'Because I've read poetry about the voices of the sea,' Ida explained.
'And in books they talk of the music of the waves, and then they say
the sea roars, and thunders in a storm. I can hear thunder, you know.
Did you know that I could hear thunder?'

Margaret smiled and looked interested.

'It bangs in the back of my head,' said the child gravely. 'But I
should like to hear the sea thunder. I often watch the waves on the
beach, as if they were lips moving, and I try to understand what they
say. Of course, it's play, because one can't, can one? But I can only
make out "Boom, ta-ta-ta-ta," getting quicker and weaker to the end,
you know, as the ripples run up the sand.'

'It's very like what I hear,' Margaret answered.

'Is it really?' Little Ida was delighted. 'Perhaps it's a language
after all, and I shall make it out some day. You see, until I know the
language people are speaking, their lips look as if they were talking
nonsense. But I'm sure the sea could not really talk nonsense all day
for thousands of years.'

'No, I'm sure it couldn't!' Margaret was amused. 'But the sea is not
alive,' she added.

'Everything that moves is alive,' the child said, 'and everything that
is alive can make a noise, and the noise must mean something. If it
didn't, it would be of no use, and everything is of some use. So
there!'