[Transcriber’s Note: Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and small-capital text by =equal signs=.] The Story of Opal The Journal of An Understanding Heart [Photograph: _Photograph by Bachrach_ OPAL WHITELEY RECONSTRUCTING HER DIARY] The Story of Opal The Journal of An Understanding Heart By Opal Whiteley [Illustration: Publisher’s logo] _With Illustrations_ The Atlantic Monthly Press Boston =Copyright, 1920, by The Atlantic Monthly Company= =Copyright, 1920, by the Atlantic Monthly Press= _All rights reserved_ PREFACE I For those whom Nature loves, the Story of Opal is an open book. They need no introduction to the journal of this Understanding Heart. But the world, which veils the spirit and callouses the instincts, makes curiosity for most people the criterion of interest. They demand facts and backgrounds, theories and explanations, and for them it seems worth while to set forth something of the child’s story undisclosed by the diary, and to attempt to weave together some impressions of the author. Last September, late one afternoon, Opal Whiteley came into the _Atlantic_’s office, with a book which she had had printed in Los Angeles. It was not a promising errand, though it had brought her all the way from the Western coast, hoping to have published in regular fashion this volume, half fact, half fancy, of _The Fairyland Around Us_, the fairyland of beasts and blossoms, butterflies and birds. The book was quaintly embellished with colored pictures, pasted in by hand, and bore a hundred marks of special loving care. Yet about it there seemed little at first sight to tempt a publisher. Indeed, she had offered her wares in vain to more than one publishing house; and as her dollars were growing very few, the disappointment was severe. But about Opal Whiteley herself there was something to attract the attention even of a man of business--something very young and eager and fluttering, like a bird in a thicket. The talk went as follows:-- “I am afraid we can’t do anything with the book. But you must have had an interesting life. You have lived much in the woods?” “Yes, in lots of lumber-camps.” “How many?” “Nineteen. At least, we moved nineteen times.” It was hard not to be interested now. One close question followed another regarding the surroundings of her girlhood. The answers were so detailed, so sharply remembered, that the next question was natural. “If you remember like that, you must have kept a diary.” Her eyes opened wide. “Yes, always. I do still.” “Then it is not the book I want, but the diary.” She caught her breath. “It’s destroyed. It’s all torn up.” Tears were in her eyes. “You loved it?” “Yes; I told it everything.” “Then you kept the pieces.” The guess was easy (what child whose doll is rent asunder throws away the sawdust?), but she looked amazed. “Yes, I have kept everything. The pieces are all stored in Los Angeles.”