They say that in a valley so deep that the sun needed an hour to reach the bottom, the sun once failed to rise. The east hill stayed black, and the rooster crowed three times, cleared his throat and gave up. For three days the village lived in the night. It grew cold, the cows gave no milk, and the bravest men whispered that the world had ended.
At last they climbed the hill with drums and ropes, shouted, banged their pots and came down very pale. "There is a mountain up there that was not there before," they said. "And it breathes."
Mira was a girl of nine who said good morning to everything: the cows, the bridge, the old well. On the third night she wrapped a loaf of warm bread, filled a jug with milk and climbed the hill alone. The mountain was, in fact, a giant, who sat with his chin on his knees and his eyes shut.
"Good morning," said Mira. "Excuse me, sir. I think you are sitting on the sunrise."
The giant opened one eye, as big as a pond. "Am I?" he said. "I sat down three days ago to rest. Everybody shouted at me, so I thought nobody wanted me here." He stood up with a groan that shook the ground, stepped over to the next hill and sat down again as gently as he could, and through the gap the sun came up and poured gold into the valley.
The ridge is still called the Giant's Chair. Every morning Mira waves to him, and he waves back. Some say the sun there rises a few minutes late, because the giant likes to wait for her good morning.
