“If that’s all,” said Bit-bit, “I’m afraid I can’t help you. I thought you wanted to work. Out of all the work there is in the world I should think of another one if I were you, Deevy.”
“Well, then, I want to make a golden court dress for me, all embroidered and flowered and buttoned and gored and spliced,” said the Deev, or whatever these things are called in the clothing of Deevs; “I want to make one. I’m tired goin’ around in rompers.” (It wasn’t rompers, really, but it was what Deevs wear instead, and you wouldn’t know the name, even if I told you.)
“Excuse me,” said Bit-bit, frankly, “I won’t waste time like that. Don’t you want to work?”
“Yes,” said the Deev, “I do. Maybe I don’t know what work is.”
“Maybe you don’t,” agreed Bit-bit. “But I can fix that. I’m going for a walk now, and there’s just room for you. Come along.”
So they started off, and it was good walking, for by now the sun had dried up all the frosting; and the Deev trotted at Bit-bit’s heels, and they made a very funny pair. So funny that Almost Everything watched them go by, and couldn’t leave off watching them go by, and so followed them all the way. Which was what Bit-bit had thought would happen. And when he got to a good place, Bit-bit stood still and told the Deev to turn round. And there they were, staring face to face with Almost Everything: Deserts and towns and men and women and children and laws and governments and railroads and factories and forests and food and drink.
“There’s your work,” said Bit-bit, carelessly.
“Where?” asked the Deev, just like other folks.
“Where?” repeated Bit-bit, nearly peevish. “Look at this desert that’s come along behind us. Why don’t you swing a river over your head—you could do that, couldn’t you, Deevy?—and make things grow on that desert, and let people live on it, and turn ’em into folks? Why don’t you?”
“It ain’t amusin’ enough,” said the Deev.