The littlest programmer went down to the sea. She turned the waves over and over in her hands.
“Ping,” she said, finally, when she was satisfied.
And “Ack,” replied the sea.
The littlest programmer went up to the sky. She poked the clouds. They flew away from her with but a touch, as light as a song.
“Ping,” she said, and laughed, and batted the clouds away.
And “Pong,” declared the horizon, and bounced them back.
The littlest programmer came down and played in the tall grass. She made a flute from the thin green strands.
“Ping,” she said.
But the grass responded not.
She walked in the tall grass and disturbed the things that lived there; great was the agitation of the pigeons, and the mice, and the doves, and certainly of the small elephants that lived there then, but do not live there now.
“Ping,” she said, more insistently.
But the grass could find no words.
It has never known words, not for such holy eventualities; it does not suffice for them;
The ping is mightier than the sward.