“What a miserable game,” said Goldilocks; “it is worse than playing funeral! Who thought you could make flowers grow? Our old nurse said it was only Demeter, the goddess, who could do that. Here, now, you have called up a bristling crop of thistles and brambles? On my word, Despard, it is a pity!”
“Well, well, Goldilocks, see what you can make of them. I am doomed to work, though I don’t wish it; and my work is always disagreeable, though I can’t tell why!”
Goldilocks knelt, and blew on the prickly plants with her sweet breath. By the nodding of the next breeze, they were changed to roses, violets, and hare-bells.
“It is pleasant to see any thing smile, even a flower,” said Goldilocks, laughing as she spoke.
“I think,” replied Despard, “that this is a strange pilgrimage. I believe our very thoughts are alive. I wish I could stop thinking.”
By and by they came to a rude house,—as fine a one, though, as people in the Silver Age had yet learned how to build. Despard paused, and knocked gently. “Why linger here?” whispered his sister.
“I know not,” sighed the boy, “but so must I do.”
“How now, little ones? you startled me so!” cried a woman, opening the door by the width of a crack.
“Let us come in,” said Despard, sorrowfully; “we are two little wanderers; and our hairs are wet with night-dews.”
“Come in, then, little ones, and welcome; but never, at any one’s door, knock so loud again,” added the woman, pressing her hand against her heart.