by Jane Andrews
THE BALL ITSELF.
Dear children, I have heard of a wonderful ball, which floats in thesweet blue air, and has little soft white clouds about it, as it swimsalong.
There are many charming and astonishing things to be told of thisball, and some of them you shall hear.
In the first place, you must know that it is a very big ball; farbigger than the great soft ball, of bright colors, that little Charleyplays with on the floor,--yes, indeed; and bigger than cousin Frank'slargest football, that he brought home from college in the spring;bigger, too, than that fine round globe in the schoolroom, that Emmaturns about so carefully, while she twists her bright face all intowrinkles as she searches for Afghanistan or the Bosphorus Straits.Long names, indeed; they sound quite grand from her little mouth, butthey mean nothing to you and me now.
Let me tell you about _my_ ball. It is so large that trees can grow onit; so large that cattle can graze, and wild beasts roam, upon it; solarge that men and women can live on it, and little children too,--asyou already know, if you have read the title-page of this book. Insome places it is soft and green, like the long meadow between thehills, where the grass was so high last summer that we almost lostMarnie when she lay down to roll in it; in some parts it is coveredwith tall and thick forests, where you might wander like the "babesin the wood," nor ever find your way out; then, again, it is steep andrough, covered with great hills, much higher than that high one behindthe schoolhouse,--so high that when you look up ever so far you can'tsee the tops of them; but in some parts there are no hills at all, andquiet little ponds of blue water, where the white water-lilies grow,and silvery fishes play among their long stems. Bell knows, for shehas been among the lilies in a boat with papa.
Now, if we look on another side of the ball, we shall see no ponds,but something very dreary. I am afraid you won't like it. A greatplain of sand,--sand like that on the seashore, only here there is nosea,--and the sand stretches away farther than you can see, on everyside; there are no trees, and the sunshine beats down, almost burningwhatever is beneath it.
Perhaps you think this would be a grand place to build sand-houses.One of the little sisters lives here; and, when you read of her, youwill know what she thinks about it. Always the one who has tried itknows best.
Look at one more side of my ball, as it turns around. Jack Frost musthave spent all his longest winter nights here, for see what a palaceof ice he has built for himself. Brave men have gone to those lonelyplaces, to come back and tell us about them; and, alas! some heroeshave not returned, but have lain down there to perish of cold andhunger. Doesn't it look cold, the clear blue ice, almost as blue asthe air? And look at the snow, drifts upon drifts, and the air filledwith feathery flakes even now.
We won't look at this side longer, but we shall come back again to seeAgoonack in her little sledge. Don't turn over yet to find the story;we shall come to it all in good time.
Now, what do you think of my ball, so white and cold, so soft andgreen, so quiet and blue, so dreary and rough, as it floats along inthe sweet blue air, with the flocks of white clouds about it?
I will tell you one thing more. The wise men have said that this earthon which we live is nothing more nor less than just such a ball. Ofthis we shall know when we are older and wiser; but here is the littlebrown baby waiting for us.
