Little Baiba is sitting on the window sill in her room, looking sadly at the tiresome spring rain. She can't run around outside – it is too wet.
“I will have to dig around in the bookshelves,” the little girl decides, looking at her dearest books, which are standing or lying about, piled up on each other in a very higgledy-piggledy way. Baiba sticks her finger on the bright-colored spine of a book and tries to pull it out, but – What is this then? She can feel that she is being dragged slowly and surely, deeper and deeper into the bookshelf.
“I will have to dig around in the bookshelves,” the little girl decides, looking at her dearest books, which are standing or lying about, piled up on each other in a very higgledy-piggledy way. Baiba sticks her finger on the bright-colored spine of a book and tries to pull it out, but – What is this then? She can feel that she is being dragged slowly and surely, deeper and deeper into the bookshelf.
