"No, I guess I’ll keep right on, Mother—as long as I’ve started—and just be President." "Oh, that will be fine," said she. She was sewing in the arbor, her lap filled with linen, her work-basket at her feet. "Mother." "Yes." "I think I’d like to sing a song now." Straight and proper you stood in the little path, your heels together, your hands at your side, and so you sang to her the song of the little duck: "’Quack, quack,’ said the Duck, ’Quack, quack.’ ’Quack, quack,’ said—" You stopped. "Try it a little lower, dear." "’Quack, quack,’ said—" "No, that’s _too_ low," you said. You tried again and started right that time and sang it through, the song of the little duck who "’... wouldn’t be a girl, With only a curl, I wouldn’t be a girl, would you?’" "Oh, it’s beautiful," Mother said. "Now it’s your turn, Mother, to tell a story." "A story?" "Yes. About the violets." "The violets?" she said, poising her needle, musingly. "The blue, blue violets—" "As blue as the sky, Mother," you said, softly, for it is always in the hush of the garden that the stories grow. "As blue as the sky," she said. "Ah, yes. Well, once there wasn’t a violet in the whole world." "Nor a single star," you said, awesomely, helping her. And as you sat there listening the world grew wider and wider—for when you are a little boy the world is always just as wide as your eyes. "Not a violet or a single star in the whole world," Mother went on. "And what do you think? They just took little bits of the blue sky and sprinkled them all over the green world, and they were the first violets." "And the stars, Mother?" "Why, don’t you see? The stars are the little holes they left in the blue sky, with the light of heaven shining through." "Oh!" you said, softly. "Oh, Mother!" And then, in the hush of the garden, you looked at her, and lo! her eyes were blue like the violets, and bright like the stars, for the light of heaven was shining through. She was the most wonderful person in the whole world—who never did anything wrong, who knew everything, even who God was, watching, night and day, over little boys. Even the hairs of your head were numbered, she told you, and not a little bird died but He knew. "And did He know when Cock Robin died, Mother?" "Yes. He knew." "And when I hurt my finger, Mother? Did He know then?" "Yes, He knows everything." "And was He sorry, Mother, when I hurt my finger?" "Very sorry, dear." "Then why did He _let_ me hurt my finger—why?" For a moment she did not speak. "Dearie," she said at last, "I don’t know. There are many things that nobody knows but God."