a poor little thing as Daisy had come into it; but bright and pleasant as it was before, it was a hundred times brighter and pleasanter now.
The child was so gentle and loving, and so happy and full of life, that Susan and Peter felt almost like children themselves, in watching her. No matter how tired Peter was at night, he would frolic an hour with Daisy, tossing the little thing in the air, lifting her up among the boughs till she was hidden from sight. And Susan would leave her work any time to admire Daisy's garden, or to dress the wooden doll that Peter had made for her.
As for Daisy's self, she was the busiest little soul alive, after she once learned to walk; for at first she could only lie and look up at the leaves, and the great sky, so far, far off, and see the slow, white clouds sail past the tops of the trees, and watch the birds, that hopped from branch to branch and looked down at her curiously, wondering if she were any thing good to eat.
Daisy would hold up her little hands, to tell them they'd better not try, and then the bird would turn it off by singing away as if he had no such thought, and watch her as he warbled his gay little song, that said, "O Daisy, I'm having a beautiful time; are you?"
Then Daisy would coo, and laugh, and clap her hands, which was her song, and which meant, "Yes, indeed; only wait till I can use my feet, and have a run with you."
Peter made a rough kind of cradle out of willow twigs, and hung it in a tree, so that the fresh, green leaves shaded it, and kept away the flies, and fanned Daisy's face, as she lay there swinging, when the day was warm, like a little hangbird in her nest.
No wonder the child was always fond of birds, when she began so early to live with them and listen to their songs.
But Daisy learned to walk in time; and then she was constantly flying about, like the butterflies she loved. For the little girl thought even more of butterflies than of birds; they seemed to her like beautiful flowers sailing through the air, and making calls upon the other flowers, that were fastened down to the earth, – poor things! – as she used to be before she learned to walk.
She would pick the flowers sometimes, and toss them into the air to see if they didn't fly, and tell them they were silly things to fall back on the ground and wilt, when, if they only would not be afraid, they might float off, with all their wings, and see a little of the world.
Daisy's hands were always full of flowers; and she brought some to the cabin which Susan had never seen before; for the good woman could not leave her work long enough to go in such out-of-the-way places as they chose to blossom in.
Daisy had no work except to amuse herself; and she never tired of trudging under the trees, crowding her way among the tall weeds by the river bank, and creeping behind great rocks, or into soft, mossy places in the heart of the quiet wood; and here she was sure of finding strange and lovely things.
These were the little girl's books; she had no spelling and history like yours, but studied the shapes of leaves and clouds, and the sunshine, and river, and birds.
She did not know all their names, but could tell you where the swallow lived, and where wild honeysuckles grew, and the humming bird hid her little eggs, and how many nuts the squirrel was hoarding for winter time, and how nicely the ant had cleaned her house for spring, and when the winged seeds on the maple tree would change to broad green leaves, and the leaves themselves would change to colors as gay as the sunset, and then all droop and wither, and leave the bright little stars to wink at her through the naked boughs.
The birds all knew Daisy, and were not afraid of her; they would bring their young ones about the door, that she might feed them with crumbs and seeds. And even the sly little rabbits, that started if a leaf fell, came quietly and nibbled grass from Daisy's hands, and let her stroke their long, soft ears.
You may wonder that Susan was not afraid the snakes and wolves would devour her little girl; but, as I told you before, she never could help thinking that the old woman was somewhere in the wood, and remembering how she had smiled at looking into the baby's face, thought she would not let Daisy come to any harm.
And she was right; for the fairy only lifted her finger when the little girl passed, and the wolf that had begun to watch and growl at her would crouch back in his den, and fall asleep.
But he would not have frightened Daisy, had he come forth; she did not know the name of fear, and, glad to see a new play-fellow, would perhaps have climbed on his back, and, patting his mouth so gently with her little hand that he forgot to growl, would have told him now he might gallop along, and take her home to her mother.
CHAPTER V.
TROUBLE FOR DAISY
It was fortunate that Susan was so happy while she could be; for the poor woman little dreamed how soon her sunny home was to become a sad, dark place for her.
Peter used to go forth in the morning, whistling as gayly as any of the birds; and Daisy following him, proud enough that she could carry his little dinner basket for the short way she went.
She did not know that what was such a heavy load to her was only a feather for the strong man to lift, and so delighted in thinking she had grown old enough to help her dear father.
Still Peter had to watch his dinner closely; for Daisy would espy some beautiful flower or vine looking at her from away off in the shade; and down the basket would go, and the little girl was off to take a nearer look, and see if she could not break off a branch to carry home to her mother.
Sometimes Peter walked so fast, or Daisy staid so long, that they lost each other; and then the father made a call that could be heard for miles, which frightened all the birds home to their nests, and must have startled the old dame herself, wherever she might be lurking in the wood.
But the call was music to Daisy; and before many minutes, she would come bounding into her father's arms, almost hidden in the waving white blossoms with which she had loaded herself.
And all this while, unless Peter himself took care of it, what would become of his dinner!
When Susan went to meet her husband at evening, now, Daisy was sure to be with her – one moment holding her hand, the next skipping away alone, or kneeling to gather bright pebbles and sheets of green moss, to make banks and paths in her garden. She fluttered about in the sunshine like the butterflies she loved, and was as harmless and gentle.
But, alas! one night, no Peter came to meet them; and though Daisy kept thinking she heard his step or his voice, it could only be the fall of some dead limb or the hooting of an owl.
The night grew darker, and it lightened so sharply that Daisy clung to her mother's skirts, and begged her to hide somewhere under a rock until the storm should be past, as the little girl felt almost sure her father had done.
But Susan groped her way on, with the wind blowing the branches into their faces, and the dead boughs snapping and falling about them, and the snakes, that they had never seen before, gliding across the path, hissing, and running their forked tongues out with fear.
And at length they found poor Peter, dead, on the ground. The tree which he had been cutting down had fallen suddenly, and crushed his head so under its great trunk that they only knew him by his clothes.
CHAPTER VI.
THE SWEETEST FLOWER
Small as Daisy was, she saw that her father could never speak to her again; she remembered how kind he had always been; how many good times they had had together; how, that very morning, he had waited, on his way to work, and climbed a tall tree,
