Читать книгу The Story Without an End онлайн

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Then the dragonfly told much of the merry life in the green wood; how sometimes she played hide-and-seek with her playfellows under the broad leaves of the oak and the beech trees; or hunt-the-hare along the surface of the still waters; sometimes quietly watched the sunbeams, as they flew busily from moss to flower and from flower to bush, and shed life and warmth over all. But at night, she said, the moonbeams glided softly around the wood, and dropped dew into the mouths of all the thirsty plants; and when the dawn pelted the slumberers with the soft roses of heaven, some of the half drunken flowers looked up and smiled; but most of them could not so much as raise their heads for a long, long time.

Such stories did the dragonfly tell; and as the Child sat motionless with his eyes shut, and his head rested on his little hand, she thought he had fallen asleep;—so she poised her double wings and flew into the rustling wood.

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But the Child was only sunk into a dream of delight, and was wishing he were a sunbeam or a moonbeam; and he would have been glad to hear more and more, and for ever. But at last, as all was still, he opened his eyes and looked around for his dear guest; but she was flown far away; so he could not bear to sit there any longer alone, and he rose and went to the gurgling brook. It gushed and rolled so merrily, and tumbled so wildly along as it hurried to throw itself head-over-heels into the river, just as if the great, massy rock out of which it sprang, were close behind it, and could only be escaped by a break-neck leap.