She lay drowsily watching the
shining bugs and creeping things that shared her green pillow, and
thought how happy she should feel if it were not for being so very
hungry. And then she was no longer hungry, for sleep stole upon her
unawares, and no one in passing noticed the curly-haired child lying on
the damp ground, with tears upon her cheek, and the night that was
creeping on so surely, overtook her and passed by, dropping his mantle
of darkness upon her as she lay asleep. And the shower came next, and
tried to wake her by sprinkling her with gentle drops. It said quite
plainly, "The night has come, and the rain. Hurry, little one!" But
Flora did not wake till the north wind shook her roughly, asking, in
gruff tones, "What are you doing here?" Then she sat up, rubbed her
eyes, and tried to collect her scattered ideas. Why was the wind
shaking her so roughly? And what made her pillow cold and wet? She
thought she was at home in her own bed, and she called aloud, "mamma!"
But there was no mamma to answer. Then she felt the raindrops upon her
face, and heard them pattering on the leaves of the big trees, and the
wind whistled among the branches, and shook them as it had shaken her,
making them cry out with pain, and she remembered all at once that she
had laid down for one little minute to rest, but what made it so dark
and cold she did not know.
She was certain that she had left the night far behind; yet here it was,
and the rain. Her pretty blue dress was wet through, and the dampness
had taken the life out of her garden hat, so that its broad rim flapped
about her face in a very uncomfortable way.
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