again.

"Never mind, dear," said the Plynck. "It will be all right now. I see
Schlorge coming with his forceps."

And sure enough, in a moment Schlorge came panting up, with his
forceps in his hair, as usual. Very deftly he extricated the poor
little Zizz, and held it out for Sara to see, still buzzing its wings
as furiously as it could, with so much syrup on them.

The Teacup fluttered down, and they all looked at it with mingled
sympathy and curiosity. The mixture seemed to agree with it, too, for
the familiar faint, pale-blue "zizzing" sound began to come from its
wings.

"Poor little thing!" said the Echo of the Plynck. "Why will they
persist in doing it? Flying right into the syrup like that!"

"It's on account of the bitterness of their tails," explained Schlorge
absently, without looking up from his work.

"Oh, yes," said Sara, though she didn't quite understand. "Will it
ever be able to fly again?"

"Well," answered Schlorge, "I'm afraid you'll have to dry it." He
looked about him. "Where's the stump?"

He found it presently, and led Sara to its mossy base; then he gently
pressed one of her shoe-buttons, and she was lifted upon it in safety.

"Now," he explained, "you got it all sticky with your smile, and you'll
have to frown on it to dry it. I know it's hard to do, here, but if you
keep your mind on it, you can. I'll hold the Zizz's wings out, and it
won't take long. Think of something very unpleasant--something you came
here to escape. Come, what shall it be?"

"Fractions," said Sara.

"All right," said Schlorge. "Now think hard. And frown."

So Sara sucked in the corners of her mouth to keep from smiling, and
tried hard to feel very cross indeed. But, as you will imagine, it was
not easy to do in that place. As you have already guessed, the place
into which Sara went when she shut the ivory doors was a sort of
garden, but not an ordinary one. To be sure, it had the pool, and the
fountain in the middle, and the moon-dial, like most gardens, and the
Gugollaph-tree where the Plynck sat, and a good many prose-bushes
besides the one with the hemmed doorknob where the Snimmy lived with
his wife. But not many gardens have such charming little openings in
the flowery hedges that shut them in, through which little paths run
out as if they were escaping through sheer mischief, and on purpose to
lead you on. And not many are placed, as this one seemed to be, in the
middle of a sort of amphitheatre, with