“My, now I am scared!—but I won’t cry! I’m nine years old, and I won’t cry! I’ll look around and see if there isn’t something I can think to do,” but a big tear blinded her eye.
“Where’s my handkerchief? Where ever did I put my handkerchief?” She looked in her pocket. “But if I’m not going to cry, what do I need it for?” she asked herself, and brushed away a big drop with the back of her hand.
“Oh, oh, look!” Tiny laughed so that the woods echoed, and no wonder she did—for just at her feet lay the tiniest little bit of a town with real houses, no bigger than bird-houses; real people, too, not much taller than pins; real street-lamps no bigger than pencils; real carts no bigger than peanuts; real horses no bigger than katydids. In the center of the town was a lovely little fountain. From the fountain, walks led in four directions.
Houses and public buildings were along these walks; and scattered on the green lawns were pretty flower-beds.
“Oh, what a lovely cottage!” cried Tiny, spying a beautiful little house near the edge of the village.
“I’m going to pick it up! No, I’ll stoop down and look at it. People may be inside. If I picked it up they might be hurt and frightened.”
She leaned over and examined it closely, but was careful not to step into the town.
The walls were covered with vines, and geraniums bloomed at the windows. Charming white curtains hung on the sashes, showing off the brilliant color of the geraniums.
Smoke was coming out of the chimney.
“My, the people who live in that cottage must be getting supper!” The little girl spoke softly to herself. “It seems to me I can smell it cooking. What tiny little bits of dishes they must use—smaller than the littlest ones I own. Why, an acorn would be almost large enough for a bath tub for the house.”