“The many, many different kinds of animals there are in the world,” she thought. “Every day a fresh discovery.”
The wind had subsided some, and the sun shone through the branches. From below rose the song of a robin redbreast, filling the woods with joy. Maya could see it perched on a branch, could see its throat swell and pulse with the song as it held its little head raised up to the light.
“If only I could sing like that robin redbreast,” she said, “I’d perch on a flower and keep it up the livelong day.”
“You’d produce something lovely, you would, with your humming and buzzing.”
“The bird looks so happy.”
“You have great fancies,” said the daddy-long-legs. “Supposing every animal were to wish he could do something that nature had not fitted him to do, the world would be all topsy-turvy. Supposing a robin redbreast thought he had to have a sting—a sting above everything else—or a goat wanted to fly about gathering honey. Supposing a frog were to come along and languish for my kind of legs.”
Maya laughed.
“That isn’t just what I mean. I mean, it seems lovely to be able to make all beings as happy as the bird does with his song.—But goodness gracious!” she exclaimed suddenly. “Mr. Hannibal, you have one leg too many.”
Hannibal frowned and looked into space, vexed.
“Well, you’ve noticed it,” he said glumly. “But as a matter of fact—one leg too few, not too many.”