Daisy In The Field

"Calm? mamma," I said, laughing.

"Yes, child. Don't you know most people's voices have a little

thread, if it is not more, of sharpness or roughness, coming

out somewhere. It is sure to come out somewhere; in one form

of speech or another; with some people it only appears in the

laugh, and they should never laugh. Your voice is like a chime

of bells." And my mother took me in her arms, half-dressed as

I was, and pressed her lips full upon mine; looking into my

face and playing with me and smiling at me; finishing with

another pressure of her mouth to mine.

"Your lips are very sweet," she said, with a half sigh. "I

wonder who else will think so!"

And if one bit of vanity or self-exaltation could have been

stirred in my thoughts, though it were by my mother's praises,

these last words banished it well. I was sobered to the depths

of my heart; so sobered, that I found it expedient to be busy

with my dressing, and not expose my face immediately to any

more observations. And even when I went down stairs, my

father's first remark was, "It is the same Daisy!"

"Did you doubt it, papa?" I asked, with a smile.

"No, my pet."

"Then why do you say that as soon as I make my appearance!"

"I can hardly tell - the consciousness forced itself upon me.

You are looking at life with a microscope, - as of old."

"With a microscope, papa!"

"To pick up invisible duties and find out indiscernible

dangers -"

"When one is as old as I am," I said, "there is no need of a

microscope to find out either dangers or duties."

"Ha!" said my father, folding me in his arms - "what dangers

have you discovered, Daisy?"

"I believe they are everywhere, papa," I said, kissing him.

"Not here," he said, fondly; "there shall be none here for

you."

"Mr. Randolph," said mamma, laughing, "if Daisy is to be meat

and drink as well as scenery to you, we may as well dispense

with the usual formalities; but I hope you will condescend to

look at dinner as usual."