The Little Cloud Who Looked for a Bed

A little white cloud had been floating all day. It had watched the farmers in the fields and the children coming home from school. Now the sky was growing dark, and the little cloud was tired.

"I need a bed," said the little cloud.

It floated down to the top of a tall tree. The leaves were soft. But the birds in the tree shuffled and whispered, "You are tickling us." Not quite right.

It floated to a chimney. The chimney was warm. But a thin line of smoke came up and made the little cloud sneeze. Not quite right.

It floated to the river. The water was smooth, and the cloud could see itself. But the river would not stay still. It kept going, going, going, and the cloud did not want to travel any more. Not quite right.

It floated to the roof of a temple. A flag fluttered there, flap, flap, flap. Too noisy. Not quite right.

The little cloud sighed a small misty sigh. It floated up again, higher and higher, where the air was cool.

And there was the mountain.

The mountain was very old and very still. Its top was round, like a shoulder. "Come," said the mountain, in a voice as deep as the ground. "Clouds have rested here for a thousand years."

The little cloud settled on the mountain's shoulder. It fitted exactly. Nothing tickled. Nothing fluttered. Nothing moved at all.

The first stars came out, one above the other.

The little cloud spread itself out thin and soft, like a blanket, and it slept on the mountain until the morning sun came to wake it.