She found the little pink bicycle that once was her steed, to many different cottages made of candy, and across sparkling seas and twinkling skies, her magic carpet, the whirling tornado house rising, this little vehicle powered by dreams and visions and imagination air.

        “Quigley!” Bronte called, squatting down like a dwarf upon the tiny bicycle, managing to get a foot on each peddle, squeaking into motion.

        The tiny bicycle shuddered beneath her. She felt herself tossed up in the air, and when she plunked down it was upon Quigley’s back.

        “Oh Quigley,” Bronte gushed, tugging the hair on the top of his bony head, and kicking her legs up beneath his flapping ears. “This is our last chance, we need to fly, hurry, Quigley, before it is all gone, before I can no longer breathe the imagination air.”

        “Silly, silly Princess Bronte,” Quigley said, “You know that elephants cannot fly; however, I think I can catch this rainbow.”

        His great flat feet raced up the glowing concentration of imagination air, and Bronte lifted her hands above her head and screamed in delight. Riding a translucent rainbow higher and higher into the sky was dangerous, especially since rainbows never last long. She leaned out and saw her house far down there, smaller than a dollhouse, glowing ruby red, and she thought she saw Papa outside. Bronte leaned farther out and called: “Good-bye Papa! Look for me in the stars!”

        Her weight tipped poor Quigley over the rainbow and the elephant tumbled, and Bronte saw the red-roofed house approaching, so fast, and she could never stop laughing.

        “Got you,” Papa said, lifting his miracle child. “This was for when you were a little girl, look, you’ve broken it all to pieces!”

        “Thank you, Quigley,” she breathed, dashing into the house, suddenly feeling too old for such games.

        “Oh Quigley,” Papa said, gathering the scattered pieces of the fallen pachyderm, “I’ll see you next time, when Princess Genevieve rides the rainbow.”