The Little Cloud Who Could Not Rain

Puff was the smallest cloud in the wide blue sky. He was round as a pillow and white as milk. Each morning, he floated over the hills with the other clouds.

When the gardens below looked dry, the big clouds made rain. Drip, drop, splish! Flowers lifted their heads. Trees shook their green leaves.

But when Puff tried, nothing came out.

He squeezed himself tall and thin. No rain. He puffed himself wide and flat. Still no rain.

“I am only good for shade,” Puff sighed.

One hot afternoon, Puff drifted above a small hill. At the top stood a windmill with four bright red arms. Below it, a girl named Mae carried a watering can toward her vegetable patch.

Then the wind stopped.

The windmill slowed. Creak... creak... still.

Mae looked up at the silent windmill. “Oh dear,” she said. “It pumps water from the well.”

Puff floated lower. Around Mae’s beans, peas, and tiny orange carrots, the soil was dry and crumbly. Puff wanted to help, but he still could not make rain.

Then he saw the hot sun shining straight onto the hill. Above the red windmill arms, the air shimmered and wiggled.

Puff had an idea.

He spread himself over the sun like a soft white blanket. Cool shade fell across the hill.

The air stopped wiggling so much. A little breeze slipped from the shady side of the hill to the sunny side.

One windmill arm twitched.

“Turn!” Mae called.

Puff stretched farther. The breeze grew stronger. Creak, creak, whirr! The bright red arms began to spin.

Water rushed up from the well and filled Mae’s watering can. Mae gave each little plant a drink.

That evening, Puff floated above the hill while the sun turned orange. Mae waved her empty watering can at him.

“Thank you, Rain Cloud!” she called.

Puff smiled. “I am not a rain cloud,” he said. “I am a very good shade cloud.”

Below him, the windmill turned slowly and happily in the cool evening breeze.