that it had only been invented a week ago and was quite new and was made of real silver and was being very much bought.  But all the while I was straying towards the back of the shop.  When I enquired about the idols there he said that they were some of the season’s novelties and were a choice selection of mascots; and while I made a pretence of selecting one I suddenly saw the wonderful old door.  I was through it at once and the young shop-keeper after me.  No one was more surprised than he when he saw the street of grass and the purple flowers on it; he ran across in his frock-coat on to the opposite pavement and only just stopped in time, for the world ended there.  Looking downward over the pavement’s edge he saw, instead of accustomed kitchen-windows, white clouds and a wide, blue sky.  I led him to the old back door of the shop, looking pale and in need of air, and pushed him lightly and he went limply through, for I thought the air was better for him on the side of the street that he knew.  As soon as the door was shut on that astonished man I turned to the right and went along the street till I saw the gardens and the cottages, and a little red patch moving in a garden, which I knew to be the old witch wearing her shawl.

“Come for a change of illusion again?” she said.

“I have come from London,” I said.  “And I want to see Singanee.  I want to go to his ivory palace over the elfin mountains where the amethyst precipice is.”

“Nothing like changing your illusions,” she said, “or you grow tired.  London’s a fine place but one wants to see the elfin mountains sometimes.”

“Then you know London?” I said.

“Of course I do,” she said.  “I can dream as well as you.  You are not the only person that can imagine London.”  Men were toiling dreadfully in her garden; it was in the heat of the day and they were digging with spades; she suddenly turned from me to beat one of them over the back with a long black stick that she carried.  “Even my poets go to London sometimes,” she said to me.

“Why did you beat that man?” I said.

“To make him work,” she answered.

“But he is tired,” I said.

“Of course he is,” said she.

And I looked and saw that the earth was difficult and dry and that every spadeful that the tired men lifted was full of pearls; but some men sat quite still and watched the butterflies that flitted about the garden and the old witch did not beat them with her stick.  And when I asked her who the diggers were she said, “These are my poets, they are digging for pearls.”  And when I asked her what so many pearls were for she said to me:  “To feed the pigs of course.”

“But do the pigs like pearls?” I said to her.