you. If
you're not frightened, come along and stroke me. There's nothing to be
afraid of."

So Neville walked right up to the white horse and stroked his
shoulder. And at once he felt that he had been foolish to hold back.
For of all the smooth, soft, silky coats he had ever stroked, that of
the white horse was certainly the smoothest, and the softest, and the
silkiest. He felt that he could go on stroking it for hours.

"There now," said the white horse in a voice as soft and silky as his
coat. "There was nothing to be afraid of, was there? And I think that
perhaps I was mistaken about you. I rather think you might be one of
those daring boys that one reads about in stories. What about jumping
on my back for a little ride?"

Neville ceased to stroke the white horse and drew back a little.

"I'm afraid they'll be expecting me home for dinner," he said. "I'm
very pleased indeed to have met you." Neville was always a polite
little boy.

"The very thing!" cried the white horse. "Jump on my back and I'll
take you home. You liked stroking me, didn't you? Well that's nothing
to the ride you will enjoy--simply nothing. Why, all the boldest
riders in the world would give their ears just for one little ride on
my back. Now then! One, two, three, and up you go!"

Then before Neville quite knew what he was doing, he made a little run
and leapt up astride of the white horse.

"I live just over there," said Neville, pointing towards his home.

But before he could say "knife", or even "scissors" (supposing he had
wished to say either of these words), the white horse laughed a nasty
hollow laugh, sprang upwards from the ground, and was soaring through
the air toward the dying sunset, right away from home and dinner.

Neville clung on tightly, for he was so high above the earth that to
fall off would mean the end of him. And far beneath him he saw the
green fields and the white road, which now seemed like a mere thread.

"That's not fair! Whoa back! Whoa back!" he shouted to the white
horse; but the white horse made no reply. Indeed, he seemed suddenly
not so much like a white horse as like a white cloud shaped like a
horse, and Neville saw that he no longer sat upon the horse's silky
coat, but upon something soft and downy like a white fleece, and it
was slightly damp. Then he knew that he was riding upon a cloud; and,
as it was quite absurd to go on talking to a cloud, he ceased to cry
out. He just sat tight and wondered