Suppose I were now ten years old, and that glorious butterfly before me; should I not leap at it and stick a pin through it--young savage?
Precisely what a Hottentot boy would do, except that he would be free from the apish folly of pretending a scientific interest, not really existing.

I rejoice to have lived out of my boyhood; I would not go through it again for anything short of a thousand years of subsequent maturity.' She just glanced at him, a light of laughter in her eyes.

She was abandoning herself to the pleasure of hearing him speak.
'That picture of my mother,' he pursued, dropping his voice again, 'does not do her justice.

Even at twelve years old--( she died when I was twelve)--I could not help seeing and knowing how beautiful she was.

I have thought of her of late more than I ever did; sometimes I suffer a passion of grief that one so beautiful and lovable has gone and left a mere dumb picture.