He wanders around the museum and its many exhibits. Stops. And stares at a brown helmet. Circles around it. And stops once more.
"Clay," he says, "why those cheeky monkeys!"
He laughs and imagines monkeys frolicking around during a storm. Jumping. Squatting. Dipping their hands into the wet earth. Throwing muck. Patting their heads. And the sun drifting from behind the clouds, baking the clay into a hard shell. Producing the first helmet.
"Clay," he says, "why those cheeky monkeys!"
He laughs and imagines monkeys frolicking around during a storm. Jumping. Squatting. Dipping their hands into the wet earth. Throwing muck. Patting their heads. And the sun drifting from behind the clouds, baking the clay into a hard shell. Producing the first helmet.
