Presence varied. It was not always Sweetness and Rest and Joy—sometimes it was Discomfort—Hindrance—even Pain. He had learned to look at it with doubt—when about to do something—to see which way it would react upon him.
"Isn't that baby cute?" said the Presence. "He knows just as well!"
But his brain grew stronger, and his hand grew stronger, and about him was a world of objects, rousing all manner of sensations which he fain would learn.
"I have to watch that child every minute to keep him out of mischief!" said the Presence.
She caught him sharply by the arm and drew him back.
"Don't touch that again! If you do I'll whip you!"
He stared at her, large-eyed, revolving the language. Language was so interesting. "Don't" he knew well, and "touch" and "that" and "again." "If you do" was harder. He was not at all sure about "if." And "whip"—that was quite new. He puckered his soft mouth and made a little whispering sound, trying to say it.
"Yes, Whip!" said the Presence. "Now you be good!" He knew "be good," too. It meant not doing anything. He couldn't be good very long—any more than the Proverbial Indian.