"Time for papa to come," said little Daisy, seating herself on the low
door-step; "the sun has crept way round to the big apple-tree;" and
Daisy shook back her hair, and settling her little elbows on her knees,
sat with her chin in her palms, dreamily watching the shifting clouds. A
butterfly alights on a blade of grass near her: Daisy springs up, her
long hair floating like a veil about her shoulders, and her tiny feet
scarce bending the clover blossoms, and tiptoes carefully along in
pursuit.
He's gone, Daisy, but never mind; like many other coveted treasures, he
would lose his brilliancy if caught. Daisy has found something else;
she closes her hand over it, and returns to her old watch-post on the
door-step. She seats herself again, and loosing her tiny hold, out
creeps a great, bushy, yellow caterpillar. Daisy places him carefully on
the back of her little, blue-veined hand, and he commences his travels
up the polished arm, to the little round shoulder. When he reaches the
lace sleeve, Daisy's laugh rings out like a robin's carol; then she puts
him back, to retravel the same smooth road again.
"Oh, Daisy! Daisy!" said Ruth, stepping up behind her, "what an _ugly_
playfellow; put him down, do darling; I cannot bear to see him on your
arm."
"Why--_God_ made him," said little Daisy, with sweet, upturned eyes of
wonder.
"True, darling," said Ruth, in a hushed whisper, kissing the child's
brow, with a strange feeling of awe. "Keep him, Daisy, dear, if you
like."