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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=343790" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Paper Windmill</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The little boy pressed his face against the window-pane and looked out<br>at the bright sunshiny morning. The cobble-stones of the square<br>glistened like mica. In the trees, a breeze danced and pranced,<br>and shook drops of sunlight like falling golden coins into the brown water<br>of the canal. Down stream slowly drifted a long string of galliots<br>piled with crimson cheeses. The little boy thought they looked as if<br>they were roc's eggs, blocks of big ruby eggs. He said, 'Oh!' with delight,<br>and pressed against the window with all his might.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The golden cock on the top of the `Stadhuis' gleamed. His beak was open<br>like a pair of scissors and a narrow piece of blue sky was wedged in it.<br>'Cock-a-doodle-do,' cried the little boy. 'Can't you hear me<br>through the window, Gold Cocky? Cock-a-doodle-do! You should crow<br>when you see the eggs of your cousin, the great roc.' But the golden cock<br>stood stock still, with his fine tail blowing in the wind.<br>He could not understand the little boy, for he said 'Cocorico'<br>when he said anything. But he was hung in the air to swing, not to sing.<br>His eyes glittered to the bright West wind, and the crimson cheeses<br>drifted away down the canal.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>It was very dull there in the big room. Outside in the square, the wind<br>was playing tag with some fallen leaves. A man passed, with a dogcart<br>beside him full of smart, new milkcans. They rattled out a gay tune:<br>'Tiddity-tum-ti-ti. Have some milk for your tea. Cream for your coffee<br>to drink to-night, thick, and smooth, and sweet, and white,'<br>and the man's sabots beat an accompaniment: 'Plop! trop! milk for your tea.<br>Plop! trop! drink it to-night.' It was very pleasant out there,<br>but it was lonely here in the big room. The little boy gulped at a tear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>It was queer how dull all his toys were. They were so still.<br>Nothing was still in the square. If he took his eyes away a moment<br>it had changed. The milkman had disappeared round the corner,<br>there was only an old woman with a basket of green stuff on her head,<br>picking her way over the shiny stones. But the wind pulled the leaves<br>in the basket this way and that, and displayed them to beautiful advantage.<br>The sun patted them condescendingly on their flat surfaces, and they seemed<br>sprinkled with silver. The little boy sighed as he looked at his disordered<br>toys on the floor. They were motionless, and their colours were dull.<br>The dark wainscoting absorbed the sun. There was none left for toys.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The square was quite empty now. Only the wind ran round and round it,<br>spinning. Away over in the corner where a street opened into the square,<br>the wind had stopped. Stopped running, that is, for it never<br>stopped spinning. It whirred, and whirled, and gyrated, and turned.<br>It burned like a great coloured sun. It hummed, and buzzed, and sparked,<br>and darted. There were flashes of blue, and long smearing lines of saffron,<br>and quick jabs of green. And over it all was a sheen like a myriad<br>cut diamonds. Round and round it went, the huge wind-wheel,<br>and the little boy's head reeled with watching it. The whole square<br>was filled with its rays, blazing and leaping round after one another,<br>faster and faster. The little boy could not speak, he could only gaze,<br>staring in amaze.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The wind-wheel was coming down the square. Nearer and nearer it came,<br>a great disk of spinning flame. It was opposite the window now,<br>and the little boy could see it plainly, but it was something more<br>than the wind which he saw. A man was carrying a huge fan-shaped frame<br>on his shoulder, and stuck in it were many little painted paper windmills,<br>each one scurrying round in the breeze. They were bright and beautiful,<br>and the sight was one to please anybody, and how much more a little boy<br>who had only stupid, motionless toys to enjoy.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The little boy clapped his hands, and his eyes danced and whizzed,<br>for the circling windmills made him dizzy. Closer and closer<br>came the windmill man, and held up his big fan to the little boy<br>in the window of the Ambassador's house. Only a pane of glass<br>between the boy and the windmills. They slid round before his eyes<br>in rapidly revolving splendour. There were wheels and wheels of colours -<br>big, little, thick, thin - all one clear, perfect spin. The windmill vendor<br>dipped and raised them again, and the little boy's face was glued<br>to the window-pane. Oh! What a glorious, wonderful plaything!<br>Rings and rings of windy colour always moving! How had any one ever preferred<br>those other toys which never stirred. 'Nursie, come quickly. Look!<br>I want a windmill. See! It is never still. You will buy me one, won't you?<br>I want that silver one, with the big ring of blue.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>So a servant was sent to buy that one: silver, ringed with blue,<br>and smartly it twirled about in the servant's hands as he stood a moment<br>to pay the vendor. Then he entered the house, and in another minute<br>he was standing in the nursery door, with some crumpled paper on the end<br>of a stick which he held out to the little boy. 'But I wanted a windmill<br>which went round,' cried the little boy. 'That is the one you asked for,<br>Master Charles,' Nursie was a bit impatient, she had mending to do.<br>'See, it is silver, and here is the blue.' 'But it is only a blue streak,'<br>sobbed the little boy. 'I wanted a blue ring, and this silver<br>doesn't sparkle.' 'Well, Master Charles, that is what you wanted,<br>now run away and play with it, for I am very busy.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The little boy hid his tears against the friendly window-pane. On the floor<br>lay the motionless, crumpled bit of paper on the end of its stick.<br>But far away across the square was the windmill vendor, with his big wheel<br>of whirring splendour. It spun round in a blaze like a whirling rainbow,<br>and the sun gleamed upon it, and the wind whipped it, until it seemed<br>a maze of spattering diamonds. 'Cocorico!' crowed the golden cock<br>on the top of the `Stadhuis'. 'That is something worth crowing for.'<br>But the little boy did not hear him, he was sobbing over the crumpled<br>bit of paper on the floor.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Amy+Lowell">Amy Lowell</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=343790" data-title="The Paper Windmill de Amy Lowell" data-description="The little boy pressed his face against the window-pane and looked out
at the bright sunshiny morning. The cobble-stones of the square
glistened like mica. In the trees, a breeze danced and pranced,
and shook drops of sunlight like falling golden ..."></div>
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