Белая птичка
The Little House
Shehadshuthereyestightandgluedthemwithpassionatetears.Whensheopenedthemsomethingverycoldranupherlegsandupherarmsanddroppedintoherheart.ItwasthestillnessoftheGardens.Thensheheardclang,thenfromanotherpartclang,thenclang,clangfaraway.ItwastheClosingoftheGates.
ImmediatelythelastclanghaddiedawayMaimiedistinctlyheardavoicesay,“Sothat’sallright.”Ithadawoodensoundandseemedtocomefromabove,andshelookedupintimetoseeanelmtreestretchingoutitsarmsandyawning.
Shewasabouttosay,“Ineverknewyoucouldspeak!”whenametallicvoicethatseemedtocomefromtheladleatthewellremarkedtotheelm,“Isupposeitisabitcoldishupthere?”andtheelmreplied,“Notparticularly,butyoudogetnumbstandingsolongononeleg,”andheflappedhisarmsvigorouslyjustasthecabmendobeforetheydriveoff.Maimiewasquitesurprisedtoseethatanumberofothertalltreesweredoingthesamesortofthing,andshestoleawaytotheBabyWalkandcrouchedobservantlyunderaMinorcaHollywhichshruggeditsshouldersbutdidnotseemtomindher.
Shewasnotintheleastcold.Shewaswearingarusset-colouredpelisseandhadthehoodoverherhead,sothatnothingofhershowedexceptherdearlittlefaceandhercurls.Therestofherrealselfwashiddenfarawayinsidesomanywarmgarmentsthatinshapesheseemedratherlikeaball.Shewasaboutfortyroundthewaist.
