We look at it solemnly, from the time it consists of two leaves peeping above the ground and a soft white root, till we have to raise our faces to look at it; but we find no reason for that upward starting.
We look into dead ducks and lambs.

In the evening we carry them home, spread newspapers on the floor, and lie working with them till midnight.
With a started feeling near akin to ecstasy we open the lump of flesh called a heart, and find little doors and strings inside.

We feel them, and put the heart away; but every now and then return to look, and to feel them again.

Why we like them so we can hardly tell.
A gander drowns itself in our dam.

We take it out, and open it on the bank, and kneel looking at it.