He knew that they had been
like large workshops--filled with all sorts of workmen.
But that which Nils Holgersson did not see was, that the city--even
to-day--was both beautiful and remarkable. He saw neither the cheery
cottages on the side streets, with their black walls, and white bows and
red pelargoniums behind the shining window-panes, nor the many pretty
gardens and avenues, nor the beauty in the weed-clad ruins. His eyes
were so filled with the preceding glory, that he could not see anything
good in the present.
The wild geese flew back and forth over the city a couple of times, so
that Thumbietot might see everything. Finally they sank down on the
grass-grown floor of a cathedral ruin to spend the night.
When they had arranged themselves for sleep, Thumbietot was still awake
and looked up through the open arches, to the pale pink evening sky.
When he had been sitting there a while, he thought he didn't want to
grieve any more because he couldn't save the buried city.
No, that he didn't want to do, now that he had seen this one. If that
city, which he had seen, had not sunk into the sea again, then it would
perhaps become as dilapidated as this one in a little while. Perhaps it
could not have withstood time and decay, but would have stood there with
roofless churches and bare houses and desolate, empty streets--just like
this one.
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