But no one answered, for there was no one there.

 

So the mist went on in his light, gleaming clothes. He danced over the meadows, up and down, to and fro. Now he would lie quite still for a while and then begin to dance again. He skipped across the pond and into the wood, where he flung his long, wet arms round the trunks of the trees.

 

“Who are you, friend?” asked the night-scented rocket, who stood and distilled¹ her perfume for her own pleasure.

 

The mist did not reply, but went on dancing.

 

“I asked who you were,” said the rocket. “And, as you don’t answer me, I conclude that you are an ill-mannered churl².”

 

“I’ll conclude you!” said the mist.

 

And he lay down round the night-scented rocket, till her petals³ were dripping wet.

 

“Hi! Hi!” screamed the rocket. “Keep your fingers to yourself, my friend! I feel as if I had been dipped in the pond. You needn’t be so angry, just because I ask you who you are.”

 

The mist rose up again:

 

“Who I am?” he repeated. “Why, you wouldn’t understand if I told you.”

 

“Try,” said the rocket.

 

“I am the dew-drop on the flowers, the cloud in the sky and the mist on the fields,” he answered.

 

“I beg your pardon?” said the rocket. “Would you mind saying that again? Why, I know the dew-drop. He settles on my petals every morning; and I don’t see any resemblance between you.”

 

“Ah, I am the dew-drop, for all that!” said the mist, sadly. “But nobody knows me. I have to spend my life in many shapes. Sometimes I am dew and sometimes I am rain and sometimes I trickle⁴ in the form of a clear, cool spring through the wood. But, when I dance over the meadow in the evening, then people say that the mist is rising.”

 

“That’s a queer story,” said the rocket. “Have you any more to tell me? The night is long and sometimes I feel a little bored.”

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