longer, he fell asleep the first night with the full
intention of waking just as before, and getting up to have a peep into
the day's dream, whatever it might be, that night, and every night
thereafter. But he was now back in his own room, and there was nothing
to wake him, so he slept sound until the day had done dreaming, and the
morning was wide awake.

Neither had he awoke any one night since, or seen what marvel there
might be beyond his windowpanes.

Does any little boy or girl wonder what there can be going on when we
are asleep? Sometimes the stars, sometimes the moon, sometimes the
clouds, sometimes the wind, sometimes the snow, sometimes the frost,
sometimes all of them together, are busy. Sometimes the owl and the moth
and the beetle, and the bat and the cat and the rat, are all at work.
Sometimes there are flowers in bloom that love the night better than the
day, and are busy all through the darkness pouring out on the still air
the scent they withheld during the sunlight. Sometimes the lightning and
the thunder, sometimes the moon-rainbow, sometimes the aurora borealis,
is busy. And the streams are running all night long, and seem to babble
louder than in the day time, for the noises of the working world are
still, so that we hear them better. Almost the only daylight thing
awake, is the clock ticking with nobody to heed it, and that sounds to
me very dismal. But it was the look of the night, the meaning on her
face that Willie cared most about, and desired so much to see, that he
was at times quite unhappy to think that he never could wake up, not
although ever so many strange and lovely dreams might be passing before
his window. He often dreamed that he had waked up, and was looking out
on some gorgeous and lovely show, but in the morning he knew sorrowfully
that he had only dreamed his own dream, not gazed into that of the
sleeping day. Again and again he had worked his brains to weariness,
trying and trying to invent some machine that should wake him. But
although he was older and cleverer now, he fared no better than when he
wanted to wake himself to help his mother with Agnes. He must have some
motive power before he could do anything, and the clock was still the
only power he could think of, and that he was afraid to meddle with, for
its works were beyond him, and it was so essential to the well-being of
the house that he would not venture putting it in jeopardy.

One day, however, when he was thin