"she is a real Liliputian statue, fit for nothing but to watch the
flies fly. Ah! come, Piccola, Piccolissima!" he cried to the little
one, who was behind the shutter of a half-open window, absorbed in
the contemplation of a gnat who was up the window, singing a little
air through his nasal trumpet, "tell us, Piccola, a little of what
the flies say to you."

Piccolissima, who was always alarmed at a big voice, trembling,
turned round and stared at her brother, who, shouting with laughter,
made a pirouette, jumped over the balcony, which was near the
ground, into the garden.

The complaints of Piccolissima's brother were not quite without
foundation; she had become more reflecting, more observing; she was
less restless and less communicative; more amused, but less amusing.
She did not dare to repeat to her sisters her conversation with the
flies, lest they should laugh at her, and she became more frequently
occupied with her own thoughts, and more silent. Her silver voice
was heard no longer in every corner of the house; she was no longer
under every one's feet; the fragments of her dress were no longer
caught by the nails in her brothers' shoes, under the legs of her
sisters' chairs, or under the castors of the furniture; and her
mother, who had a habit of saying, "This little wild thing gives me
more trouble than all her brothers and sisters," said now, "Truly,
if she does not help me, she does not hinder me." As for Mr. Tom
Thumb, who loved to complete a remark by a proverb, instead of
exclaiming, "It is not strange that she does not grow,--a rolling
stone gathers no moss," murmured, rubbing his hands, "Whoever lives
will see what I have always said: It is only weeds that grow fast."