Then she dropped fast asleep, and somebody came right down out of the clouds and gave her a peach turnover as big as a dinner basket, or so she thought. Just as she was about to cut it, she was awakened by the rain dripping into her eyes. She started up, exclaiming, "If you pees um, I want some cheese um."
But the turnover had gone! Then the feeling of desolation swept over her again. She had come to the end of the world, and dinner, and mother, and heaven had all gone off and left her.
"O, Diny," sobbed she, turning to her unfeeling dolly for sympathy. "I's free years old, and you's one years old. Don't you want to go to heaven, Diny, and sit in God's lap? What a great big lap he must have!"
A gust of wind lifted the frizzles on Dinah's forehead, but that was all.
"O dee, dee, dee! you don't hear nuffin 't all, Diny," said Flyaway—the only sensible remark she had made that day. It was of no use talking to Dinah; so she began to talk to herself.
"What you matter, Flywer Clifford?" said she, scowling to keep her courage up. "What you matter?"
And after she had said that, she cried harder than ever, and crept under the bushes, moaning like a wounded lamb.
"I'm defful wetter, but I'm colder'n I's wetter; makes me shivvle!"
After a while the clouds had poured out all the rain there was in them, and left the sky as clear as it was before; but by that time the sun had gone to bed, and the little birds too, sending out their good nights from tree to tree. Then the new moon came, and peeped over the shoulder of a hill at Flyaway. She sprang out from the bushes like a rabbit.
"O, my shole!" cried she, clapping her hands, "the sun's camed again! A little bit o' sun. I sawed it!"