Eves Diary | Page 8

know that wood swims, and dry leaves, and feathers,
and plenty of other things; therefore by all that cumulative evidence
you know that a rock will swim; but you have to put up with simply
knowing it, for there isn't any way to prove it--up to now. But I shall
find a way--then THAT excitement will go. Such things make me sad;
because by and by when I have found out everything there won't be any
more excitements, and I do love excitements so! The other night I
couldn't sleep for thinking about it.
At first I couldn't make out what I was made for, but now I think it was
to search out the secrets of this wonderful world and be happy and
thank the Giver of it all for devising it. I think there are many things to
learn yet--I hope so; and by economizing and not hurrying too fast I
think they will last weeks and weeks. I hope so. When you cast up a
feather it sails away on the air and goes out of sight; then you throw up
a clod and it doesn't. It comes down, every time. I have tried it and tried
it, and it is always so. I wonder why it is? Of course it DOESN'T come
down, but why should it SEEM to? I suppose it is an optical illusion. I

mean, one of them is. I don't know which one. It may be the feather, it
may be the clod; I can't prove which it is, I can only demonstrate that
one or the other is a fake, and let a person take his choice.
By watching, I know that the stars are not going to last. I have seen
some of the best ones melt and run down the sky. Since one can melt,
they can all melt; since they can all melt, they can all melt the same
night. That sorrow will come--I know it. I mean to sit up every night
and look at them as long as I can keep awake; and I will impress those
sparkling fields on my memory, so that by and by when they are taken
away I can by my fancy restore those lovely myriads to the black sky
and make them sparkle again, and double them by the blur of my tears.

After the Fall
When I look back, the Garden is a dream to me. It was beautiful,
surpassingly beautiful, enchantingly beautiful; and now it is lost, and I
shall not see it any more.
The Garden is lost, but I have found HIM, and am content. He loves me
as well as he can; I love him with all the strength of my passionate
nature, and this, I think, is proper to my youth and sex. If I ask myself
why I love him, I find I do not know, and do not really much care to
know; so I suppose that this kind of love is not a product of reasoning
and statistics, like one's love for other reptiles and animals. I think that
this must be so. I love certain birds because of their song; but I do not
love Adam on account of his singing--no, it is not that; the more he
sings the more I do not get reconciled to it. Yet I ask him to sing,
because I wish to learn to like everything he is interested in. I am sure I
can learn, because at first I could not stand it, but now I can. It sours the
milk, but it doesn't matter; I can get used to that kind of milk.
It is not on account of his brightness that I love him--no, it is not that.
He is not to blame for his brightness, such as it is, for he did not make
it himself; he is as God make him, and that is sufficient. There was a
wise purpose in it, THAT I know. In time it will develop, though I

think it will not be sudden; and besides, there is no hurry; he is well
enough just as he is.
It is not on account of his gracious and considerate ways and his
delicacy that I love him. No, he has lacks in this regard, but he is well
enough just so, and is improving.
It is not on account of his industry that I love him--no, it is not that. I
think he has it in him, and I do not know why he conceals it from me. It
is my only pain. Otherwise he is frank and open with me, now. I am
sure he keeps nothing from me but this. It grieves me that he should
have a secret from me, and sometimes it spoils