From Small beginnings

I was reading this short story by Ruskin Bond, last night. Only today morning in the bus, did it strike me that I read the whole thing wrong.
The story has a paragraph of Rudyard Kipling's sentence about hills .. Few days ago I read a story int he same book in which Ruskin meets Rudyard's ghost.. Now somewhere some synapse in my brain got wrongly connected and I read the whole story as if told by Rudyard and not Ruskin.
I should have gone back to the beginning, when some instances made me doubt as to why somethings seemed as if written from someone who wasnt native of the hills.. but I still read on ...
I guess the stint of reading the book as a preoccupation worked just too well.. even the howls of illogic got drowned.