A story ought to be like a storm, or at any rate, a stormy piano piece. Quiet as a music box as the curtain draws up. The little dancers stir, ruffle-y blue dresses rippling like water. They get up, balancé en tournant, ronde de jambe, sous-sus. Hold, one breath, two . . . BOOM! The drum drops the world out from under you and you realize those are no music box dancers. They surge: angry, frothing, vindictive waves, lashing their fury against the little row boat. This is the climax, now, and you know it, because the music tells you so. With a final battering, the little children in the boat are knocked against each other and BAM! out like a light. The waves gather round in a circle, ceremonial, and nod to each other, satisfied. They draw themselves up, pointed and severely serene, and melt back into little dancers, chassé right, chassé left, balancé, sous tenue. Just a little music box, tinkling little starry notes. Little dancers in ruffle-y blue go chassé relevé arabesque, chassé relevé arabesque off stage, one after another, little sprinkles of stardust twinkling across the heavens. But now, now you know better. The storm has come and passed, and you know better. Thus ends the little story. And from now on, you watch for little dancers, because you know they are the storm.