Червона літера

           Theunlikeliestmaterials—astick,abunchofrags,aflower—werethepuppetsofPearl’switchcraft,and,withoutundergoinganyoutwardchange,becamespirituallyadaptedtowhateverdramaoccupiedthestageofherinnerworld.Heronebaby-voiceservedamultitudeofimaginarypersonages,oldandyoung,totalkwithal.Thepine-trees,aged,black,andsolemn,andflinginggroansandothermelancholyutterancesonthebreeze,neededlittletransformationtofigureasPuritanelderstheugliestweedsofthegardenweretheirchildren,whomPearlsmotedownanduprootedmostunmercifully.Itwaswonderful,thevastvarietyofformsintowhichshethrewherintellect,withnocontinuity,indeed,butdartingupanddancing,alwaysinastateofpreternaturalactivity—soonsinkingdown,asifexhaustedbysorapidandfeverishatideoflife—andsucceededbyothershapesofasimilarwildenergy.Itwaslikenothingsomuchasthephantasmagoricplayofthenorthernlights.Inthemereexerciseofthefancy,however,andthesportivenessofagrowingmind,theremightbealittlemorethanwasobservableinotherchildrenofbrightfaculties;exceptasPearl,inthedearthofhumanplaymates,wasthrownmoreuponthevisionarythrongwhichshecreated.Thesingularitylayinthehostilefeelingswithwhichthechildregardedalltheseoffspringsofherownheartandmind.Shenevercreatedafriend,butseemedalwaystobesowingbroadcastthedragon’steeth,whencesprungaharvestofarmedenemies,againstwhomsherushedtobattle.