herself, but her thoughts for the most part are
those proper to every imaginative child. Fairies
play a large role in her fancies, and so does the
sandman. There are kings, and princesses, and
golden wings, and there are reminiscences of
story-books, and hints of pictures that have pleased
her. After all, that is the way we all make our
poems, but the grown-up poet tries to get away
from his author, he tries to see more than the
painter has seen. The little girl is quite
untroubled by any questions of technique. She
takes what to her is the obvious always, and in
these copied pieces it is, naturally, less her own
peculiar obvious than in the nature poems.

Hilda Conkling is evidently possessed of a rare
and accurate power of observation. And when
we add this to her gift of imagination, we see
that it is the perfectly natural play of these two
faculties which makes what to her is an obvious
expression. She does not search for it, it is her
natural mode of thought. But, luckily for her,
she has been guided by a wisdom which has not
attempted to show her a better way. Her observation
has been carefully, but unobtrusively, cultivated;
her imagination has been stimulated by the
reading of excellent books; but both these lines
of instruction have been kept apparently apart
from her own work. She has been let alone there;
she has been taught by an analogy which she has