"It is my only chance of making any true acquaintance with the sparrows," I answered. "Look at them now," I exclaimed, as a little crowd of them suddenly appeared where only one had stood a moment before, and exploded in objurgation and general unintelligible excitement. After some obscure fluttering of wings and pecking, they all vanished except two, which walked about in a dignified manner, trying apparently to seem quite unconscious each of the other's presence. "I think it was a political meeting of some sort," said Connie, laughing merrily. "Well, they have this advantage over us," I answered, "that they get through their business whatever it may be, with considerably greater expedition than we get through ours." A short silence followed, during which Connie lay contemplating everything. "What do you think we girls are like, then, papa?" she asked at length. "Don't say you don't know, now." "I ought to know something more about you than I do about schoolboys. And I think I do know a little about girls--not much though. They puzzle me a good deal sometimes. I know what a great-hearted woman is, Connie." "You can't help doing that, papa," interrupted Connie, adding with her old roguishness, "You mustn't pass yourself off for very knowing for that. By the time Wynnie is quite grown up, your skill will be tried." "I hope I shall understand her then, and you too, Connie." A shadow, just like the shadow of one of those white clouds above us, passed over her face, and she said, trying to smile: "I shall never grow up, papa. If I live, I shall only be a girl at best--a creature you can't understand." "On the contrary, Connie, I think I understand you almost as well as mamma. But there isn't so much to understand yet, you know, as there will be." Her merriment returned. "Tell me what girls are like, then, or I shall sulk all day because you say there isn't so much in me as in mamma." "Well, I think, if the boys are like sparrows, the girls are like swallows. Did you ever watch them before rain, Connie, skimming about over the lawn as if it were water, low towards its surface, but never alighting? You never see them grubbing after worms. Nothing less than things with wings like themselves will satisfy them. They will be obliged to the earth only for a little mud to build themselves nests with. For the rest, they live in the air, and on the creatures of the air. And then, when they fancy the air begins to be uncivil, sending little shoots of cold through their warm feathers, they vanish. They won't stand it. They're off to a warmer climate, and you never know till you find they're not there any more. There, Connie!" "I don't know, papa, whether you are making game of us or not. If you are not, then I wish all you say were quite true of us. If you are then I think it is not quite like you to be satirical."