Page 286 - The Story of My Lif

She is much interested in some little chickens that are pecking their way into the

world this morning. I let her hold a shell in her hand, and feel the chicken “chip,
chip.” Her astonishment, when she felt the tiny creature inside, cannot be put in
a letter. The hen was very gentle, and made no objection to our investigations.
Besides the chickens, we have several other additions to the family—two calves,
a colt, and a penful of funny little pigs. You would be amused to see me hold a
squealing pig in my arms, while Helen feels it all over, and asks countless
questions—questions not easy to answer either. After seeing the chicken come
out of the egg, she asked: “Did baby pig grow in egg? Where are many shells?”

Helen’s head measures twenty and one-half inches, and mine measures twenty-
one and one-half inches. You see, I’m only one inch ahead!

June 12, 1887.

The weather continues hot. Helen is about the same—pale and thin; but you
mustn’t think she is really ill. I am sure the heat, and not the natural, beautiful
activity of her mind, is responsible for her condition. Of course, I shall not
overtax her brain. We are bothered a good deal by people who assume the

responsibility of the world when God is neglectful. They tell us that Helen is
“overdoing,” that her mind is too active (these very people thought she had no
mind at all a few months ago!) and suggest many absurd and impossible
remedies. But so far nobody seems to have thought of chloroforming her, which
is, I think, the only effective way of stopping the natural exercise of her faculties.
It’s queer how ready people always are with advice in any real or imaginary
emergency, and no matter how many times experience has shown them to be
wrong, they continue to set forth their opinions, as if they had received them
from the Almighty!

I am teaching Helen the square-hand letters as a sort of diversion. It gives her
something to do, and keeps her quiet, which I think is desirable while this
enervating weather lasts.