Белая птичка
The Little House
Sherememberednoweverythingthathadhappenedtoherfromtheclosingofthegatesuptoherrunningawayfromthefairies,buthowever,sheaskedherself,hadshegotintothisfunnyplace?Shesteppedoutbytheroof,rightoverthegarden,andthenshesawthedearhouseinwhichshehadpassedthenight.Itsoentrancedherthatshecouldthinkofnothingelse.
“Oh,youdarling,oh,yousweet,oh,youlove!”shecried.
Perhapsahumanvoicefrightenedthelittlehouse,ormaybeitnowknewthatitsworkwasdone,fornosoonerhadMaimiespokenthanitbegantogrowsmaller;itshranksoslowlythatshecouldscarcebelieveitwasshrinking,yetshesoonknewthatitcouldnotcontainhernow.Italwaysremainedascompleteasever,butitbecamesmallerandsmaller,andthegardendwindledatthesametime,andthesnowcreptcloser,lappinghouseandgardenup.Nowthehousewasthesizeofalittledog’skennel,andnowofaNoah’sArk,butstillyoucouldseethesmokeandthedoor-handleandtherosesonthewall,everyonecomplete.Theglow-wormlightwaswaningtoo,butitwasstillthere.“Darling,loveliest,don’tgo!”Maimiecried,fallingonherknees,forthelittlehousewasnowthesizeofareelofthread,butstillquitecomplete.Butasshestretchedoutherarmsimploringlythesnowcreptuponallsidesuntilitmetitself,andwherethelittlehousehadbeenwasnowoneunbrokenexpanseofsnow
