For poetry, I think, she has far more inclination than for philosophy;
so also she likes to ride better than to walk, which last she does
only in case of necessity. The ugly cacophony of our mother-tongue
here in the north melts on her tongue into the sweet and mellow
euphony of Italian and Hindu speech. She is especially fond of rhymes,
as of everything else that is beautiful; she never grows tired of
saying and singing over and over again to herself, one after the
other, all her favorite little verses--as it were, a classic selection
of her little pleasures. Poetry binds the blossoms of all things
together into a light garland, and so little Wilhelmina talks in rhyme
about regions, times, events, persons, toys and things to eat--all
mixed together in a romantic chaos, every word a picture. And she does
all that without any qualifications or artistic transitions, which
after all only aid the understanding and impede the free flight of the
fancy.

For her fancy everything in nature is alive and animate. I often
recall with pleasure the first time she ever saw and felt of a doll.
She was not more than a year old. A divine smile lighted up her little
face, as she pressed an affectionate kiss on the painted wooden lips.
Surely there lies deep in the nature of man an impulse to eat anything
he loves, to lift to his mouth every new object and there, if
possible, reduce it to its original, constituent parts. A wholesome
thirst for knowledge impels him to seize the object, penetrate into
its interior and bite it to pieces. On the other hand, touching stops
at the surface, while grasping affords only imperfect, mediate
knowledge. Nevertheless it is a very interesting spectacle, when a
bright child catches sight of another child, to watch her feel of it
and strive to orient herself by means of those antennae of the reason.