Just then she noticed that the clouds didn't look as if they were bound for the mountains or sea-shore at all. They seemed to be doing all sorts of funny things—rolling over, standing on their heads, and cutting up such antics that she shouted with laughter. Suddenly the biggest cloud of them all turned a somersault, and, as if it had heard what she had said, came tumbling down toward her window. As it grew nearer, its cottony edges dropped off and it took on a definite shape, growing all the time whiter and whiter.
"What a funny cloud!" cried Dorothy Ann. "Why, it doesn't look like a cloud at all. It's more like a bird, a big, white fluffy-puffy bird."
"That's just what I am."
Dorothy Ann almost jumped off the sofa at the sound of the voice. It was a great, soft, comfortable-feeling voice, as if it might have been made of hundreds of tiny feathers. She put her hand against the screen and felt the soft, cool white on her hot palm.
"Are you really a bird?" asked Dorothy Ann. "You look like one and you feel like one, but you are cool and white enough to be a cloud."
"You may call me a Cloud Bird, if you like."
"It must be lovely to be able to float about all night in the sky."
