Pip and the Garden Gate

"I want to be a rain cloud today," said Pip, in a very small voice.

Pip was a little cloud, no bigger than a pillow. Every morning Pip floated over the kitchen garden, where the bees buzzed and the mint and thyme grew in neat green rows. And every morning Pip watched the big grey clouds roll in and make real rain. Pip had never made even one drop.

"Why not try?" said Bee, who was busy with the thyme flowers. Bee did not stop working. She had pollen to carry home.

Pip squeezed tight. Nothing came out. Pip squeezed again. "Mmmf!" Still nothing.

"I'm too light," said Pip. "I'm too small and too white."

Pip tried bouncing up and down. Nothing. Pip tried thinking sad thoughts, about a dropped ice cream and a lost sock. A tiny sigh came out, and that was all.

"Try the shortcut," buzzed Bee. "Over the garden gate, then up the hill. The big clouds fill up there."

So Pip floated over the gate and up the hill. But the hill kept getting longer, and the garden kept getting farther away. It was the longer way after all. Pip's eyes began to sting.

Then Pip noticed something. The cold wind on the hilltop was making Pip feel heavy and damp, like a wet sponge. Pip felt a wobble inside. Then a drip.

Plink.

It was one drop. It landed on a leaf below.

Plink, plink, plink.

Pip looked down. The drops were falling on the mint, and the mint was shining. Bee zoomed underneath the gate and shook her wings. "Oh, that tickles!" she buzzed.

Pip had not squeezed at all. Pip had only floated up high, where it was cold, and let go.

Pip floated back down, slowly, dripping a little at a time. The thyme smelled sweet, the leaves tapped softly, and plink, plink, plink went the garden, all the way to evening.