When the dodo came along he thought it was a wildcat—­I saw it in his eye.  But I saved him.  And I was careful not to do it in a way that could hurt his pride.  I just spoke up in a quite natural way of pleasing surprise, and not as if I was dreaming of conveying information, and said, “Well, I do declare, if there isn’t the dodo!” I explained—­without seeming to be explaining —­how I know it for a dodo, and although I thought maybe he was a little piqued that I knew the creature when he didn’t, it was quite evident that he admired me.  That was very agreeable, and I thought of it more than once with gratification before I slept.  How little a thing can make us happy when we feel that we have earned it!

Thursday.—­my first sorrow.  Yesterday he avoided me and seemed to wish I would not talk to him.  I could not believe it, and thought there was some mistake, for I loved to be with him, and loved to hear him talk, and so how could it be that he could feel unkind toward me when I had not done anything?  But at last it seemed true, so I went away and sat lonely in the place where I first saw him the morning that we were made and I did not know what he was and was indifferent about him; but now it was a mournful place, and every little think spoke of him, and my heart was very sore.  I did not know why very clearly, for it was a new feeling; I had not experienced it before, and it was all a mystery, and I could not make it out.

But when night came I could not bear the lonesomeness, and went to the new shelter which he has built, to ask him what I had done that was wrong and how I could mend it and get back his kindness again; but he put me out in the rain, and it was my first sorrow.

Sunday.—­It is pleasant again, now, and I am happy; but those were heavy days; I do not think of them when I can help it.

I tried to get him some of those apples, but I cannot learn to throw straight.  I failed, but I think the good intention pleased him.  They are forbidden, and he says I shall come to harm; but so I come to harm through pleasing him, why shall I care for that harm?

Monday.—­This morning I told him my name, hoping it would interest him.  But he did not care for it.  It is strange.  If he should tell me his name, I would care.  I think it would be pleasanter in my ears than any other sound.

He talks very little.  Perhaps it is because he is not bright, and is sensitive about it and wishes to conceal it.  It is such a pity that he should feel so, for brightness is nothing; it is in the heart that the values lie.  I wish I could make him understand that a loving good heart is riches, and riches enough, and that without it intellect is poverty.

Although he talks so little, he has quite a considerable vocabulary.  This morning he used a surprisingly good word.  He evidently recognized, himself, that it was a good one, for he worked in in twice afterward, casually.  It was good casual art, still it showed that he possesses a certain quality of perception.  Without a doubt that seed can be made to grow, if cultivated.