Белая птичка
The Little House
TherewasagooddealgoingonintheBabyWalk,whenMaimiearrivedintimetoseeamagnoliaandaPersianlilacstepovertherailingandsetoffforasmartwalk.Theymovedinajerkysortofwaycertainly,butthatwasbecausetheyusedcrutches.Anelderberryhobbledacrossthewalk,andstoodchattingwithsomeyoungquinces,andtheyallhadcrutches.Thecrutcheswerethesticksthataretiedtoyoungtreesandshrubs.TheywerequitefamiliarobjectstoMaimie,butshehadneverknownwhattheywereforuntilto-night.
Shepeepedupthewalkandsawherfirstfairy.Hewasastreetboyfairywhowasrunningupthewalkclosingtheweepingtrees.Thewayhediditwasthis,hepressedaspringinthetrunkandtheyshutlikeumbrellas,delugingthelittleplantsbeneathwithsnow.“Oh,younaughty,naughtychild!”Maimiecriedindignantly,forsheknewwhatitwastohaveadrippingumbrellaaboutyourears.
Fortunatelythemischievousfellowwasoutofearshot,butthechrysanthemumsheardher,andtheyallsaidsopointedly“Hoity-toity,whatisthis?”thatshehadtocomeoutandshowherself.Thenthewholevegetablekingdomwasratherpuzzledwhattodo.
“Ofcourseitisnoaffairofours,”aspindletreesaidaftertheyhadwhisperedtogether,“butyouknowquitewellyououghtnottobehere,andperhapsourdutyistoreportyoutothefairies;whatdoyouthinkyourself?”
“Ithinkyoushouldnot,”Maimiereplied,whichsoperplexedthemthattheysaidpetulantlytherewasnoarguingwithher.
