tiny river wound lazily in and out through the woodland, lazily, without any design at all, as though it were half asleep.
"Let's go down there by the river's edge," his mother suggested, "and we can make up fairy tales for one another. Let's imagine that the sky is a vast blue road and the fleeing clouds are white horses. That one up there is mine, the one that has such a bushy mane."
Scobee paused and gazed at the sky. He liked to play that kind of make-believe. "And that one with the gray nose is mine," he said.
"See," cried his mother, "they are racing, far down the broad blue road of the sky they go, to lands of enchantment and sweet music. Perhaps they are bound for the place where the rainbows are made. Or else to the Flower Lands where all the fragrant flowers are manufactured. At night the Spring Fairies come out and tie the buds to the branches of the bushes. Then little by little the buds open as the Spring Fairies touch them with their wands. But see, Grey Nose, your horse, is winning!
He has gone lickety-split almost into
