Ginger had always believed in little people. Not because she had ever seen one. She hadn't.

But Ginger didn't think you had to see something before you could wonder if it might be there.

She imagined little people living beneath the roots of old trees, making beds from leaves and drinking morning dew from acorn cups. Perhaps they used feathers for blankets and rode on the backs of dragonflies.

Sometimes, when Ginger wandered along the river, she searched for signs of them. She looked beneath ferns She studied tiny holes between rocks. She examined mushrooms growing in circles and wondered whether anyone danced there after dark.

Once she found three pebbles stacked perfectly on top of one another. Another time she discovered a tiny bundle of grass tied with a piece of thread.

Ginger couldn't explain either one. She liked it that way. "Some things are very good at not being found," she decided.

One warm afternoon, Ginger was wandering along the lake after a light rain. The swampy grass shimmered and everything smelled damp and green.

Ginger was watching a line of ants carrying crumbs across the path when something in the mud caught her eye. A footprint. She stopped. It was tiny. Very tiny. Ginger knelt beside it. There was a little heel. Five little toes. And just ahead of it, another footprint.

Ginger's heart gave a small jump. She looked around. No one was there. The footprints crossed the muddy edge of the path and disappeared into the grass.

Ginger followed. One footprint. Then another. Then another.

They led beneath a patch of ferns growing beside an old cottonwood tree. Ginger carefully pushed the leaves aside.

At first, she saw nothing unusual. Moss. Twigs. Pebbles. A curled piece of bark.

Then one of the pebbles moved. Ginger froze. The pebble stood up. Except it wasn't a pebble at all. It was a tiny person wearing a gray cap.

He wasn't much taller than Ginger's hand. He had a round nose, a brown shirt, green trousers, and boots no bigger than beans.

The little man stared at Ginger. Ginger stared at the little man. Neither of them moved.

Finally Ginger whispered, "Hello."

The little man's eyes grew enormous. He spun around. "She's found us!"

Suddenly everything moved. A tiny face appeared from behind a mushroom. Another popped up from behind a root. Someone peeked over a stone. A little woman hurried out from beneath a piece of bark, wiping her hands on a yellow apron. Two children hid behind her skirts.

Ginger slowly sat down in the grass. "I knew it," she whispered.

The little man in the gray cap put his hands on his hips. "Knew what?"

"That little people were real." He looked puzzled. "Of course we're real." Ginger smiled. "Then why hasn't anyone ever seen you?"

The little man pointed toward the path.n"Because most people are looking somewhere else."

Ginger thought about that. People were always hurrying. Looking ahead. Looking at clocks. Looking at where they were going next.

Ginger liked looking at the places in between. That was where feathers waited to be found. Where beetles hurried beneath leaves.

p Where strange little footprints appeared after the rain.

"Come," said the woman in the yellow apron. "Since you've already found us, you might as well see everything."

Ginger leaned closer. And suddenly she saw it. An entire village. It had been there all along.

Tiny houses were tucked beneath roots. Some had roofs made of bark. Others were covered with moss.

Little wooden bridges crossed narrow trickles of water left by the rain. Smooth pebbles made winding streets. Acorn caps sat on tiny tables.. Walnut shells had become bowls. Someone had made a wheelbarrow from a seedpod. And between two roots hung a clothesline. Three little shirts and a pair of very small trousers fluttered in the breeze.

Ginger laughed. "This is wonderful!" "We think so," said the woman. 

A little girl with curly brown hair stepped out from behind her. She carried something on a leaf."Would you like some cake?" Ginger looked down. The cake was about the size of a blueberry. "I would love some."

The girl placed it carefully in Ginger's palm. Ginger ate it in one bite.

Every little person watched her. Ginger chewed thoughtfully. "That's very good." The little girl beamed. "It's blackberry."

Soon the little people were no longer afraid of Ginger. Children climbed onto her boots. One little boy measured the length of her shoelace. Another wanted to know whether all big people had freckles.

Ginger answered as many questions as she could. Then she began asking some of her own. "Where do you sleep?"

"Under the roots." "What do you eat?" "Berries. Seeds. Nuts. Sometimes cake."

"What do you do when it rains?" "Stay dry."

Ginger laughed.

The little people showed her their gardens, where flowers no bigger than buttons grew in neat rows. They showed her beds made from soft moss and blankets woven from grass. They collected fallen flower petals to decorate their homes. They used dandelion fluff to stuff their pillows. At night, fireflies sometimes hovered over the village like tiny lanterns. And they knew nearly every creature along the river.

The rabbits. The squirrels. The mice. The birds. Even the ants Ginger had been watching when she found the first footprint.

"We take care of the small things," the woman explained.

Ginger liked that. She understood small things.

A feather could be important. So could a raindrop. Or a butterfly. Or a footprint hardly anyone else would notice.

The afternoon passed much too quickly. Eventually the sunlight began slipping lower through the cottonwoods.

Ginger knew it was time to go home. "May I come back?" she asked.

The little people looked at one another. The man in the gray cap scratched his chin. The woman in the yellow apron smiled. "Perhaps."

"Perhaps?"

"We have one rule."

Ginger leaned closer.

"You may tell people that you believe in little people," the woman said. "But you must never tell anyone where to find us."

Ginger nodded solemnly. "I promise."

She stood carefully, making sure no little person was anywhere near her boots.

"Goodbye," Ginger said. Tiny hands waved from everywhere.

"Goodbye, Ginger!"

She had taken only a few steps when someone called after her. "Wait!" The little girl came running. She carried a tiny woven basket no bigger than a walnut shell. Inside lay one perfect purple wildflower.

She held it up to Ginger.. “For you." Ginger took it carefully between two fingers. "It's beautiful." 

"So you'll remember us."

Ginger smiled. "I don't think I could ever forget you."

She tucked the little basket safely into her pocket. Then she walked back toward the path.

Before leaving, Ginger turned around one last time. She pushed aside the ferns.

The village was gone. There were no little houses. No bridges. No clothesline. No little people waving goodbye. There was only moss. Twigs. Pebbles. And the swampy grass growing next to the lake.

For just a moment, Ginger wondered if perhaps she had imagined everything. Then she reached into her pocket.

The tiny woven basket was still there. So was the little purple flower.

Ginger smiled.

After that, whenever someone said there was no such thing as fairies, little people, or magical places hidden in the ordinary world, Ginger never argued. She simply wondered how many wonderful things they had walked right past because they hadn't bothered to look.

Ginger knew better.

The world was filled with magic. Sometimes it was enormous enough to fill the whole sky.

And sometimes it was no bigger than a tiny footprint in the mud.

You just had to remember to look.