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