|
Marigold clapped her hands in time to the lively music, watching the dancers with wide, wistful eyes. Falco Headstrong had been playing his whistle, but when he glanced at her, a thought occurred to him, and he went to her. "Well now, Miss Marigold," he said, smiling down at her. "Why aren't you dancing?"
"I can't dance by myself," said Marigold, "and I'm only a little girl. Nobody would ask me to dance. But don't worry... I'm enjoying myself by just sitting here and watching." But she sighed a little, and he heard it.
"But you've dressed up so pretty, with your little curls in ribbons," said Falco. "Surely you want to dance. 'Twould be a shame if that blue skirt of yours didn't get to twirl about a little." The whistle went into his pocket, and he bowed. "I haven't danced in some time," he said, "but I think I remember how to do it yet. And I won't be letting any pretty girl sit out."
Marigold looked up at him with a delighted, slightly doubtful expression. Would he really dance with her? He was so much taller than she. Wouldn't it be awkward? Would he mind? No, he didn't mind! She sprang up from the grass and took his hands eagerly. And then, slowly and stiffly at first, they began to dance. Falco struggled to remember at least the basics. She had no set way of dance, but there was certainly a rhyme and rythmn to her little flitting feet, and it was not long before he had recalled completely how to dance. Maybe they did look awkward, the tall, gray-haired old hobbit dancing with the small golden lassie, but they were enjoying themselves immensely, and that was all that really mattered.
|