Up soared the bubble, and Bobbie soon saw that the clouds now formed themselves into a long, crooked roadway lined with little houses and barns and windmills. Tiny cows grazed on the fleecy pink clouds, like cows in a meadow of pink and white clover. And, strange to say, what had looked like stars were buttercups—golden buttercups.
Soon Bobbie sailed up close to a funny little farmer who was milking a cow.
“Please, sir,” Bobbie called to him “will you tell me what country this is?”
The little farmer turned around in such surprise that his stream of milk followed his glance, and came splashing against the side of the bubble. Bobbie held up his hands, for he was thirsty. But the bubble was like a big glass, with Bobbie on the inside and the milk on the outside—and not a drop came through.
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“Oh, whizaphats!” said Bobbie in disgust. “We don't put even goldfish in such a mean thing as this. At least we leave a hole in the top to put food in!”
“Eh? What's that? I can't hear you,” said the little farmer in a squeaky voice.