“And in a minute he was close to the big tree; but just as swiftly, before he could draw another breath, he was whisked by. He stuck out his arm, the one that wasn’t carrying the green umbrella, you know, and he tried to catch hold of the tree; but alas! he was running by at the top of his speed, and now the big tree was clear way behind, and”—
“And couldn’t he stop?” cried Phronsie with wide eyes. “Do make him stop, Polly.”
“I can’t,” said Polly, “because this is the story, you know, of how [the green umbrella ran away with the queer little old man.]”
[The umbrella runs away with the queer little man.]
“This queer little old man has got to run, Phronsie,” said Jasper, “so we shall have to let him.”
But Phronsie sighed as she folded her hands.
“And the queer little old man knew, too, by this time that he had got to run,” Polly was saying; “and he began to sigh and to groan, ‘Oh, I wish I hadn’t taken this green umbrella;’ and all the while he was going faster and faster, till his head began to spin, and he thought he should drop down in the road; but he couldn’t, you see, for his little bits of feet kept hopping and skipping along, so of course there was no time for him to tumble flat. And in a minute he came to a great big pond and”—
“Like what you said Cherry Brook was?” cried Van, breaking in.
“Dear me, no,” said Polly with a little laugh; “this was ever and ever so many times bigger, like”—