It was just suposed to be a fitting, just to see how the very beginning of her little green dress fit over her cubby arms. Everything must be green for this strong willed little child of mine. But once on, she refused to take it off.
"You said it's a dress for playing outside." She reminded me.
Yes, that's true, I admited, but it's not a finishes dress for playing outside. It's not hemed or tucked or pleated yet.
"But how do you know it's a dress for outside if I haven't tried it outside? It could turn out to be a very boring inside dress."
And what could I say to that? There really is no use even finishing a very boring inside dress. Especially not for a little troll child like my Ronia.
I never said she was a troll, by the by, least you think me a bad mother. Ronia told me herself, and I still have no idea how she got the idea in her head.
In any case, the next thing I knew she had her cowl about her shoulders and was struggling to pull her hood about her ears and tie a bow, all with her little lamb beneath one arm.
"Ivan's not a lamb," she told me, "he's a baby mountain goat."
But soon we were off to explore the wilds of the Mountain Fern Forest that lay across a small prairie from the vegetable patch.
Ronia soon found it was much too warm for a cowl and hood, and discarded them in the grass while she and Ivan the Baby Mountain Goat went off hunting for treasures.
"Maybe green isn't the only best color." She said. "Maybe flowery pink is a best color too."
That's called wood sorrel, I told her.
"Wood sorrel pink," she wispered, and then dartes off again to hunt for more treasure.
I thought Ronia had quite worn herself out with all her exploreing and treasure hunting when I saw her fling herself to the ground to look at the sky, and wisper little secrets in Ivan's wooly ear. I was just thinking of laying down in the grass myself when up she jumped again.
"There's sonething in the bushes " she saod with wide eyes, and off she darted into the herbs.
It was hardly a moment before I heard a squeal of delight, and excited calls for me to come see the magic thing she had found.
"A doodle-bug," she repeated, "hello little magic doodle-bug."
When I told her it was time to go back inside, she insisted that first she show her treasures, and proudly lay them out for me to see.
Two old snail-shells, a tiny sorrel-clover with purple under-leafs, a single pollen-catkin, a paperclip lost yesterday, and a very special brown leaf.
What's so special about it? I asked her.
"Can't you see?" She responded, and I felt quite silly.
Is that your favorite treasure then, I wondered.
"This is the best one." And she took a small twig with five leaves still attached from where she had hid it behind her back.
Is that very special too?
"No, It's green. Green is the best."
