Then she was cross with
the funny little old bag, and mad with the funny little old donkey, and
she beat him with a funny little old stick, and scolded and scolded with
a funny little old cracked, quivering, peevish, hateful voice.
And so Tilda followed her as she rode, and all the rude boys along the
road cried out, "There goes the funny little old woman and her donkey!"
And a beautiful lady came along, and when she met the funny little old
woman, she sat down on a stone and wept, and said, "O Miriam, my
daughter!" But the funny little old woman only beat her donkey and
scolded more than ever. And Tilda wondered why the beautiful woman called
the funny little old woman her daughter. And Tilda dreamed that many days
passed, and that every day the funny little old woman rode on the funny
little old donkey to the city. And every day the beautiful woman wept and
said, "O Miriam, my daughter!" One day Tilda approached the beautiful
woman and spoke to her.
"Why do you call that funny, hateful, little old woman your daughter?"
"Because she is my daughter."
"But she is so much older than you are."
"Why," said the beautiful woman, "don't you know the history of the funny
little old woman that rides her donkey to town every day? She is my
daughter.
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