"And when you slip off, how do you get on again?" I asked.
"Little pony is tame, and I never fall off," she said. "Sometimes I
get off, then I climb on again."
"And what do you do all day long--talk and play?"
"I talk to my doll; I take it on the pony when I go with the sheep."
"Is your doll very pretty, Anita?"
No answer.
"Will you let me see your doll, Anita? I know I shall like your doll,
because I like you."
She gave me an anxious look. Evidently doll was a very precious being
and had not met with proper appreciation. After a little nervous
fidgeting she left me and crept out of the room; then presently she
came back, apparently trying to screen something from the vulgar gaze
in her scanty little dress. It was her wonderful doll--the dear
companion of her rambles and rides. With fear and trembling she allowed
me to take it into my hands. It was, or consisted of, the forefoot of
a sheep, cut off at the knee; on the top of the knee part a little
wooden ball wrapped in a white rag represented the head, and it was
dressed in a piece of red flannel--a satyr-like doll, with one hairy
leg and a cloven foot. I praised its pleasing countenance, its pretty
gown and dainty little boots; and all I said sounded very precious to
Anita, filling her with emotions of the liveliest pleasure.
"And do you never play with the dogs and cats and little lambs?" I
asked.
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