Bit-bit, the smallest thing in the world, sat on the slipperiest edge of the highest mountain in the farthest land, weaving a little garment of sweet-grass. Then out of the valley a great Deev arose and leaned his elbows on the highest mountain and said what he thought—which is always a dangerous business.
“Then out of the valley a great Deev arose.”
“Bit-bit,” said the Deev, “how dare you make up my sweet-grass so disgustin’ extravagant?”
(It is almost impossible for a Deev to say his ing’s.)
“Deevy dear,” said Bit-bit, without looking up from his work, “I have to make a garment to help clothe the world. Don’t wrinkle up my plan. And don’t put your elbows on the table.”
“About my elbows,” said the Deev, “you are perfectly right, though Deevs always do that with their elbows. But as to that garment,” he added, “I’d like to know why you have to help clothe the world?”
“Deevy dear,” said Bit-bit, still not looking up from his work, “I have to do so, because it’s this kind of a world. Please don’t wrinkle up things.”