“The breezes were Thistledown’s best friends. They were as lazy and careless as himself, and the kindred spirits got on splendidly together. The breezes would carry him on long, swift rides astride their backs, or float with him lazily along over sweet-smelling fields of flowers. Sometimes they would dip him in the brook, but Thistledown did not mind that, for he shed water like a duck and the little plunge served finely to cool him off on hot summer days.
“But lazy folk are bound to be punished sooner or later, for it is not right to be lazy, and everything that is not right in the world is sure to be punished some time or other. And so it happened—but I am going to let Thistledown tell his story in his own way. (Yes, Kit, that is just the way it was in the magazine.)
“One day as Thistledown was floating over a field of daisies, he spied a spot of yellow among the flowers that was very much larger than any of the daisy centres, and much shinier and softer. Too lazy to wonder what the new kind of blossom could be, but thinking that it looked like a snug, silky place for a nap, he dropped down upon it. Immediately his downy wings became mixed up in a soft tangle of long golden threads that curled and twined about in a distressfully confusing way, all around him.
“Thistledown became frightened, but the more he struggled to free himself the more tangled he became in the golden mesh. At last he saw approaching him what he knew to be a person’s hand and his little heart sank within him as he felt this new prison closing about him. The touch of the small hand was very gentle so that not one of Thistledown’s feathers was crushed. But he was very much frightened nevertheless, poor little fellow, and closed his eyes tight for a minute.
“When he dared to open them again he found himself being surveyed very seriously by a pair of big blue eyes.
“‘Now, sir,’ said the little girl (I am sure you have guessed before now that Thistledown’s golden prison was a little girl’s curls), ‘Now, sir,’ she said, ‘before I let you go, you must tell me a story, please.’
“She was a very polite little girl and although she knew that she held Thistledown in her power and that he simply had to do whatever she told him to, whether he wanted to or not, still she said ‘sir’ and ‘please’ when she asked for her story, for she was a very polite little girl.
“The politeness pleased Thistledown—as nice manners always do please every one—but his little wits could not think of anything like a story.
“‘I’m afraid I don’t know any story,’ he replied, trying to be as polite as the little girl.
“‘Oh, yes, you do. You’re sure to,’ she declared, with a grave little nod of her head. ‘Tell me about your ad-ven-tures!’