rippling

When it was daylight, the girl bathed her face in a little rippling brook, and soon after they all started toward the Emerald City.

There was field upon field of ripening grain, with well-paved roads running between, and pretty rippling brooks with strong bridges across them.

Her hair was pure gold rippling back from her alabaster brow.

So she sat on, with closed eyes, and half believed herself in Wonderland, though she knew she had but to open them again, and all would change to dull reality—the grass would be only rustling in the wind, and the pool rippling to the waving of the reeds—the rattling teacups would change to tinkling sheep-bells, and the Queen’s shrill cries to the voice of the shepherd boy—and the sneeze of the baby, the shriek of the Gryphon, and all the other queer noises, would change (she knew) to the confused clamour of the busy farm-yard—while the lowing of the cattle in the distance would take the place of the Mock Turtle’s heavy sobs.