gazing at the vehicle, which looked like a child’s toy, crawling down the slope. ‘Not straw, Mummy, it’s hay
that’s in it’, Helen said, in a matter-of-fact tone. I looked again but, for the life of me, I couldn’t have distinguished the greenish-yellow of hay from the golden-yellow of
straw at that distance. To Helen, it came quite naturally.
She took an intense interest in the weather, understanding instinctively the effect it had on all our lives. The stars had a deep fascination for her. They are her bright lights. This
fascination has grown, over the years, and her present ambition is to become an astronomer. Jim and I have exhausted our stock of knowledge of the subject and have imparted all the legends we know,
too. We’ve given her two star-books and she often drags us out, on a glittering cold night, to identify planets and look for shooting stars. We wouldn’t have it otherwise; we gladly
suffer frozen toes and a crick in the neck so that she may revel in the blaze of the night sky. She is a great stickler for accuracy, and I’m certain that at the back of the statistics
she’s catching the steady gleam of poetry.
During that summer she began to get ‘itchy feet’. She could already manage a hill walk of three or four miles, with us. Now she showed definite signs of wanting to go off
occasionally on her own. Sometimes it would be to Woodend she’d go, sometimes over to the Macleans, where young Bertha was always ready for a game. We’d watch her progress from wherever
we were working, see the small figure bouncing from tussock to tussock across the moor-ground, watch it disappear behind the raised bank at the burn-side and emerge seconds later on the other side
of the water-splash. She was always sure of her welcome in the little house, where Mrs. Maclean would have a drink of milk for her, or lemonade, if the day was warm, and a pancake off the girdle
and a sweetie for the way home.
She was big for her age, strong and independent, yet she was still not much more than a baby. Every day, after dinner and after supper, I used to take her on my knee and read her a story, from a
book with large print and plenty of pictures. One day I suddenly realised that she was growing up. It was wet and I was mixing a cake in the kitchen. Helen was sitting quietly in the living-room.
All at once she came to my side, dumped an open book in the midst of the floury mess on the table and began, quite calmly, to read to me. The words were simple and mostly of one syllable, but she
hardly hesitated. I just held my breath and listened. It seemed like a minor miracle to me. To her, it was the simplest thing in the world, quite obviously. Since that day she has gone on reading
steadily and our only difficulty now is to keep her supplied with books.
Helen found the wireless a great delight during that last preschool year and she would caper round the kitchen to ‘Music and Movement’, tap with the poker to ‘Time and
Tune’, and sing at the top of her voice with William Appleby. She even listened, enthralled, to the adventures with prehistoric monsters in ‘How Things Began’ and insisted on
having ‘Science and the Community’ turned on full blast, though what she made of it none of us were sure!
She was never bored—every day brought something different to do. Times of celebration, such as Christmas, Hallowe’en and birthdays, were eagerly looked forward to and prepared
for.
‘How lonely she must be!’ several of our friends said, at various times. They no doubt had a picture in their minds of one small girl surrounded by acres and acres of solitude and
quiet. From the cosiness of suburbia, where there are iced lollies round the corner, shop-windows full of glittering toys, and a bus to take hordes of good children to the Saturday morning film
show, this vision must have been something to turn from with a shudder.
Alone she undoubtedly is, in the sense that each one of us is alone, to
that’s in it’, Helen said, in a matter-of-fact tone. I looked again but, for the life of me, I couldn’t have distinguished the greenish-yellow of hay from the golden-yellow of
straw at that distance. To Helen, it came quite naturally.
She took an intense interest in the weather, understanding instinctively the effect it had on all our lives. The stars had a deep fascination for her. They are her bright lights. This
fascination has grown, over the years, and her present ambition is to become an astronomer. Jim and I have exhausted our stock of knowledge of the subject and have imparted all the legends we know,
too. We’ve given her two star-books and she often drags us out, on a glittering cold night, to identify planets and look for shooting stars. We wouldn’t have it otherwise; we gladly
suffer frozen toes and a crick in the neck so that she may revel in the blaze of the night sky. She is a great stickler for accuracy, and I’m certain that at the back of the statistics
she’s catching the steady gleam of poetry.
During that summer she began to get ‘itchy feet’. She could already manage a hill walk of three or four miles, with us. Now she showed definite signs of wanting to go off
occasionally on her own. Sometimes it would be to Woodend she’d go, sometimes over to the Macleans, where young Bertha was always ready for a game. We’d watch her progress from wherever
we were working, see the small figure bouncing from tussock to tussock across the moor-ground, watch it disappear behind the raised bank at the burn-side and emerge seconds later on the other side
of the water-splash. She was always sure of her welcome in the little house, where Mrs. Maclean would have a drink of milk for her, or lemonade, if the day was warm, and a pancake off the girdle
and a sweetie for the way home.
She was big for her age, strong and independent, yet she was still not much more than a baby. Every day, after dinner and after supper, I used to take her on my knee and read her a story, from a
book with large print and plenty of pictures. One day I suddenly realised that she was growing up. It was wet and I was mixing a cake in the kitchen. Helen was sitting quietly in the living-room.
All at once she came to my side, dumped an open book in the midst of the floury mess on the table and began, quite calmly, to read to me. The words were simple and mostly of one syllable, but she
hardly hesitated. I just held my breath and listened. It seemed like a minor miracle to me. To her, it was the simplest thing in the world, quite obviously. Since that day she has gone on reading
steadily and our only difficulty now is to keep her supplied with books.
Helen found the wireless a great delight during that last preschool year and she would caper round the kitchen to ‘Music and Movement’, tap with the poker to ‘Time and
Tune’, and sing at the top of her voice with William Appleby. She even listened, enthralled, to the adventures with prehistoric monsters in ‘How Things Began’ and insisted on
having ‘Science and the Community’ turned on full blast, though what she made of it none of us were sure!
She was never bored—every day brought something different to do. Times of celebration, such as Christmas, Hallowe’en and birthdays, were eagerly looked forward to and prepared
for.
‘How lonely she must be!’ several of our friends said, at various times. They no doubt had a picture in their minds of one small girl surrounded by acres and acres of solitude and
quiet. From the cosiness of suburbia, where there are iced lollies round the corner, shop-windows full of glittering toys, and a bus to take hordes of good children to the Saturday morning film
show, this vision must have been something to turn from with a shudder.
Alone she undoubtedly is, in the sense that each one of us is alone, to
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