I am teaching Helen the square-hand letters as a sort of
diversion. It gives her something to do, and keeps her quiet,
which I think is desirable while this enervating weather lasts.
She has a perfect mania for counting. She has counted everything
in the house, and is now busy counting the words in her primer. I
hope it will not occur to her to count the hairs of her head. If
she could see and hear, I suppose she would get rid of her
superfluous energy in ways which would not, perhaps, tax her
brain so much, although I suspect that the ordinary child takes
his play pretty seriously. The little fellow who whirls his "New
York Flyer" round the nursery, making "horseshoe curves"
undreamed of by less imaginative engineers, is concentrating his
whole soul on his toy locomotive.

She just came to say, with a worried expression, "Girl--not count
very large (many) words." I said, "No, go and play with Nancy."
This suggestion didn't please her, however; for she replied, "No.
Nancy is very sick." I asked what was the matter, and she said,
"Much (many) teeth do make Nancy sick." (Mildred is teething.)

I happened to tell her the other day that the vine on the fence
was a "creeper." She was greatly amused, and began at once to
find analogies between her movements and those of the plants.
They run, creep, hop, and skip, bend, fall, climb, and swing; but
she tells me roguishly that she is "walk-plant."

Helen held some worsted for me last night while I wound it.
Afterward she began to swing round and round, spelling to herself
all the time, "Wind fast, wind slow," and apparently enjoying her