Big Bertha and the Runaway Laundry
Everyone in Dustpan Flats agreed that Bertha Plunk had the biggest sneeze in the whole county. It always started with a tickle, then a wobble, then a long breath that pulled the curtains right off the windows.
One Monday, Bertha hung her laundry on a line that stretched from the barn to the windmill. Forty shirts, thirty socks, and one very long pair of striped pajamas flapped in the sun. Then a puff of dandelion fluff floated up her nose.
"Ah," she said. "Ahhh. AH-CHOOOO!"
The sneeze blew every sock off the line. It sent the shirts sailing over the hills. The striped pajamas flew so far that they landed on a clock tower in the next county, where they hung like a flag.
Bertha felt terrible. She marched all the way to the next county with an empty basket. But the people there had already been clever. They had collected her laundry, washed it, folded it, and stacked it on a table with a sign that said, "Found: one windy morning."
"Leave the pajamas up there," the mayor said. "They show us which way the wind blows."
Bertha laughed so hard she almost sneezed again. Now she hangs her laundry indoors on dandelion days.