"We play our
game; it plays its."
"It plays its," repeated Tim, amused by the sound of the words.
"And that's why it's shy," the man held them to the main point, "and
dislikes showing itself--"
"But why is its game lonely?" some one asked, and there was a general
feeling that Uncle Felix had been caught this time without an answer.
For what explanation could there possibly be of that? Their faces were
half triumphant, half disappointed already.
He smiled quietly. He knew everything--everything in the world. "It's
unhappy as well as shy," he sighed, "because nothing will play with
it. Everything is asleep at night. It comes out just when other things
are going in. Trees answer it, but they answer in their sleep. Birds,
tucked away in nests and hiding-places, don't even answer at all. The
butterflies are gone, the insects lost. Leaves and twigs don't care
about being blown when there's no one there to see them. They hide
too. If there are clouds, they're dark and sulky, keeping their jolly
sides towards the stars and moon. Nothing will play with the Night-
Wind. So it either plays with the tiles on the roof and the telegraph
wires--dead things that make a lot of noise, but never leave their
places for a proper game--or else just--plays with itself.
Pages:
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105