laugh, it is the kind of a laugh that I love to feel coming, because it is all sweet. The ones on the path are sort of prim and not so interesting; and the ones on the grass and pink petals are dear, jolly ones, but they do fight sometimes, and get into awful squabbles, pull each other's hair, and then dance apart and throw kisses. I don't like the sliding ones very well. They are so kind of smooth and unconcerned. Things have to be alive to you, for you to love them,—not just sliding. Some of the ones on the rock I like; some of them are ugly, and frown and look hard-souled and cruel; some are just stern and severe, but you can see that they are kind and don't mean to be hard—just happened to come that way. The little one over on the toadstool is horrid. I don't like her at all."
"They are a good deal like people, after all, aren't they?" said the Dream.
Marjorie nodded. "Ever so much, when you come to examine them."
"Perhaps you have noticed," said the Dream, "that it is the face of each one that touches the grass and the rocks and the flowers. The self of it stretches down from—somewhere."
