THE LITTLE GIRL
The little girl ran and ran and let the wind blow her hair until it stood out behind her as though it were wired. The air was so clear and blue that she thought: “If I jump a little I will land on the top of that mountain over there.”
But she didn’t jump. It would have been taking a mean advantage of the mountain, she thought. She would just fly up the side of it, much as she was flying along the road now. And when she had gotten to the very topmost part, she would not deign to look down upon all the silly people in the valley—the people who just went on working, and didn’t have the sense to shout with joy because the sun was shining. She would reach up her hand, and feel the little fleecy cloud that was sitting so still and quiet, way up there. She would squash it between her fingers to see if it was wet or dry. And if it was dry, she would wrap it around her, to keep it warm forever, and would spend the rest of her days trying to catch, in a rose-colored bottle, the cold wind that went rushing past.
And so the little girl ran and ran.
The wind whistled at her speed. The dewy grass kissed her feet, and the cows in the meadows yawned as she passed.
Then she stumbled. A round smooth rock had rolled across her path: a granite rock, with specks that twinkled like bad men’s eyes. It was an orthodox rock—the sort that rarely rolled from its ledge. It growled:
“Look at this astounding young person’s behavior on a Sunday! The idea! A gentleman and a preacher should put an end to such goings-on.”
And so the smooth stone rolled in her path-way, and she stumbled and fell over it.