They rattled out a gay tune:
"Tiddity-tum-ti-ti. Have some milk for your tea. Cream for your coffee
to drink to-night, thick, and smooth, and sweet, and white," and the
man's sabots beat an accompaniment: "Plop! trop! milk for your tea.
Plop! trop! drink it to-night." It was very pleasant out there, but it
was lonely here in the big room. The little boy gulped at a tear.

It was queer how dull all his toys were. They were so still. Nothing
was still in the square. If he took his eyes away a moment it had
changed. The milkman had disappeared round the corner, there was only
an old woman with a basket of green stuff on her head, picking her way
over the shiny stones. But the wind pulled the leaves in the basket
this way and that, and displayed them to beautiful advantage. The sun
patted them condescendingly on their flat surfaces, and they seemed
sprinkled with silver. The little boy sighed as he looked at his
disordered toys on the floor. They were motionless, and their colours
were dull. The dark wainscoting absorbed the sun. There was none left
for toys.

The square was quite empty now. Only the wind ran round and round it,
spinning. Away over in the corner where a street opened into the
square, the wind had stopped. Stopped running, that is, for it never
stopped spinning. It whirred, and whirled, and gyrated, and turned. It
burned like a great coloured sun. It hummed, and buzzed, and sparked,
and darted. There were flashes of blue, and long smearing lines of
saffron, and quick jabs of green. And over it all was a sheen like a
myriad cut diamonds. Round and round it went, the huge wind-wheel, and
the little boy's head reeled with watching it. The whole square was
filled with its rays, blazing and leaping round after one another,
faster and faster. The little boy could not speak, he could only gaze,
staring in amaze.

The wind-wheel was coming down the square. Nearer and nearer it came, a
great disk of spinning flame. It was opposite the window now, and the
little boy could see it plainly, but it was something more than the wind
which he saw. A man was carrying a huge fan-shaped frame on his
shoulder, and stuck in it were many little painted paper windmills, each
one scurrying round in the breeze. They were bright and beautiful, and
the sight was one to please anybody, and how much more a little boy who
had only stupid, motionless toys to enjoy.

The little boy clapped his hands, an