This assertion that some one was calling her was continually made by the child for nearly a year, until her parents grew anxious for her health. “Take the books away from her,” said her father; “her brain is too big for her body.”
Accordingly she was sent to romp in the fields, to gather berries and wild flowers along the walls, to sing among the bees. She must not hear so many exciting tales, or be allowed to brood in fancy. As the summer turned into fall she must needs be more indoors, but her brother Albert found her on a drear November evening, huddled close to the pasture wall, singing softly. The noisy pigs were squealing in the sty and the child had stolen out from the warm fireside to sing to them, thinking they needed comfort before they would go to sleep. Carrying her in on his shoulder, her brother deposited her in her grandmother’s arms, telling merrily of the quaint lullaby.
“But,” said the child excitedly, “they are crying and it must be because it’s cold and dark out there.”
“God cares for all his creatures, my bairn,” said the grandmother, soothing and caressing the chilled little maiden.
The voices had not ceased to call the little girl, but Mary had ceased to respond to them. Mrs. Eddy has told of these persistent callings which were heard by her for some twelve months, and in her autobiography says:
One day when my cousin, Mehitable Huntoon, was visiting us, and I sat in a little chair by her side, in the same room with grandmother, the call again
