Chapter twenty-five

"People," said the little prince, "begin their trips in fast trains, but they don't know what they want. Then they hurry around, get excited, and go round and round ..."

And he added: "It's not worth the effort ..."

The well we reached was different from the wells in the Sahara. Sahara wells are just holes dug in the sand. This one was like a village well. But there was no village here, and I thought I must be dreaming ...

"It's strange," I said to the little prince. "Everything is set to use: the pulley, the bucket, the rope ..."

He laughed, touched the rope, and made the pulley work. The pulley groaned, like an old weathervane that the wind has long forgotten.

"Do you hear?" said the little prince. "We have woken the well, and it is singing ..." I didn't want him to get tired with the rope. "Let me do it," I said. "It's too heavy for you."

I lifted the bucket slowly to the well's edge and put it there—happy, even though tired, about what I did. The pulley's song was still in my ears, and I saw the sunlight shine on the still shaking water.

"I am thirsty for this water," said the little prince. "Give me some to drink ..." And I understood what he was searching for.

I held the bucket to his lips. He drank with his eyes closed. It was as sweet as a special holiday treat. This water was truly different from regular food. Its sweetness came from the walk under the stars, the pulley's song, and the work of my arms. It was good for the heart, like a gift. When I was a boy, the Christmas tree lights, the Midnight Mass music, and the kindness of smiling faces made up the shine of the gifts I got.

"The people where you live," said the little prince, "grow five thousand roses in one garden—but they don't find what they are looking for."

"They don't find it," I replied.

"Yet what they search for can be found in one rose, or a little water." "Yes, that's true," I said. And the little prince added: "But eyes are blind. You must look with the heart..."

I had drunk the water. I breathed easily. At sunrise, the sand is honey-colored. That honey color made me happy, too. So, what gave me this feeling of sadness?

"You must keep your promise," said the little prince, softly, sitting next to me again. "What promise?"

"You know—a muzzle for my sheep ... I am responsible for this flower ..."

I took my rough drawing sketches from my pocket. The little prince looked at them and laughed, saying: "Your baobabs—they look a bit like cabbages." "Oh!" I was so proud of my baobabs!

"Your fox—his ears look a bit like horns; and they are too long." And he laughed again.

"You're not fair, little prince," I said. "I can only draw boa constrictors from the outside and inside."

"Oh, that's fine," he said, "children understand."

So I drew a pencil sketch of a muzzle. As I gave it to him, my heart was hurt. "You have plans I don't know about," I said. But he didn't answer. Instead, he said: "You know—my coming to Earth ... Tomorrow is the anniversary." After a silence, he continued: "I landed very near here." And he blushed.

Again, without knowing why, I felt a strange sadness. But one question came to me: "So, it wasn't by chance that when I first met you—a week ago—you were walking alone, far from any people? You were going back to where you landed?"

The little prince blushed again.

And I added, hesitantly: "Maybe because of the anniversary?"

The little prince blushed once more. He never answered questions—but when someone blushes, doesn't that mean "Yes"?

"Ah," I said to him, "I am a bit scared—" But he cut me off.

"Now you must work. You must go back to your engine. I'll wait here for you. Come back tomorrow evening ..."

But I wasn't comforted. I remembered the fox. You risk crying a little if you let yourself be tamed ...