CHAPTER III THE MAGIC UMBRELLA

The sun was still sleeping peacefully beneath the lake when she arrived at the grove of broad, spreading willows. Off to the east huge clouds like ghosts in dark robes were rushing over the water.

“Never you mind,” laughed Petite Jeanne, “I know you. You are only a great big bluff. When Mister Sun comes out he will dress you in pink and gold. After that he will fade you to palest pale and send you scampering away to cast thin shadows over meadows and pastures where lambs are feeding on clover.”

As if the thought of gamboling lambs set her limbs in motion, the little French girl went springing away in a sprightly dance.
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For a full quarter of an hour she lost herself in the intoxicating joy of action. Now she raced away before a breeze. Now she whirled until all her red petticoats were wheels. Now she threw her head back and laughed at the birds who scolded from the trees. And now, snatching the sash from her waist, she went bowing and weaving away toward the sandy beach where little white waves were playing.

It was while on her way back from this little journey that she sought a lone bench beneath the greatest of the willows for a moment of rest.

It was that time of half-light just before dawn. Already the fearsome clouds were beginning to lose their terror. They had taken on a faint touch of old rose.

Jeanne dropped down upon the bench, as she had done many times before, without looking. The next instant she gave forth a startled little “Oh!”

A man was seated beside her. Quite an old man he was, with long gray hair protruding from an ancient slouch hat.

“So you are human!” His drawl was soft, melodious. “I didn’t believe you could be. Only fairies dance like that. I thought you a fairy.”
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As if to assure himself that he could not be mistaken, he touched the hem of her broad, short skirt.

Petite Jeanne wanted to spring up and run away. No one had ever been here at this hour; yet something held her in her place.

There are times in all our lives when it seems that an invisible hand, resting upon our shoulder, bids us stay.

“You—why there were times when you flew,” the melodious voice went on. “Flew! That’s what you did.

“I flew once.” His voice took on a reminiscent air. “In an airplane, I mean. Often thought I’d try it again. But when you have a narrow escape once—” The voice trailed off. For a moment there was silence.

“You see,” he began once more, “a fellow asked me to go up. I said it might rain; I’d go if I could take my umbrella.

“He looked at my umbrella, and said: ‘You can’t take that.’

“Most men hate umbrellas. Rather get wet than carry one. Guess he was that way.
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“Well, I said: ‘All right, I’ll go up.’ So we went up. And I took my umbrella; slipped it in, kind o’ hid it.

“But, by and by, when we were up a long way and the houses took to looking small, he saw that umbrella. Then he was hopping mad.

“He said: ‘You got to throw that out.’

“I said: ‘I can’t, mister. It would get lost. It belongs to my grandfather. It’s silk. The silk came from China where little yellow ladies wound it off silk cocoons by hand. And the bows are all steel, forged by hand. And besides, it might hit somebody and mighty nigh kill ’em.’

“He said: ‘Don’t matter. Out she goes!’

“Then I says: ‘If she goes out, I go with her.’

“He says: ‘That’s jake with me.’

“So up I climbs and out I jumps. And fall! You never saw the houses get big as fast as those did!
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“I got to thinking I might fall on somebody and was feelin’ mighty sorry about that, when I thought of my umbrella. All silk from China it was, where little yeller women wound it out from cocoons. And the bows all made from hand forged steel. Strong they were, strong as London Bridge.

“And when I thought of my umbrella I knew it was all right; parachute, don’t you know.”

Once more his voice trailed away like the last echo of a distant tolling bell.

Petite Jeanne stole a look at his face. It was still, and almost beautiful. “Like a child’s dream,” she thought.

“And then—” He came to himself with a start. “Then I opened up that umbrella. Silk, you understand, all pure silk, and bows of forged steel. Strong as London Bridge. I opened her up, and she caught me and held me and let me down in a cabbage patch. Now what do you think of that?” His face was all wreathed with smiles.
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“What do I think?” said Petite Jeanne, with a shy smile in return for his. The light in her eyes was kindly, and the touch on his arm gentle, for the little French girl loved old men with long gray hair, and she was charmed by their stories as she was charmed when she was six. “What do I think? I think you have no umbrella at all.”

“No umbrella!” He put out a hand as if to grasp one. Then, springing to his feet, he pretended to search the bench.

“Bless me!” he cried. “Some one has stolen it! My grandfather’s umbrella. And such a fine umbrella, all silk from China. Little yeller women—”

“Yes, I know. You told me,” laughed Petite Jeanne. “But see! The sun is smiling on the water! I must dance him out for a new day.

“And this,” she sang as she danced away, “this is my luckee day!”